Long time no see - and bad news

(Our last photo together)

Maybe this will be my last post.
It's been a while since I last posted something, and it's the end of a year, almost, and the end of a cycle, and the end of a chapter of my life.
For the past two weeks and more I have not been sleeping or eating (properly, that is), and tears have been the constant theme of my days. Not one day has gone by without crying, even just a few minutes.
I'm so tired.

Ian has decided for another break up, and this time there is no going back. So much so that he doesn't want to see again, lest we start again, and he has removed me from Facebook, and all that.

I am so hurt and desperate, I cannot sleep.

So I'm going back home, where I hope to heal my wounds in a more comfortable atmosphere than the 5-bedroom house I am living in at the moment, and which I hate to bits. I hate everything in Brighton, right now, much more than I used to. Every stupid thing is a pain; even the beach, which used to be my only likeable place, now is a part of the city I cannot bear to see, just thinking of it makes me think of painful things.
I cannot sleep. I can only cry and pray that the day I leave comes soon.

God, I love him so much. I miss talking to him, and I miss that last hug that he wouldn't allow us to exchange, for he told me of his decision on the phone, not coming to my place the day after, even though we had agreed to meet quickly, so that he could take a box back, and his jumper ("throw away the jumper, I don't need it").

I miss him so much. And it hurts like crazy, I cannot think. I go to class, and concentrate hard on what I am teaching, on a proper board work, on good comprehension questions and all that. And then I give an exercise, and I think I will check my mobile to see if I have any text. But no, he was the only one who texted me in the afternoon, during the week, before our evening call, so sweet and nice.

God, I'm hurting so much I'm afraid it will never end.

So this is probably the last time I will write here. I thought...I don't know. I clearly imagined a happy ending to this story, but I was wrong. Maybe I should focus my imagination on fictional stories, rather than on my life. My life is not worth it.

For my piccolino only

..who read my posts labelled under "depression" and clearly wondered (and worried) about my mental health...

So tonight, out of curiosity, I did read my own posts labelled "depression", and suddenly remembered. I feel lucky, because I sort of saw what it was like when I was at the office, how awful, depressing, hopeless it was. I remembered the night spent without sleeping, the self-induced coma brought on by watching dvd's, the useless daydreaming, so different from my productive daydreaming, the one that gives me strength and passion for life, the one that pushes me through, and fills me with hope.

So here I am, feeling low after reading all those terrible memories, and feeling ok for reading them, because I know that writing about them was the best thing to do to avoid madness, and even the useless daydreaming of the time helped, and I know it made me hold on longer than I would have, otherwise.
So here I am, feeling a lot better, compared to that time, which feels a lifetime ago, when it is only a bit more than a year ago. And so much has happened, and I am MUCH HAPPIER. I really am, and feel lucky, blessed, grateful, hopeful.

I know my depression can strike again: it usually does in January, when the days are so short, and also being the time right after New Year's - I have never appreciated or liked the change to a new year, for all the thoughts it brings with it (what has been accomplished and all that...).
I also know that there will be bad times, as always, but this is what my life has always been, just like, I suppose, everybody's life is: ups and downs, good moments, problems, high times and low days, and so on. But seriously, I am much happier now: in spite of my usual worries, and I can't avoid those, only trust that things will work out, in spite of my usual worries, then, I feel well, and look forward to many things in a day, so much more than it used to be.
And my piccolino, who makes my life... more interesting, shall I say, my piccolino gives me happiness, and we talk and laugh and walk and share beautiful moments together, and I can only be grateful for this, and smile whenever I think of him.
We are a funny, complicated, introspective couple, and I like it, with all that comes with it, from the difficulty to meet during the week to the pleasure of being together for a quick couple of hours, from an unexpected evening where the hours stretch with the sound of the rain on the window, to the plans of the weekend ruined by the rain, from the clash, sometimes, between his tiredness and my hyperactive me, or the other way around (see today: a late afternoon walk was his idea vs. my idea of some more cuddling and relaxing. Oh, well), to the beauty of a word, a text, a gesture that leaves me breathless.

Words fail me, because happiness is wrapping me too tight, and I can only smile.

Pensieri negativi e un tenue raggio luminoso

Che dire.
Intanto scrivo in italiano, perchè mi accorgo che ne sono sempre meno capace. Mi sfugge, mi scivola dalle dita, le parole si nascondono in angoli bui, non le riesco a trovare. E allora, una nervosa ricerca tra lo scaffale di libri in italiano, in biblioteca, e la lettura quotidiana del Corriere, e poi aggiornare il mio diario, quasi quotidianamente. E' tempo di ricominciare a tenere un diario cartaceo, vecchio stile, sempre con me. Lo facevo a Hull, e a Swansea, perchè non qui, dunque?

Poi, fatica. Tanta fatica, tante lacrime, tanti pensieri. Non è facile.
Sarebbe facile lasciare tutto, tornare a casa, tra il conforto di paesaggi familiari, tranquilli, le mie montagne, il lago, i prati; la mia casa, il mio letto comodo, il pavimento e i tappeti su cui camminare a piedi nudi, la cucina grande e pulita, la doccia comoda, le passeggiate in paese. Parlare senza doversi concentrare troppo, ascoltare e capire senza sforzo, senza dover chiedere di ripetere. Cantare a voce alta, suonare il mio sax, uscire per locali senza sentirsi circondata da stranieri minacciosi, girare per le strade senza paura, senza quest'ansia alla vista di adolescenti, o addirittura bambini, che ti possano chiedere o dire qualcosa a cui non sapra rispondere, confusa da accenti o parole mai sentite. Vivere nella comodità di casa, dove è tutto gratis, e non ci si deve preoccupare di affitti, e bollette, e tutto il resto. Dove la sera è un lento scandire di ore silenziose e tranquille prima di andare a dormire, senza paura che qualcuno arrivi a casa e sbatta le porte, facendo tremare la casa con un passo pesante tra le stanze, chiamandosi l'un l'altro come da un continente all'altro. Arrivare a casa dopo una lunga giornata di lavoro senza dover pregare di non vedere la macchina di qualcuno, o sentire voci in giardino che annunciano battaglie d'acqua in giardino, e casino, e tutto il resto. Vivere tranquillamente, in sostanza, senza tutte queste preoccupazioni. Avere un conto in banca che non scende così vertiginosamente, che permette di uscire a cena, o anche solo di prendere il bus in una giornata piovosa, invece di combattere con gli elementi, camminare controvento, passare mezz'ora in bagno ad asciugarsi e spendere il resto della giornata con i piedi fradici, un grande sorriso con gli studenti, come se nulla fosse.

