Hell of a Month

I don’t know about you, but for myself and I’m pretty sure Montana, too, it’s been a hell of a month. Or maybe, more than that, even. It’s hard to remember. I think, often, when lots of things that drive your emotions in lots of different directions at once happen in quick succession, time sort of blurs and stops being linear. At least, when you look back on it anyway.

I think the main focus, though, has been the changing relationships we’ve both experienced. I mentioned on the first episode of season 1 of I Have No Milk, that I recently left a nearly 8-year relationship. In fairness, we left very amicably, we’d been friends for a long time (I think that’s natural when you’re together for as long as we were) so there were no hard feelings, and we were part of that lucky percentage of ex’s who actually genuinely have a lot of love, and perhaps more importantly, a lot of like for each other. 

I’d like to write something poetic about how the dynamics change like seasons and people grow like shrubs and blah blah blah, but I’m nothing if not painfully British, so instead what I’ll say is this: this week, that all went to shit. We’ve been successfully co-parenting a dog, Simba (the light of my life and the bane of my existence) and my ex has come to the conclusion that our arrangement is no longer suiting them. Nor their new partner. Which is a shame. Mainly for the dog, but also because I think really, it means saying goodbye to something bigger, something more representative and whole. I think somewhere in our relationship, we shifted to feeling more like family than anything romantic, and now it’s time to say goodbye to that. I have mixed feelings, I’ll be honest. On the one hand, it makes me sad that this person who’s so intricately woven into my life, into my family and into who I am now as a person, is no longer going to be there. We’ve celebrated each other's wins, and consoled each other’s losses for as long as I can remember, and I don’t feel like I can authentically do that anymore. I’m not sure if it's the same for them, but it feels like a line in the sand. On the other hand, though, I feel rage. It feels like a betrayal of everything we’ve built, but mostly I feel rage and disappointment that I’ve been put in this position in such a tumultuous time in my life, and that my fur-baby is going to wonder why the person that's looked after him since he was a pup is no longer around. No longer wants to be around. 

Another changing relationship is the one we have with our friends. (I include Montana in this, despite the endless insults she chucks in my direction, I’m sure she thinks she’s funny). I think once you leave your early twenties, and enter your *cough* erm… well, the bits beyond that, let’s say, the things you look for in your friendships shift exponentially. Sometimes it’s not a conscious thing, it just happens over time. But lately, I’ve been put in situations where I’ve needed to rely on people more than I’d like, certainly more than I’m used to, and it’s shown me the millions of different ways that people can show up for you.

Whether it’s buying you a treat or concert tickets to cheer you up, reading your favourite book with you, offering you a place to stay or helping you move out of yours, sending you letters and cards to remind you they’re still there - and they really fucking mean it -  or just simply being there to listen. To let you express the emotions you don’t always realise are hovering under the surface, to coax out of you what’s going on deep inside the little bits of your brain you usually bury. I think as you get older, and - in theory - grow up a bit, the priorities you look for in a friend change, it’s not always about who’s around for the good times, the fun nights out and the Instagram photos. It’s about the ones who are there when it all goes t*ts up, and the way that they’re there. And sometimes, that means the people you thought you could count on, it turns out actually you probably can’t. But the good bit is, and sometimes this goes unnoticed so listen closely, often the people you didn’t realise care as much as they do show up in ways you can’t even bloody imagine. The best part is they don’t do it because they feel like they should, or because you’ve asked. They just do it because they WANT to. Because the things that are important to you, are important to them. Your common interests might span to music, films, nights out and nights in and whatever else, sure, and that’s great - really. But they also cover the things that make you tick, the routines of your day, what your dream last night was about, why that cow at work pissed you off, that picture of the sunset that made you want to burst into tears for no apparent reason. The fact that after an 8-year relationship and a stable job suddenly you find yourself without both of those things, not sure where to turn, what comes next or how the fuck you’re gonna get there, they want to help. They want to listen, they’ll check your CV, they’ll clean out your apartment, and they’ll cry with you on Facetime for three hours. They’ll start an entire podcast on a complete whim just because you both have something to say. I don’t know that many of the people I was friends with in my early twenties would have done that (except Michaela, who has been my sister since the day I clapped eyes on her and I don’t think I’d be even nearly as functional without her). 

I think that often, it's easy to overlook this sort of thing, the quiet love in friendships. The love that isn’t overt, big grand announcements. It’s in the small moments, the little bits that only you two get to see. In fact, it’s not only in friendships at all, it can be applied to any relationship you have. And I think that, the older we get, the less the big showy gestures of love matter, and the everyday things are what seep into our skin and right through our souls. They keep us going. More than that, they give us a reason to keep going.

So I guess, then, with all of the changes that have descended upon me, and maybe you, in the last month or so, my takeaway is this. I’m finding the lifeboats. The staple pieces and people in my life who keep me afloat. I’m clinging on to them for dear life, actually.

Anyway. The song that goes with this newsletter is Burn, by David Kushner. Enjoy.

‘til next time :)

Lana x