The psyche moves in mysterious ways; and also, it would appear, performs the most unexpected wonders. That Kaos, my German shepherd dog, settled back into life at the barn as if he’d never been away was not a surprise. Surrounded by acres of orchards with a ready supply of rabbits and foxes to chase, and a wood-burning stove to slouch against until his fur singes – well, from a dog’s eye view, what’s not to like? I was less sure about myself.
From a practical point of view the move back here made a lot of sense. After more than a year of trying, the barn had resolutely failed to sell; there had been a lot of viewings but ultimately no takers. Although we had completed all the structural works on the barn’s metamorphosis from tumble down heap of rotten old sticks to dwelling, there remain a good deal of ‘finishing works’ (decorating and such) to carry out. We concluded that, added to the impact of the credit crunch and the relatively high price tag the place carried, this was enough to put the kybosh on any prospect of a sale for the foreseeable future. And enough to simultaneously put the mockers on the chance for the ex and I to entirely go our separate ways - for now, anyway.
So the idea for me to move back to the barn was hatched. We could, we pondered, live separately, respectfully and independently under the same roof – there was certainly enough space for that to be possible. At the same time, we could pick up the tools again and work together to complete the finishing jobs whenever we had the opportunity or the money to do so. But the clincher that sealed the deal was financial; the split had torpedoed both of us and the idea seemed to present a glimmer of hope of financial survival in these turbulent times. Yes, on all practical levels, the move made sense.
It was on the emotional score that I was less certain. I’d been devastated when D announced he wanted us to split up and had spent the 18 months since slowly restoring myself to a semblance of normality. Good friends and close family had played a hugely significant part in my recovery; feeling ok again at last had been very hard won and I didn’t want that to unravel. How would I feel, I wondered, living with my ex again, being under the same roof but not actually together? Would proximity lead to the re-igniting of any residual flames that I still clung to?
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. The move back to the barn seems to have achieved what many months of tears, sadness and soul searching never completely did. For the first time in all that time, D now really feels like my ex. I find myself able to relate to him on a friendly level without the least twinge of anything more deeply emotional. I am not bothered when he goes out, not concerned what he’s doing or who he’s seeing, don’t find myself wishing he was by my side. I would never in a million years have predicted that the final release from those lingering emotional bonds would have come about by moving back into the house we built together and which we shared as a couple.
And so it was that last night we had our first beer and curry night together, a chance for us to catch up and review how things were going at the end of the first week. We chatted, we laughed, we enjoyed some great food, we watched a film, and I raised a toast to the future of us together as housemates of a kind. It was a nice evening, spent together as friends but nothing more. When the food and the beer and the film were finished, we bid each other good night and went our separate ways. I came up to bed full and happy and without the least trace of wishing he was with me, before falling into a wonderful deep sleep.
I’m not the first to observe that the psyche moves in mysterious ways by any means, but this is the first time I have been on the receiving end and seen that wisdom in action.
No comments:
Post a Comment