Sarebbe facile, e a volte mi dico che potrei farlo, davvero. Tornare a casa, dalla mamma, renderla felice, invece che sentirla depressa, lamentarsi al telefono ogni volta che mi chiama, accusarmi di tante cose, di essere finita qui senza un perchè, per un colpo di testa, di aver abbandonato tante cose, tanti progetti, tante idee in cui pensavo di credere e che ho lasciato così, senza pensarci, senza nemmeno pentirmene.
Guardandomi indietro, non rinnego nè mi pento di ciò che ho fatto, pur riconoscendo che è stato frettoloso, e ha fatto tanto male, a tutti. Programmato superficialmente, ed esposto all'imprevedibilità. Ci ripenso spesso, mi tormenta, i ricordi di tutti quei mesi disperati, freddi, bui, senza futuro. Il dramma, restare o tornare, sapendo che in qualunque caso non avrei riavuto il mio cuore, non avrei sentito altro che dolore sordo. A volte lo sento ancora, ripensandoci, rivivendo momenti che vorrei dimenticare.
Vivo nell'angoscia che tutto questo non durerà, che sarò di nuovo abbandonata, e tornare, restare, niente avrà più senso. Già ora la paura mi fa dimenticare la gioia che sto vivendo.
Ironicamente, dovrei farmi lo stesso discorso che faccio al mio piccolino: siamo in due ora, non si può programmare nulla, prevedere nulla, vivere il presente e come va, va. Inutile pensare al futuro, a quando sopraggiungeranno difficoltà e litigi, tanto le difficoltà le stiamo già vivendo, come mancanza di soldi, poco tempo, nervosismo da lavoro e seminari, paura del futuro e dell'ignoto, nuove sensazioni che non riusciamo a catalogare, e che per questo finiscono sullo scaffale dell' "essere in una relazione". Impariamo a gestirle lentamente, abbracciandoci forte, parlando tanto, a volte semplicemente restando sdraiati sull'erba di fronte al Pavilion e tenendoci per mano.
A volte penso che non ne vale la pena: ho troppa paura, e sto vivendo male, preoccupata per il mio magro stipendio e gli affitti troppo alti, per la forzata convivenza con persone nuove quando la mia timidezza, e la mia misantropia mi vorrebbero solitaria e silenziosa, specie alla fine di una giornata caotica in centro, e circondata da studenti, colleghi, macchine, persone.
Poi arriva il suo messaggio di buonanotte, dolce e tenero; un messaggio di prima mattina, pieno di affetto; una telefonata premurosa, per parlare un pò, per sapere come sto, nonostante il reciproco imbarazzo di fronte a conversazioni telefoniche. Poi arriva un incontro non programmato, una serata insieme per non cadere nella routine, un pomeriggio tranquillo di coccole e musica, un pacchetto di biscotti inaspettato, un peluche dopo una settimana di lontananza forzata. Piccole cose che non ho mai avuto in vita mia, e che arrivano da una persona stupenda, complicata, difficile come me, uguale a me, stessi valori, stesse idee, solo ancora più difficile da gestire, che si preoccupa che io sia preoccupata, che si domanda se non sarei più felice con una persona della mia stessa nazionalità, che vorrebbe farmi sentire più sicura, che teme di avermi portato via ai miei amici, alla mia famiglia.
Nulla è facile, in questa vita. Avrei dovuto saperlo, no, considerato tutto quello che ho vissuto finora, in quasi trent'anni. Eppure sono ottimista di natura, anche se ultimamente faccio veramente fatica: non posso fare a meno che insieme siamo felici, stiamo bene, e che stiamo costruendo qualcosa, lentamente, faticosamente dati i nostri caratteri così complicati e seri, ma non posso che essere grata per ogni giorno passato insieme. Per aver trovato questo miracolo, che mi permette finalmente di amare liberamente, e ancora più miracolosamente, di essere amata.
Me lo devo ripetere, che ne vale la pena, che questo dolore e nostalgia sono il prezzo da pagare per il nostro stare insieme, per qualcosa di meraviglioso che stiamo costruendo, e che devo solo aver pazienza.
Mi faranno santa della pazienza, mi sa. Ogni giorno che passa mi rendo conto che ne ho una nuova scorta, pronta e fresca da usare, per sopportare il vento, le lezioni pianificate che vanno a rotoli per mancanza di studenti, i colleghi che cambiano i piani a caso, i dieci chilometri a piedi, i piatti da lavare nel lavandino, le porte che sbattono, la ricerca di un nuovo alloggio, le settimane che mi separano dalla prossima busta paga, la voglia di tornare a casa, la stanchezza, la stanchezza, la stanchezza.
Sono proprio stanca.
Ma si continua.

Because writing is remembering

Bless long weekends, first of all.

And then, a summary of the past week: from sweet texts to a complicated Wednesday evening that gave me frightening dreams and saw me in tears the morning after, at school, hugged by Tall Teacher and comforted by the words of SA Teacher. And feeling almost angry, when I received his two texts, during the morning, and not feeling like replying, yet, and feeling so silly for feeling so, and then texting, and the unexpected call that followed, and meeting at the bus stop, with a long, squeezing hug as, no words needed, he took his earphones to make me listen to music as he held me tight.
And going for a walk in the fields, talking, talking, talking, and hugging and squeezing my hand, looking at the sunset, at the sea, far and shiny, and planning an evening out, for dinner, on Friday.

Friday night, dressed smart, sitting at the sushi place by the library, eating and chatting and laughing, and then sharing a dessert in an Italian coffee shop, before going home, and spending hours that go like minutes, sharing cuddles on the sofa, the silence around us.

Saturday, an afternoon trip to Rottingdean, and its simple beauty, the church, the windmill, the houses, talking and chatting, as we always do, we always have so much to talk about, even in front of a delicious lunch or cream tea, before a walk by the sea, throwing stones in the waves, and running up the beach to go and catch the bus.

Sunday, we have a christening at the Chapel, and we share some cuddles before the ceremony, which is followed by a delicious lunch; at the peace, as the custom is with this priest, we have to ask someone a question, which is about our plans for the bank holiday, and I happen to have to talk to..him!, so I ask him, and he replies "it depends on my significant other".
When we leave the sun is shining, and the grass looks an attractive place to lie on for a while, cuddling and laughing, before going to his place. "I am really lucky", he says again, adding how of course he doesn't believe in luck, smiling, his beautiful smile, we are so blessed. He corrects himself, and I join him in saying "I am very grateful".
We walk to his place, where we relax, and relax, and sleep, and as he sleeps I caress his head, his face, listening to his breathing, as he holds my hand. We fall asleep together, "I like your head on my arm", we wake up to the sound of rain, outside, and listen in silence, before preparing tea, with biscuits and fruit, and then walking me home, talking and talking and talking. He tries to pick me up, joking, and I say no, you can't, don't. He laughs, as I point my feet to the floor to prevent any picking up.

Today, Monday, day off, it's sunny and hot, and I spend my morning reading in the sun, before opening the door and welcoming him in, preparing lunch, opening a bottle of nice white wine, and eating together, him moving closer to me, more cuddles before we leave for the beach to sunbathe and play. He sits behind me, hugging me, we swap position, we lie and play, he looks at me as I have my eyes closed while sunbathing, and I turn, twice, to catch him while he's looking, "how do you do that?", he says laughing, and when the suns starts hiding behind some clouds we decide to leave. "I want to prove a point", he says, and picks me up, a frightened, shocked me, "put me down, put me down!", I say, and as soon as I touch the floor again I pick him up too, three times, "che scemo", and he laughs and laughs as we walk to the bus stop to go back home for coffee. On the bus I thank him, "what for?", "for all the nice things you do. You make me really, really happy"; and then a power nap for him from the centre to Moulsecoomb, leaning on me, and as soon as we get off the bus, here's a kiss and a big hug for me, "thanks for what you said on the bus: it made me feel good".

After coffee and more cuddles, caressing my hair, kissing my neck ("I like kissing your neck"), it's time to go. We joke some more, never wanting to leave. Now, I have just received his goodnight text. Will meet on Wednesday evening, probably, and sharing texts on the way.

We are so blessed. And grateful.

Yes, we are.

Back from Italy

"Just" (as in, two hours ago) finished unpacking my not so heavy suitcase (and forgot to pack the only important thing I had to take with me back to Brighton..crumbs).
Just back from this lovely, lovely, strange but lovely Italian holiday.

First days at home: enjoying the comfort of my bed, of my silent nice room, of the green field and mountains around me, of the kitchen, clean and tidy, of the bathroom, and the comfortable shower, of everything, really.

Then, Wednesday. Morning shopping with mum, a shower, lunch and getting changed, and at the airport so early, everything so exciting and strange, and waiting for my piccolino at the arrivals, and seeing him, and being in the car, going to Bergamo, holding hands, showing him around, then having a quiet dinner together, and spending some time on the bed in Brother Genius's room, watching tv, talking, cuddling.
Thursday, and a nice walk in a medieval town, taking pictures, and then after lunch, to the national park of rock engravings, more pictures, more talking, more of this beautiful feeling; then going to the lake, a few pictures and an icecream. And in the evening, the band. Wow. Playing, playing so much, and so well, feeling like I have never left, music running through my veins.
On Friday morning we are alone, and we go to the lake in my town, we walk, we talk a real lot, we ask a couple to take a picture of us, time flies and it's the afternoon, and Mantova, and hot and crowded and icecream and pictures and sleeping in the car on the journey to and back, and having a delicious dinner and a super-relaxing evening cuddling in my room, talking, laughing, feeling so well.
Finally, Saturday morning, which was this morning, a quiet walk in my town, just going around, stopping for another icecream, and sharing the last Italian lunch, before a quick packing and leaving almost in a hurry, everyone nervous, and tired, and wondering what awaited us in Brighton.
Nodding off in the plane, his hand holding mine, my head on his shoulder, and then talking on the bus, and finally planning to meet tomorrow morning.

What a wonderful time together. What a lovely holiday. What an incredible need to sleep!
So, I am uploading some pixies on Facebook...see you there.

My piccolino - always

Long time, no update...
So, for the record...

Ian.
Wonderful, beautiful, sweet, unbelievable love of mine.
Hugging on a bench in front of the sea in Eastbourne, whispering in my ear "I love you", and asking me if I am happy, "never been happier"; and later at lunch, looking at me and saying "I'm happy", with such strength, giving me such thrills, all throughout the day.
Texting such sweet, breathtaking texts before leaving for Edinburgh, calling me almost every evening, sending me a beautiful text that put a smile on my face I couldn't wipe for the rest of the day.
In March, reassuring me that no, he won't break up for stupid reasons again.
And being cuddly, sweet, holding me tight, tight, tight.
On his birthday night, dinner in my room, the look on his face, and stopping me on my way to the kitchen to hug me, kiss me, thanking me for making his birthday special.
Spending a Saturday in Oxford, hand in hand, in the thin rain (no wind in Oxford, beautiful).
After the dinner with his parents, a text, to say how lovely I looked.
And telling me that he wants to make me happy, "I want to give you good things".
Texting that he is "thinking of you*". Night texts, "Buonanotte piccolina mia".
And next week, I am leaving for a week's holiday in Italy, on Saturday. On Wednesday, he is coming along. For two and a half days.
I am so happy, so happy, so happy.

