A couple of hours ago I received this message on Facebook:
“There’s something else I need to discuss with you too. I’m now thinking that selling our house might be a better option than trying to rent it out, as I’ve found out a few bits of important information since we discussed it last year.”
Last year, S and I met a member of the local forum we met on. Over drinks and a bitching session, she brought up something she’d mentioned briefly before; that she and her husband were going to pack up and travel Europe for the rest of their lives, and they needed someone to rent their two-bedroom semi, near where my sister E lives. She offered us the house, if we wanted it. S and I couldn’t even pretend to not be interested; we’d sort of discussed moving in together, but the combination of his past debts and my reliance on benefits means it’d be more difficult than usual for us to rent, and it’s ridiculously expensive to rent anywhere here – you’re looking at 500 quid a month for a small flat – so, with little chance of us ever being able to afford a mortgage, the situation was ideal. Over the months, we’ve furnished the house in drunken conversations and spoke for hours on end about how it’ll feel to go to sleep together every night… and now, all that is impossible.
I can’t express how disappointed I feel; I can’t bring myself to reply because I don’t want her to know how much I was putting all my faith into this chance. I’m sitting here in the dark on my bed, typing on my tobacco-covered laptop with a joint in my hand, trying to convince myself it’s not the end of the world. I’m not doing it very well. Turned my music down because I don’t want to hear it, I just want silence.
I’m worried about telling S; this move has been everything to us since we decided we wanted to live together. He’s renting a room at the moment, and he’s already gone way over his tenancy, so he says he probably won’t be able to stay much longer. As for me, I can’t go on living with my mother. I love her, and I worry about her, but I simply can’t move on with my life while I’m stuck in my childhood home. Above all that… I really, really wanted to set up home with S. We’ve been together for over a year, and it’s difficult leaving him on Sundays when all I want to do is stay.
All through my life I’ve been presented with opportunities which have, without fail, been snatched away from me. More often than not I’ve been to blame for things falling apart, but sometimes the opportunities just vanish and I’m getting weary of the whole depressing cycle.
The sun is just starting to rise, and I’m still wide-awake. The last few nights have been strange, with me waking at weird times and sleeping until 5pm. I was planning on staying up all night to reset my body clock (I’d have coped with shopping, somehow) but all I feel like doing now is sleeping for a hell of a long time, pushing the world away and retreating like I always do. I’m trying to remind myself that I have BPD so I’m bound to react with panic to any plan going awry; the last thing I need right now is to lose it. It won’t do S any good if I shove him away by isolating myself, and I’m not sure I can keep kicking arse when life punches me in the kidneys so many times. I’ve been let down a thousand times before, and one day something has to be the straw on the camel.
I know two readers know the woman I’m speaking about; one will certainly know who she is. All I can ask is please don’t tell her anything I’ve said here; She can’t know.