I’m not sure how it all began. Maybe it was a slow brew thing. Maybe it started with music. Something rousing, nostalgic, threading a line back to that person I was. The one that tried and failed and tried again.
Or maybe I’m just in a manic phase. I’m not a manic depressive (at least, I don’t think I am), but I know I go through very clear phases of action and lethargy. Right now, I’m buzzing and desperate to keep a grip on this mania, because when the dip comes, I’ll be back in the dark, paralysed by uncertainty and pessimism.
Whatever the catalyst, I’ve finally woken up from that protracted slugishness that has kept me in a full body hug for the last several months. I’ve had the flat painted (well, parts of it). I’m looking for a gardener to sort out the mess behind the house. I’ve been weeding out old toys, clothes, books. And I’ve been cleaning (the amount of dust and grime that can collect on a Venetian blind is embarrassingly copious).
All this effort has a purpose. I’m preparing to sell my flat. After more than 10 years living in it, it’s time to move on. It’s also the only way I can make a proper break from Ben.
Today I travelled a good 30 miles outside London to view a couple of houses. One was dire, the other delightful. Right now it’s all a bit of window shopping. But not for long.
When I wrote some weeks back that change was coming, I don’t think I honestly believed myself. Seems even I can surprise myself sometimes.