And now, a quiet Saturday afternoon, preparing for the week ahead (lots of teaching, hopefully a couple of runs, the sun is shining), my piccolino is back from Scotland tomorrow, and I love him so much.

I love him so much.

I hate Mondays...I love Mondays

Premessa: I used to love Mondays. Mostly out of the fantastic feeling of post-weekend chill, being refreshed and charged by sleep, music, fresh air and the lot.
Nowadays, I don't like Mondays very much...The weekend is definetely not long enough, and I don't get enough sleep, and clearly being here means working a lot more even on Saturdays and Sundays, if only to keep the place clean (Mission: Impossible, seen as every day after work I come home and find something that need to be cleaned - usually the stove and kitchen counter...) (seriously, I am dreaming of the day I will go to the kitchen and find it the way I've left it in the morning...).
Also, the weekend means...a confusing feeling of need to go out, breathe air, see places, take pictures, and stay in, watch tv till I become one thing with the sofa, read till I go blind, sleep till I get sick of the horizontal position...
In the end, I am back to the feeling of hating Sundays. As Leopardi said, Saturday is the real joy: that exciting feeling of freedom, of endless free time to spend, of things to do, of relax and...ok, generally freedom. And Sunday simply means preparing for the week to come, looking at the time as hours pass and open the way to another intense, frantic, exhausting week.

So Monday is cool, because I am back on track, my walk to Hove, a new challenge in school for new students (3 Japanese, a Colombian, and yet another Turkish in my class today...), that hyper feeling that keeps me going...
And Monday is bad, because I am back on track, walk all the way to Hove, try to keep a bunch of yawning students interested, and be prepared for more yawning students who will probably be the wrong level for my class (usually they are too high, and go straight to reception after my class, complaining that they find it too slow and boring: IT'S NOT MY FAULT!....The fault is all in that almost annoying girl who should be in elementary, but because she spent 3 months there, direction decided to move her up, and because everything I do is too difficult for her, I must juggle to find things that she can do and things that will keep the other interested...boy, am I earning my place in heaven).

I guess I could go on for hours, but finally I know why I don't like Mondays too much: because they come after a usually lovely weekend with my piccolino, spent walking, watching tv, talking, laughing, window-shopping, cuddling, drinking tea and sharing food, holding him, being with him.

Mondays mean a painful countdown to another beautiful weekend with my piccolino...

Il mio piccolino

Most of these things are stored in my memory, in my mind, in my heart, in my private diary.

But, because I can't stop writing about it, thinking about it, because I can't hold it within, and all I can do is smile, the thing I can write here is: we are back together.
And it feels wonderful, beautiful, a miracle, a sweet, warm, unbelievable miracle.

Also: I love him so much. Il mio piccolino.

Lunghissimo aggiornamento...e il mio piccolino

Ancora una volta in italiano...
Cominciamo con un breve riassunto della situazione: gennaio è volato via, e febbraio è già a metà...
A gennaio, dopotutto, le cose non sono andate malissimo: una nuova classe, e sono pre-int, quindi in un'ora e mezza di lezione faccio al massimo una pagina, e vogliamo parlare della settimana con i bambini russi che mi hanno obbligato a inventare giochi e stampare disegni da colorare per giorni? Ma erano tanto teneri...
E ora, febbraio, dopo una bella pausa di un weekend italiano in cui ho suonato, suonato, suonato (strana sensazione, andare alle prove dopo tutto questo tempo. Ma bellissimo, e il mio orgoglio che si fa strada, nel vedere che nella sezione sax sono sempre lanciata, anche a prima vista e su pezzi difficili. Quindi, soddisfazione!). Sono alle prese con un pizzo per il compleanno della mamma, ed è un casino, e il pizzo sarà seguito da una tovaglietta, o per me (con stoffa di cui già dispongo), o per il mio piccolino, il cui compleanno si avvicina.

E parlando del mio piccolino, altro riassunto: non ci siamo visti molto, causa impegni, impegni, impegni...Ma abbiamo passato una giornata bellissima, quasi un mese fa, alle Seven Sisters, aria fredda e sole che si riflette sul mare, riso freddo, uva e cioccolata, e tante parole...Poi, mentre aspettavamo il pulman per tornare in città, il mignolo della mano sinistra dà segni di congelamento....nel senso che è blu...Ci scherzo su, mentre indosso i guanti che mi ha prestato, e per consolarmi, mentre mi giro per guardare se sta arrivando il bus, ecco il suo mezzo abbraccio, che mi cinge le spalle.
E sul bus, inaspettatamente, prima mi dice di aver passato una bella giornata con me (cosa che avevo sperato che dicesse), poi mi dice che è bello avermi qui a Brighton.
E in serata, ecco un altro messaggio, per ringraziarmi della bella giornata, del picnic, per dirmi che è stato davvero bene con me.
Il mio cuore si alleggerisce.

Ci vediamo dieci giorni dopo, dopo il mio weekend italiano e il suo weekend ungherese, e dopo uno scambio di messaggi culminati con un mio semitriste "mi manca parlare con te :-(", e la sua risposta "anche a me:-(". Dolce.
E così, il mercoledì sera, eccolo fuori dalla porta, e la prima cosa che fa, dopo che ho chiuso la porta, è stringermi forte in un abbraccio; e le due ore successive passano parlando, ridendo, parlando. Al momento di salutarci, inaspettato, un altro abbraccio, ma quello speciale, quello in cui le nostre guance quasi si sfiorano. Mi lascia senza parole, confusa e felice (ops! Carmen Consoli spunta in my mind!).

Venerdì, sua telefonata, inaspettata: per scusarsi, aveva l'impressione di avermi parlato addosso mercoledì, e poi per dirmi che non era sicuro di chiamarmi, forse sono stanca di lui, forse, dopo avermi trattato così, in the past, forse...
Mi affretto a rassicurarlo, e gli mando un messaggio, qualche ora dopo, per confermare che no, non sono stanca di lui, e sì, può scrivere, telefonare, visitare, tutto, quando vuole. La risposta, ancora una volta, mi lascia senza parole: "Hey piccolina;-)"
La mia mente malata va a controllare quando è stata l'ultima volta che mi ha chiamato piccolina...e risalgo a novembre, quando eravamo una coppia.

Sabato ci vediamo, e finiamo col parlare, chiacchierare, fino a che, come succede sempre, non atterriamo sull'argomento che entrambi volevamo discutere: perchè pensava che fossi stanca di lui, perchè...
Un breve riassunto del nostro discorso va dalle sue parole, che aveva rotto perchè non era happy, e che una persona cresce con gli insegnamenti dei genitori, la morale, le parole della Bibbia, e tuttavia il cuore...E ancora parole sue, che i miei amici devono pensare che lui sia un idiota, e che cambiare ancora idea, insomma...
E che ad agosto, quando mi vedeva alla fermata del bus, gli sembravo così triste...E adesso come sto?

Le mie risposte vanno da: adesso sono poco felice, vero; ma quando mi vedevi alla fermata del bus no, non era affatto triste, no! E non ti curare di quello che pensano i miei amici; e lo so che conciliare testa e cuore è un casino, ma alla fine di tutto, se il tuo cuore non è felice, non sei felice tu, e adesso quali sono i tuoi sentimenti? Perchè io ora sono poco felice perchè cerco di capire cosa ti passa per la testa, e quando ti vedo preoccupato o stressato vorrei fare qualcosa ma non oso. Cosa provi ora?

E le sue parole: sono confuso.

Mi si apre uno spiraglio, vedo la possibilità di tornare insieme. Quando ci salutiamo, ci penso e ci ripenso, poi gli mando un primo sms in cui dico di seguire il suo cuore, che Dio è al suo fianco, fidati dei tuoi sentimenti!

Domenica la passo in maniera divina: a messa, alla Saint Andrew, bella funzione e tutto il resto, e giornata totalmente casalinga, per far riposare l'anca che mi fa male...Uncinetto, tv, lettura...Wow. In serata preparo una lunga email per il mio piccolino, in cui chiarisco molte cose, nel caso stia facendo come me, ci stia pensando e ripensando, e ho troppa paura che arrivi alla conclusione sbagliata o chissà cosa. Ho un filo di speranza, e forse faccio male, ma mi ci sto aggrappando disperatamente.

L'email gliela mando lunedì sera, che sarebbe ieri, e da allora sono in attesa. Causa impegni, so perfettamente che prima di giovedì non sarebbe libero per vedersi, e ora che giovedì e venerdì sono impegnata anch'io, mi domando quando ci vedremo...
Posso solo pregare, e andare avanti, con le mie lezioni, le mie passeggiate mattutine, la palestra (poca...anca maledetta), e via così. Posso solo sperare che veda che il suo cuore lo sta portando nella direzione giusta, e decida di seguirlo. Decisamente non posso fare altro.

Il mio piccolino. Che altro fare, se non sperare, ma cercare allo stesso tempo di non illudersi? Eppure...

Sometimes nothing is better than your own language

Per la prima volta in questo blog scrivo in italiano, solo per un paio di motivi: il primo è che mi dispiace continuare a scrivere di quanto sono stanca della convivenza forzata in Bevendean Crescent, non importa quanto le ragazze siano gentili e simpatiche, ne ho semplicemente piene le scatole, di svegliarmi la mattina e aver paura a scendere in cucina per il probabile casino nel lavandino, di sentire la polacca lamentarsi delle finestre sporche quando il casino che lascia sul fornello dopo una delle sue colazioni leggere (funghi e uova, o insalata di tonno...) rimane a farci compagnia per giorni finchè esasperata mi metto a pulire, e potrei continuare per ore, ma meglio fermarsi qui. Insomma, non è bello scrivere qui in inglese quanto non ne possa più, soprattutto dato che la polacca lo legge, il mio blog...

La seconda ragione, naturalmente, è che ci sono argomenti che preferisco affrontare in italiano per evitare che il mio adorato omino li venga a sapere. Non credo che legga il mio blog, ma non si può mai sapere. E dato che penso solo e soltanto a lui, è dura non scrivere di lui, prima o poi...
Insomma, sto pensando, sempre e comunque, se andarmene, se cercare fortuna in patria, se lasciare questa ventosa insopportabile Brighton e una casa ad affitto stratosferico che devo dividere con tre persone, e tornare nella fredda bellissima valle, trovarmi il mio monolocale TUTTO MIO, nel quale tornare alla fine di una giornata infernale passata a insegnare, e semplicemente starmene per conto mio, finalmente in silenzio, come dico sempre, la cosa più difficile. Da un lato siamo tutti soli; dall'altro, non lo siamo mai veramente.

Penso al master, che vorrei davvero fare, anche se solo per togliermi il capriccio, da una vita voglio fare un master in film studies, penso a quanto lo voglio fare, e a quanto è inutile. Poi penso che se potessi trasferirmi in una città più decente, lo farei, perchè detesto Brighton; infine penso che sono qui solo e unicamente per lui. Damn. Penso a quello che ci siamo detti e a quello che mi ha detto lui, così confuso, dopotutto, un mix tra "non ti voglio" e "ti voglio, ma adesso è troppo presto per me", tra "aspettami" e "va per la tua strada". Ci penso e ci ripenso. Non passa giorno, non passa un'ora che il pensiero non mi sfiori, senza pensare a lui.
Avremmo dovuto parlare meglio, quando ci siamo lasciati a novembre, ma era così sconvolto che non ho voluto infierire con domande e quant'altro. E so che ho fatto bene. Tuttavia, anche adesso che vedo il suo comportamento, le lacrime agli occhi quando gli ho dato il "buono abbraccio" la settimana scorsa, il caffè che mi ha regalato l'altra sera, il fatto che si sia seduto vicino a me al bar sabato, invece che di fronte (sembra una scemata ma conoscendolo so cosa significa)...insomma, a volte mi illudo, spero che siano nuovi segnali positivi, poi combatto per tornare con i piedi per terra e convincermi che sono semplicemente suoi modi di essere, dolce e gentile, affettuoso, premuroso. Poi parlo con qualcuno, o ricevo una mail che cerca di fare breccia in questa debole convinzione, che cerca di farmi capire che non devo mollare, perchè chiaramente lui mi ama ed è confuso, e forse da un lato sto facendo bene ad aspettare, dall'altro invece dovrei prendere il coraggio a quattro mani e dirglielo bene, in faccia, che deve decidere, perchè se non mi vuole io me ne vado, e non mi rivedrà più, torno in Italia, adios. Eppure so che se gli dicessi una cosa del genere lui mi risponderebbe che devo fare quello che credo sia giusto per me. Quindi tanto vale.

Per il momento sto solo ferma, e aspetto, e se la profe riesce ad organizzare tutte quelle cose di cui abbiamo parlato a dicembre, e arriva il momento VERO di prendere una decisione, credo che solo allora parlerò, e gli chiederò, o forse no. Forse, semplicemente, gli dirò che lui è la sola ragione per cui sono qui, e che sarei disposta a rinunciare a tutto per lui.
Solo per lui.

Meeting, moving, praying, feeling...

...and more updates.



First of all, Ian. But there is so much to say about it, and most of it is too private to end on this blog. So it must go on the "writing" files of my computer, where the most complicated part of my mind likes to linger, trying to make sense or just playing with words and moments in time.

But to sum it up, we are friends. We are ok. We have spent a nice couple of hours together, talking, chatting, laughing, walking, with a final serious talk on God, while we were on the bus. Later that evening, while sharing a bottle of pear cider with Tall Housemate (if you are reading this, THANKS! It was really good!), I received his text to say how nice it had been to see me again. And how he would pray for me. Thanks, my dear. My sweet, lovely piccolino. So difficult, so complicated, so painful sometimes, yet so sweet and warm, so caring and honest.



Saturday afternoon, thanks to the miserable weather which is tormenting East Sussex (or maybe just Brighton...), I finally decided to move to ex Silent Housemate's room: great decision! A larger room, with more space for everything, and a necessary move, considering how I will spend at least another 2 years here...better make myself comfortable, no? So here's how I spent the afternoon, just moving and arranging things, vacuuming, washing, all the time singing and dancing around the house. Yes, I feel better.



I felt even better this morning, when, forced by the awful weather, I rushed into Saint Peter's church for the mass, rather than walk all the way to my usual church. Just in time too, I sat and the service began.

And it was beautiful. Just what I needed. A proper choir, with a guy playing the organ in time, thanks to a conductor (!!), and people who knew when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel...It is difficult enough to understand religion in my own language, if I get confused over the procedure of the mass I will never make it! So I enjoyed it. Except the sermon, I admit, but I guess this is the time of the year when everybody, in or out the church, will be talking about how we should think of the real meaning of Christmas rather than rushing to the shops and be so materialistic. So, fair enough. But I got another sign that I had made the right choice when part of the sermon was dedicated to a beautiful poem, which I am now going to include, seen as it is indeed what I needed to hear.

I am not sure this will become "my" church, because I wanted to go to the one in Bevendean, first thing in January, but I will give this one another go or two, in January too, and then I will decide. It seems trivial, but I need it. And it feels good that I need to "find" a church that is good for me, because it makes me feel that I am going the right way. The most private part of these thoughts, thought, is again on another file; and in my mind.



Here is the poem:



Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
guilty of dust and sin;
but quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
from my first entrance in,
drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
if I lack'd anything.


"A guest", I answer'd, "worthy to be here".
Love said, "You shall be he".
"I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on thee".
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"


"Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
go where it doth deserve".
"And know you not", says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve".
"You must sit down", says Love, "and taste my meat".
So I did sit and eat.

I like the first two stanzas in particular: they are exactly what I was reading last night in the Bible, what I was talking with Ian, what I was thinking of, what I needed to hear.

Updating, updating (not too cheerfully...)

An update on the recent “events”…My idea, my decision, was to post something only once I felt better, because this blog can happily do without another depressed, sad, desperate flow of words. However, things are not that easy, obviously, and I feel like writing, a lot.

Tall housemate sent me a message on Facebook, and she was very nice, she said lots of beautiful things on my writing. I needed that. So here I am again.

How are things going? I guess that, to repeat myself, the fighter that is in me is fighting. Not too successfully, it feels, but still fighting, working, walking, reading, talking, laughing, albeit bitterly, and making the same mistake: not thinking. At least, not enough.

I wake up every morning, after an exhausting night of wake-sleep-wake-sleep, although I still manage to alternate a bad night with a good one; I have breakfast, although not always. I am not really that hungry, these days. I prepare and leave the house, walking in the dark morning. First of all I think of the lessons of the day, for a fleeting five minutes. Then I talk to God, as if I were writing a letter: “dear God,…”. I talk to Him until I reach St. Peter’s church, and then I start thinking about my lessons again, and what I will do at the gym, and in the evening, and how to use my movies for interesting lessons, etc.
It is talking, but mostly it is repeating, over and over again, the same things: please be with Ian. Please protect him. Walk with him. Comfort him. Hold him tight in your Love. And when you are done with this, if you can spare a minute, give me more strength, please. Take my hand for a moment and make me feel that this pain will go away, eventually. Because at the moment I cannot really say that I feel well, or that my future looks bright.
This is when I stop talking to God, and start thinking of trivial stuff like my lessons. Because if I keep on thinking of what will be of me, of what is of me now, I cannot breathe. So I just don’t do it. Even at the gym, when I am just beginning my warm-up, I think that I could take some minutes to reflect, but I end up looking at the minutes on the display, counting how many kilometres I want to run, or how many reps I could do, or what I will do once at home. I cycle for 15 minutes, then run, then jump on the cross-trainer, then more bike, cross-trainer and treadmill, some more cross-trainer, or some more bike, or both, then stretching and abs on the fitness ball, maybe some reps for my shoulders and back, sometimes the plank, to conclude. And then, it’s all about my shower, and getting changed, and walking back home, washing the dishes, taking a shower, maybe watching some tv, and read, read, read. Trying not to fall asleep before 10, or I won’t sleep properly. Finally, lights off after 11, and sink in the comfortable coma of sleep.

I had another idea for my writing, tonight, on the bus. So I will start writing this weekend.
More plans, like getting to study seriously come January, like dedicating some time to my writing the way I was doing back in May, like eating more meat and less bread (I am being successful there).
Like avoiding Ian.

It happened on Monday. I didn’t think I would see him, seen as he was meant to be back at some impossible time in the morning, from Malta. Instead, early afternoon, I got a text informing me that he was back, and was at uni to meet his supervisor, wishing me a good day. My reply was merry and light, about his sure need of the bed before it would get dark;-)
Text back: actually no, I am not tired at all, so I could come and see you, and bring the postcard I got for you as you asked?
Oh boy. Do I feel like seeing him?
No.
Sorry, no, I don’t.
Something in me is burning, and it aches, silently. I don’t want to stir it and make it ache more.
So when his next text comes, saying that he will only pop in to bring my mp3 player back, just to say hello, I do it: I lie.
And I say sorry, I am not home yet, keep the player, no hurry. And have a nice evening.

His reply: “ok cool. You too”. Crumbs. When he says “cool” it is NOT cool, I have learnt that. Just like he has learnt that when I am distressed, the amount of “ok” that I say increases massively.
So to make him feel better, and end the “conversation” on a nicer note, I text him a post scriptum, thanking him for the hug he sent me on Facebook.
The reply is almost instant: no problem:-) you deserve a lot more too:-)

Damn.
This is when my stomach curls up, and a second later I am in tears on the sofa, with Tall Housemate comforting me with a hug.

Tuesday, I miss him, I miss talking to him. I would like to see him, and at the same time I am not ready for that. A text will do, I think.
We text for a while, exchanging jokes and info on our day. It feels quite ok. I feel better.

Wednesday, I am not very prepared for my lesson, which goes decently anyway. I feel fogged and strange again, must be the dreadful weather, must be the fact that I want to go home for Christmas but at the same time I am afraid that it will not be a good time, what with the general situation there, and must be my worry over mum who is at home with flu and missing me lots. So generally, it is a strange day, and I manage to finish my lesson well only thanks to my brilliant idea of showing some excerpts from “Feet of flames” to my students, who are amazed and delighted and claim for more. Cool. I prepare the lesson for the day after, hoping that it will go well, then I go and dedicate two hours to the gym.
I am on the cross-trainer for the third time, and it feels good: I have run a lot, spent half an hour on the bike, and this makes it half an hour on the cross-trainer, which makes me feel proud of myself, for I am still strong, not giving up.

I don’t know how it happens. But suddenly it is there, his face, and his hand taking mine, and his other hand caressing my face, before coming closer and kissing me.
The cramps make me bend in two, I can’t breathe.
I focus on the tv, increase my speed, wipe the image away.
I finish my work-out, shower, get changed, take the bus to go home in a windy weather, which means that tomorrow it will be just as awful and wet. Oh, well. I am prepared.
On the bus, almost at my stop, his message comes and surprises me: I am at home if you want to come over, or you can stop by. Just want to say hi, give your mp3 back. Or meet on Saturday? As other days are full of uni things!
This time I don’t want to lie: I am simply tired, and I know him, being the end of a week day he will be tired, wanting to go home and have dinner, shower, read some more, relax and sleep, preparing for another day. Me, being tired, I only want a shower, a salad and my bed. This is not the best moment to meet up. So sorry, can we make it on Saturday? (also, it bugs me that it seems that the only reason he wants to meet is my player. As if once he has returned it, he can stop texting, calling, whatever. Maybe this is the reason why I don’t want to see him just now. Maybe I am just afraid that once the player is returned, we will never see again).
Deal, we will meet on Saturday.

This choice is also brought about by the hope that we will have more time to talk, it won’t be a quick meeting just to give me my stupid mp3 player back, or whatever. I miss talking to him. And I am trying to be prepared to not say, not behave the way I would like, but be cheerful, joke, share a cup of tea maybe, enquire over his weekend in Malta, see the pictures, whatever. I am only asking for a quiet hour of words, nothing more.
I am not even sure that I am ready, yet.
I do want to be his friend, sure I do. He is this fantastic, sweet, caring person, this beautiful soul I have had the luck to meet, and I don’t want to lose him. But at the same time, it hurts too much, still. I am holding back the tears, for I have promised not to cry again, after Monday.

There are still so many things I would like to know about him, and so many about me I would like him to know. I hope we can work on this now. Be friends, the best of friends like we have never been, like we were starting to be in October. I hope he has understood that he owes me nothing. That we can start our friendship from scratch, being so alike, so good together. Get that happiness back, no more regrets, no more feeling guilty. And no anger. Just a warm, sweet and funny talking time together, the way it used to be.

So this is what I am praying for now, God. Please.

(Update on Thursday night: first of all, our cosy house in bevendean is getting nicer and nicer...now that Noisy Housemate on drug has left, we have room for improvement...which is coming in the form of a nice rug under the tv table, a lamp for the lounge, a couple of new things for the bathroom and/or kitchen...a dvd set! And life is going to be better thanks to the Housemates...Christmas dinner planned for next Tuesday, it feels good
Second of all, sometimes things are not that easy.
For example when I woke up this morning, and decided to walk to school in spite of the wind blowing against me, then I got to school, and as I was having a cup of hot tea, I choked on my tears. I finished my tea, managing not to cry, then I met Ozge, who asked me how I was, and in trying to say "not well" I choked again. Long, deep breaths before opening the door to room 5, for my lesson. And to follow, a day in bed, recovering.
As Ozge said, "now it is the time for your soul". I have so many tears to cry yet).

Another day off

In a way, it is nice, to lie in...have a lazy breakfast...research quietly on internet...see the gym in an unusual time (not today, though..it's raining too much, and I will stay at home. Going tomorrow after work and Saturday, before meeting up with Ana for coffee).

I went to the King and Queen, last night, after months of going past it and thinking how I would like to go there for a drink. Had a delicious drink too, by the way. The company was enjoyable, with my housemate, Ana, and some Turskish students, including my ex-student Ozge who was half drunk already, for she's been drinking before joining us, beer on an empty stomach while trying to think of her emotional situation with her life-long boyfriend.
We ended up talking of love and relationships, of course. It seems this is the time.

In my case, I am still trying to...feel better. Which is not easy, seen as I cannot erase that upset, shocked face of Ian's, last Friday. His look. The way he almost collapsed on the sofa in the library, the way he said "I'm not happy. I'm disappointed. I think we should break up". His sad, upset face. It breaks me to think of it now.

Then, after the text on Sunday, another text on Monday, saying how he was thinking of me and of how much I must be hurting, how sorry he was, how he was hoping that we could still be friends as we said.

When I received it, I was preparing the songs to load on my mp3 player, which I had planned to give him, as promised, before he left for Malta. The player, together with some chocolate, ended up in an envelope, including a letter with the instructions, and a few words to say how I hoped he was al right, and best luck for the weekend in Malta, and by the way, I am going home on December 17th.

Now, when I wrote that, I forgot to mention that my departure was just an anticipated flight for my Christmas holidays...seen as I have a week's paid holiday, seen as there isn't much to do in school, and I would really like to have some more time to spend at home, what with the holidays being this hectic time. Also, what is the point of the beautiful melancholy Christmas feeling if I cannot share it with Ian? Anyway, flight moved to Monday, 17th, at 6.40.

Evening text: a big thanks from the bottom of his heart for my kindness. And how sorry he is to know that I'm going to go back home. And how sorry he will be when he misses me. And God bless me.

I am shocked, seriously upset. I have to text him back, clarifying that no, it's only a week earlier on my holidays, don't worry, piccolino.

Reply: thanks. Really glad you're not going. Miss you. Hope we can catch up soon.

And so we did. Quite unexpectedly, although deep inside I knew he would text me last night, asking if he could come over for a cup of tea. What I had told him was that I was giving him time and space to prepare for his Malta trip, but I was here, ok? (Thanks, sweet).
So, here he comes. Annoyingly enough, the washing machine is on, filled with Drunk Housemate's clothes, and it is making such noise you'd think they can hear it in Hove; also, Tall Housemate is around, cooking her dinner, and watching loud tv. Then, The Simpsons are on, the volume goes up, the washing machine is spinning and spinning, and it's dangerously getting on my nerves, not to mention the fact that I hoped we could be alone for a moment, talk, quietly, seriously, not chatting about his crazy housemate and my job.
Icing on the cake, which I had completely forgotten: New Housemate pops in, preceded by Landlady and boyfriend, who have brought light bulbs, a clothes horse, and a doorbell.
The house is a messy, noisy, upsetting unsettling tiny space, I can see Ian's expression growing nervous and uneasy, and in a second we share the "time to go" look.
An embarassed half hug, which leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I will try to avoid physical contact with him, from now on. Too painful, too pathetic.

I text him later, apologising for the noisy messy place.
The reply is an "aurevoir till Monday", which puts a smile on my face.

Not that I think that we will meet on Monday: he will back sometime past 6, in the morning. Tired, possibly stressed, with his study schedule to catch up, and all that. No, I doubt we will meet on Monday. I am not even sure I want to.

There are things I would like to ask and talk about, with him, and I can't. I should have asked/told him last Friday, as we were breaking up, but I knew better, and he was so upset and sad, how could I trouble him with my words?

Anyway.
As I am writing now, he is on the bus to Gatwick.
As I am writing now, I haven't even started to study, so I should get down to my books.
As I am writing now, I have plans and ideas on the months to come: apply for a scholarship for my master, work out more at the gym, search for more teaching jobs, apply for a certificate for teaching Spanish, start studying (for real!) for my master, stop feeling guilty for leaving mum at home without me.
As I am writing now, I am online with my brother, chatting on Skype. I had to move to Brighton to be friendly with Brother Genius....

A text and a prayer (including an evening update)

Received, unexpectedly, on Sunday, 25th, h 15.56, after two days of me jumping whenever I heard the tone for an incoming text, because I didn't expect one, because the only person who texts me regularly is my lovely Ian, and I knew it could not be him.
So now, "message received", I can only think it's mum, or Ana, or Bride friend or any other friend checking on my well-being. I am just back into my room after spending two hours in the kitchen, where I had scrambled eggs while concentrating on the tv, and then I cleaned the oven and grill so well, because tonight, or one day this week, since I am working only 3 days, I will bake bread. Oh, yes, I will bake bread. It will be three-grain bread, not from the recipe book I got from my birthday, not yet, but just an experiment, and like in "We were the Mulvaneys", I will make bread and my tears, mixing with the dough I will be kneading, will make it special.

So, message received, and I believe it is mum. Instead it's Ian.

"Hey Peggy. Thks for t txt on Fri & for the courage & strength you always show. I do want to be ur friend, because ur a fantastic person & i will always thank God that we met. I hope ur ok & will have a good week*"

I am crying before getting to the end.

I have so many tears to cry, still. It seems I will never stop.

But this post was meant to be a place for a prayer I found on the website of the band: the reason is that I have just been "nominated" on Facebook, for some interesting things:

§ for being most likely to correct my housemate's grammar (possibly, but her English is extremely good);

§ for being most likely to sing in the shower (not likely at all...the shower is the only place where I never sing);

§ for being most likely to love like I've never been hurt. So unfortunately, painfully true;

§ for being most likely to live for music. So completely true.

So here is a prayer for all those who believe in music, and in the power of music.

PREGHIERA DEL MUSICANTE

O SIGNORE
che hai raccolto nell’armonia dell’Universo
tutte le voci del Creato:
il ruggito del leone
e il gorgheggio dell’usignolo,
il cupo fragore del tuono
e il fresco mormorio delle sorgenti,

NOI TI PREGHIAMO
affinché, sorretti dalla Tua fede
e per amore di essa,
possiamo elevare le voci dei nostri strumenti
fino alle argentee trombe
e alle arpe dorate
degli angeli del Tuo Paradiso.

BENEDICI
i grandi talenti della nostra arte,
benedici tutti coloro che nella musica
elevano la mente e lo spirito;
unisci le loro voci
affinché nello spazio infinito
giungano fino a Te.

CONCEDI A NOI
Il Tuo aiuto per proseguire
nel cammino che molti prima di noi
hanno segnato sul pentagramma
e fa’ che possiamo,
attraverso i nostri strumenti,
diffondere il Tuo messaggio
di fratellanza e di pace,
esaltare la Tua gloria,
dare gioia e speranza ad ogni spirito umano
nel solo, unico linguaggio universale: la musica.
Amen

*********************

Evening update: the phone rings, and once again I expect it to be mum.

But no, it's Ian.

I take the phone, and I almost pick up.

Then I let it ring, and ring, and ring.

Finally I listen to the message he's left on the answer phone.

Just calling to know if how I am, and wanting to say hi. No problem if (can't understand this bit, damn me). Hope I have a good week, speak to me some time. Cheers.

Crumbs, I hate the following:

- when he says "cheers", because it's a signal of distance;

- when he says "cool", which is a signal that a situation is upsetting for him;

- when he says "speak to you some time".

Anyway. I decided not to answer because the time off I have given him, to think over our relationship as friends, to calm down, to wash away his sense of guilt and all that, is meant to be a time off for myself too, and for my hurting heart.

I don't want to end up like in September, when I crawled to his house, red-eyed and desperate, almost trying to make him change his mind, trying to force him to give me a reason, almost making him angry, and unchaining that sense of guilt that has brought us here, today.

I want to work my pain out by myself, and I need time by myself, to read, pray, work, go to the gym, study, plan my Christmas holidays, be quiet for a while. If I go cold turkey on him, and we meet again when he is back from Malta, or maybe in January, it will be a lot better, because I will have had enough time to recover.

I deserve it, don't I? I deserve my time to feel better.

Ian has his studies, to keep him busy and concentrate all day and all night, he has God to talk to, and he is surely less troubled than I am, he eats and sleeps properly, because he is in peace with himself and with God.

I, on the contrary, am looking for peace in me, and am seeking God every moment of my day, and worries weigh on me like marble, no matter how often I read the Bible or pray. I find it hard to think that God will take care of me, especially considering what I am going through, but I want to trust Him and be confident that things will work out fine.

I only need a bit more time, because I have no-one to guide me now. Once again, I trusted Ian to be my guide in discovering God, but all he could tell me, three days before getting back together, was to speak to the priest in the church in Hove.

I'd like to go to some Bible reading, somewhere, but they all happen to be in the morning, for old people, or housewives with little else to do. I suppose I will need some more research on Internet...

Anyway. Almost nine o'clock, and no movie tonight, then. I'll go back to my books and prepare for tomorrow: lessons, and a long time at the gym, to concentrate on my running and lose myself.

I hope God will understand

"A cheerful heart brings a smile to your face, a sad heart makes it hard to get through the day".

I thought I would go to another church, this morning, for the main reason that I didn't feel like walking all the way to my usual church; also, you never know, Ian may decide to go there too, and I don't want to meet him (yet) (as if...I am 200% sure that he is going to the uni chapel, which he prefers anyway. All that talk of wanting to get out of the uni system every now and then was just more smoke in my eyes).

So, last night I found a church in Bevendean, which looked ok, and decided to go there for Mass this morning. Then, being a bright day, I walked out of the house and thought that my usual church would do, after all, at least I'll have a walk.
I went as far as...well, I didn't go far.
Then I stopped.
I stood in the middle of the street for five minutes.
And then I walked back. Holding back the tears.

I forced myself to eat some cereals and yogurt, and concentrated hard on the action of eating, to prevent tears from flowing down again.

It is hard. Mostly because I cannot talk to him, know what he is thinking now, what his real thoughts are. When he says he thinks I should move on, does he mean he doesn't want to see me again? And all these months, have we been friends because he was feeling guilty?

"Guilt is banished through love and truth".

If only we could talk, but what is there to say?
Only that I still don't understand his decision, except that his love for me is not Love, but love, and that he believes this is not the right moment to grow it, because it has come so much in advance on his plans that it's just messing him up, and his ambitions are too high to be spoilt by a growing relationship.
Only that he is scared and confused, possibly because I am 4 years older than him, and he thinks I need to have my own family soon...Good gracious, I cannot pay my rent, I am a foreigner here, and a family is the last of my thoughts. And even if I wanted a family, I could wait, you know? I've waited all my life for him, what difference would it make to wait some more? Especially since we've only just met, and there are so many things we don't know, so much to talk about.
But again, this is not the right time for him. It shocks me, because I understand exactly what he thinks.
Then people tell me that I should "threaten" him, tell him that when he is ready ,maybe I won't be. Ha. As if.
For one, this is nothing I could tell him, even if I were mad angry at him (which I could never be), and for two, who tells you that when he is ready he will want me? He picked me by pure coincidence, seeing a lonely soul like he was, and seriously, only God knows what he thought would happen. He pushed it too far, with these ideas of "I would like you to move to Brighton, because this is special".

IT IS SPECIAL, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE! HAVE YOU EVER FELT LIKE THIS BEFORE? DOESN'T IT SCARE YOU THAT IT MAY BE YOUR ONLY CHANCE, AND YOU ARE THROWING IT AWAY?

He doesn't know. I wish I could ask him how many times he has been in love, and what happened then. I wish I could ask him the difference between then and now. I wish I could tell him about my past, and all the love I have wanted to give which has always, always been refused, of all the love I am ready to give him, no matter what, to be by his side and walk with him, because this is the chance I have never had, and always prayed for, for all my life.
But his trust in God makes him believe that yes, when he is 30, and his Phd is finished, and his career has started, then God will send him a girlfriend to spend the rest of his life with, to make a family with, to Love with a capital L. But wasn't he praying for a girlfriend before coming to Brighton, in July? And didn't God send...well, me? We didn't meet by coincidence, did we? God doesn't play dice, Einstein said. So there must be a reason why we met. Just as there is a reason why we are going through this painful, unbearable moment.

"We plan the way we want to live, but only God makes us able to live it".
I understand that if we couldn't live this moment together, it is because God thought it wasn't the right time either. Yes, now it makes sense. I understand.

Yes, but can we be friends now? I understand him so well, and he likes to have me as a friend, so can we be friends, please? And if things were going well between us as friends, why making a mess again and try to be a couple, when his heart wasn't in it? Why lying to himself, and to me, when he knew that it wouldn't work? Why hurting both of us?

"Friends love through all kind of weather".

It is hard to keep my promise that I won't text him or anything before he leaves for Malta. I need time to think and heal and recover again, and I know I need this time, badly, because I don't know what to do. I don't know if I want to stay here, and why, I don't know what I can do if I go back home, I don't know how I can survive next year, with the master to pay, I don't want to lose Ian, and this is a selfish thought, but I don't want to lose him.

I hope God will understand.

Sometimes, reading through the Proverbs, or the Psalms, I find the encouraging word I need to go on, but I also feel that I find lots of misleading words, words that make me believe that this thing can be fixed, words that make me feel that I am deceiving myself.
My faith is a blossom that needs water and care, and it seems unfair that it is already put on a test by the painful time I am facing. Still, I know there is a reason, and that only by being strong will I overcome this time.

So, my Bible is waiting, and more pages I have saved from an interesting website which is sending help to grow spiritually. In a way, I am confident this is the right way to go; but oh, how I miss Ian and his strong hands.

Picking up the pieces (or trying)

Funny. He decided to give it another try because he was feeling guilty for messing me up.
He kissed me, held me, held my hand, squeezed me. He told me "I love you". On Wednesday, on my birthday, we talked of how he was changing his mind again, of how his plans included a relationship at about 30, after all his other stuff was completed, Phd and all, of how, being a Christian, dating somebody meant some sort of prelude to marriage. I had to tell him that if you don't risk, you cannot know what will happen.
"That's what my mum/dad said too".
Outside Costa he hugs me, and asks me why I picked such a complicated guy.
At the cinema, we have to wait, and we hug several times. He holds me, standing behind me, his arms around me, something I love so much. During the movie I cry and cry, because I know what is going on; later we go for something to eat, and I can't eat, I know what is going to happen soon. He cannot eat either, "I don't know what's wrong", he says.
Funny, some weeks ago, a week exactly before we went back together, I asked him if he was hungry, and he said "No", and I asked him what was wrong with him, and we laughed. Things were easy, then, and our friendship was so strong and innocent and light. Still, there were things I couldn't tell him, and things I couldn't do, like hugging him, touching him.
On the way back home I remind him that some things cannot be planned, and this is such a precious thing that it would be crazy to throw it away, and he agrees.
Outside my house we hugged and hugged, and he told me not to be scared, which is what I told him when he said that sometimes he was scared, he panicked, and I had to confess that I was scared 24 hours a day, although not for the same reason (I didn't tell him that). We hugged and kissed, and I whispered "I love you", and he said "I love you too".
"You don't have to say it, you know".
"I mean it", he said.
"And with the help of God, to be with us, to keep things in control, yes?". When he mentions God is a bad sign, I think then. If he is asking for God's help now it means that he cannot handle it alone, and I am not enough for him. Oh no, not again, I think, and I know that the end is near.
I go to bed, and am troubled, very troubled, but a part of me is smiling anyway, because of the kisses, of the squeezes, like last Thursday, because it seems that talking has worked, this time. That we can make it, somehow. How easily can I deceive myself again.

I didn't think I would see him on Thursday, yet he texted me, asking me if he could come over for tea, and he arrived, slightly tipsy after being for a drink with some phd students and his professor. We spent almost two hours, hugging on the sofa, holding hands, talking, kissing. He was so sweet, we laughed and hugged, repeatedly. For a moment, for a moment, I thought we could make it. Because this love, this caressing and hugging, this sweet kissing, this bending down to kiss my hair, my cheek, this looking for my hand to hold and squeeze, this moving his arm around me, and pull me close, so that I can lay my head on his chest, feel his heart beat, hold him back...This must mean something, I'm sure. To him. Unless he is still trying to fool himself into thinking...who knows.

When he texted me today, I knew something was wrong. Yet I said yes, let's meet in town, I'll be at the library.
He arrived, so extremely upset. He walked to the sofa where I was sitting, he rushed to the sofa, such a grim look on his face; he sat by my side, almost collapsed by my side, without touching me, and when I asked him if he was ok, he said no. You look upset, I said, and boy was he upset. "I am", he said, and I was shocked and upset too at once, I saw it coming again; a part of him died right then.

"I'm not happy -he said - I think we should break up".

And I cannot really remember what else we said: something about him feeling guilty, and deciding to ask me back. Something about him being disappointed for not being able to make this thing work out. Something about me needing to move on, find somebody who won't mess me up.
Something about me being the one who has to decide if we will see again, if we will be friends, because he cannot expect me to want him as a friend again, after this. I say something about me having been more honest during these 13 days together than before, because back then, if I wanted a hug, I wouldn't have asked.
"I will love to give you one", or something like this, is what he replied. But I know I will never ask for a hug again. I am not sure we will be able to start again as friends, again, like we did before. Suddenly I feel angry and sad, why did he want to try and be together again if it wasn't what he was feeling, if things were going all right with us as just friends? Why mess the whole thing up like this?
He gives me a hug when we get up to go to the bus stop, but he decides he'll go for a walk, and he looks so upset, so so so upset. I am shaking, and it's not just the cold air. He caresses me, pinches my arm, says that if I want something I will have it.
It is then that I tell him, whispering in his ear, caressing his arm: "Ian...I wanted to be with you".
And my voice breaks; and the bus comes, and I think I wave goodbye, hurriedly, and I don't look at him again.

On the bus, I text some friends about it, the friends I had informed, happily, of the new chance I had been given to be happy with my piccolino, and of how scary and wonderful this was. Library friend calls straight away. My voice breaks while we talk, but less than I thought. I get home and take a hot shower, and feel numb.
Then, on Skype, Foxy friend appears, and we start chatting, and tears start flowing. I cry so much, and all I feel like doing is screaming and screaming.

I meet Ana in town, and I can only cry. I go back home after an hour, and cry on the bus.

Now, again, is the time for decisions.
When mum came to visit me, I thought I would leave, go back home, because there is no reason for me to stay. Ian looked almost scared, when I told him.
Ten days later we were back together.
Back in September, it had taken me more than a month to accept the fact that we were not going to be together anymore. And then more time to decide that with a good friend like him here, and a master to begin next year, and the nice house I live in, and a job I love, I have lots of good reasons to stay, even if I miss my mum, my house, and my friends sooooo much.

.....

Before going for the hot shower, once at home, I texted a long message to Ian. To make some things clear:

* I am not angry with him, I have never been, I will never be. How can I be angry with the person who made me so happy, even for such a short period of time, how can I be angry with someone who gave me a drop of love, and caressed me, hugged me with such intensity, kissed me (KISSED ME!) so beautifully? This heart is too full of love to feel any anger.

* He must NOT feel guilty. Why feel guilty for giving love and happiness to a lonely soul? This sweet, light drop of love is more than I could ever hope to receive, and I will always be grateful. No, piccolino, don't feel guilty.

* I don't want him to be with me, either as a friend or more, because he feels guilty, or thinks I need some sympathy. This is not the right ground for a friendship. So, be my friend because you want to.

* He must know that I was not thinking of our relationship as a prelude to a family, because I am 30, no, I was not investing all this love on such an ambitious plan. All I felt was that this was THE chance for both of us to be happy, together. Because, and I didn't tell him this, the electricity, the music I could feel when we were (are) together, is something I have never felt before, and I knew (know) this is a one-in-a-lifetime chance. Which has now gone.

Finally, I tell him that I am going to let him be alone for some days, no texts or anything from me. Wishing he will have a good time in Malta, where he's going next week, and remember that he can count on me, always.

Final hug.

Final "*I love you*".

Silence.

Oh, piccolino.
If you only knew, but I am sure he does, what great, incredible thing we were sharing. What treasure he has just thrown away.

Just spoke to mum. She doesn't know I have spent the past 13 days being back with Ian, she doesn't know that we have just broken up again. I thought it was no use telling her, I was right.
I am seriously, again, considering going back home, and by that I mean move back, with all my stuff.
Time for decisions again. I thought things could settle, and that we would work on this together, grow together, built this beautiful, sweet, important thing.
Love.

God.
Be with him now, don't leave him alone for a second.
Don't think about me, I can go on, somehow.
But my piccolino, so troubled, so upset, feeling guilty, stressed and unhappy.
Be with him, God.
Take his hand like I would do, and lull him to sleep, and give him nice sweet soothing dreams; whisper in his ear like I would do, make him smile. Lift him in your arms, make him feel safe. Ease his heavy heart, put his wonderful smile back on his beautiful, sweet, shy, lovely earnest face.
Make his sweet eyes shine again. Take away his worries.
Walk with him, holding his hand like I can't do anymore.
Hug him, squeeze him with all your strength, and tell him how much you love him, like I can't do anymore.

I think it's time to go.

Life ain't easy

...I am so scared again. I am so scared again. I am so scared.
Ian not in good mood. This is "one of those days. If you stop the routine and look at where you are, sometimes you feel...you know. Strange".
Damn, no, I don't know.
I mean, yes, I have been in this condition for the past 3 months, struggling to survive, struggling to understand where I belong, what is the point of being here and of all this pain.
I am too battling to adjust, being nearly 30 and still sharing a house with 3 20-year old girls, who don't have any sense of respect, being nearly 30 and still renting a room in a house where nothing is mine, being nearly 30 in a foreign country with no future ahead.
But here is where we are different, and I let things flow over me, and I work and work, knowing that things will be all right, eventually, even when the pain is so strong that it looks like it will never go away.
I am so scared and upset. I will have another troubled night, and fortunately I have tomorrow's lesson ready, and Wednesday's too. Which means that I don't have to worry about it, at least that. But oh, it is so difficult.
Ten days ago we kissed again. Since then, I've been living in a nightmare, scared to death of another break-up. I have tried not to think about it, to live it day by day again, and it's been hard. Every day I wake up and pray, pray and pray.
And still, I've just called him. And he told me to email him to let him know what I want to do on Wednesday. Email him??? EMAIL HIM???
Damn.

Oh, God. Help. I am not sure I am strong enough for this. Help. Help.

Memento amare - Lewes, November 5th, 2007

I've got cramps - part two

"Hey. I love you".

I've got cramps

It all begins on Monday, I suppose. During Guy Fawkes' night. It is freezing cold, and I am not dressed enough; we are squashed in the crowd, and our reaction, being such a special event, is of excited madness at the music, the fire, the people, the noise and smoke. I am afraid I'll get lost in the crowd, so I allow myself to grab him by the arm, and we walk like that. When we leave, and we get to the station, he asks me if I am cold, and his arm goes round my shoulder, to hug me gently. On the train, we sit in the luggage space, chatting, talking. At the station we buy a hot chocolate, we wait for the bus in Churchill Square, we go home; he squeezes my arm to say goodbye.
We see again on Wednesday, the day I receive the upsetting phone call from my dad, and then upsetting phone call from my mum. We talk and talk, he tries to make me feel better, I tell him how I had thought of leaving also because I thought that he would feel better without me around, messing up his life with my presence. When he leaves, he gives me a long hug. After all, I feel decent, even though I cry most of the evening, and in the morning I am still fogged and slightly sad. But the day moves on, and I feel a lot better by the evening. He calls me on the evening, we chat and talk for ten minutes or so, it is sweet and nice as usual, both hopeless on the phone.
I don't hear from him on Friday, but I spend a lovely day at school, then at the gym, and in the evening I am so tired that I go to bed at ten o'clock, and sleep until Saturday morning at eight...
Saturday morning, the sky looks grim, but I walk to the swimming centre all the same, spending a productive hour and a half swimming and swimming, feeling so good. In the changing room I switch on my mobile and receive his message, to meet up as usual for our afternoon together. We go for our tea at the Pavillion, then it's a walk to the shopping centre and to the lanes, and then to the beach for a fish soup, chatting and laughing. He says something, can't remember what, and then adds "you must thing I'm an idiot", to which I reply that no, I only think good things of him.
We spend some more time there, then decide to head back home, walking and talking. His arm goes round my shoulder a few times, which I like. As I was telling Eric at the beginning of the week, I so miss human contact in this country, but wouldn't dare hug my piccolino, in case he misunderstands my affection for something else. So I am glad he acts spontaneously. It feels good.
We go home for a hot chocolate, and when he leaves he doesn't hug me the usual way, but his cheek touches mine, Italian-English style, and a smile, a "ciao", and he's gone. I go to my room and feel strange, something is going on, and I am scared and confused.
We meet again at 6 at his house, for dinner, and a dvd, which we watch sitting on the sofa, and it feels strange again, because he is not avoiding contact between us, but it feels as if he is looking for it.
When the movie is over we prepare some tea and sit in the armchairs, trying to watch tv but switching it off after a minute. It is then that he starts talking, slowly, in chunks, my heart going faster with every word.
He tells me how he is afraid I might be angry at him. That I have reasons to be. That he is sorry if he made me believe that he doesn't want me around. We talk about how under pressure he puts himself, and how things are difficult for him, the time he takes to adjust. He caresses my arm a few times, fair enough, something he does every now and then. Things start feeling stranger when he caresses my face, before taking my hand and holding it. I ask him what is going on, or maybe I only think it. He says he is sorry; he says he has been worried about me. He says again, "I am sorry". "Don't be", I reply. "There's no need to be sorry". "Are you ok?", he asks me, "I am ok, are YOU ok? Good, that's what counts", and I mean it. If you are happy nothing else matters to me. And then he tells me what a wonderful person I am, to which I can reply that he is too. I almost see it coming, but am too scared to believe it.
It is then when he moves towards me, and kisses me. And kisses me. And kisses me.
The following (hour? minutes? days?) are spent on the sofa, because I am uncomfortable in the armchair, and because I want to seize the moment, and be close to him now, feel him again, breathe him again, "I've missed you", I tell him. He says he was scared, new city, new job, things crowding around him, he was scared, a fool, an idiot.
I laugh, I can't believe what is happening. We are sitting on the sofa, holding hands, talking and chatting, he caresses my hands, my hair, he hugs me.
After a while we walk to my house, and we say goodbye, lots of kisses. See you tomorrow, in church. To be together, for some time.
I go home, and I am not tired. That's what Saturdays are for, to go to bed feeling relaxed and not tired at all, to enjoy a good night's sleep, to smile when the light is off and you can think of the nice things that have happened in the day, in the week. I switch off the light and concentrate on nothing but the silence in the house, and the lesson on Monday, which I have already prepared.
I wake up once, twice, three, four times. And everytime there is this bundle of cramps in my stomach, curling up in me, painful and beautiful.
I am scared. So so scared. "Don't be scared, ok? Try praying if you are, that can help". Ok.
Dear God.
Thanks.
And help.
Thanks, thanks, thanks.

This is a miracle.
I am so grateful.
So confused.
So happy.
Thanks.