Fear and Loathing in Las Pelto

Yesterday I had a moment. Like the washing machine on reverse cycle spin, I was that same stupid girl clutching to obligations, offering gourmet dinner, reducing expectations, all to keep a relationship alive as it walked out the door, leaving a set of keys, long removed from key ring, on the hall table. Not that I was actually doing any of these things, from dinner to relationship resuscitation. But I was that stupid little insecure girl.

It was, I have to say, annoying. Not at the time, when I was tearily clutching tissues and wolfing M and Ms but when confronted by someone from the real world and realising that there is no sanity in how I feel. But it's how I felt nonetheless.

I can only attribute it to the bruising of being dumped which we all know will fade with time, but until then the bruises get shown off, not hidden, and sported and flashed and worn like a badge. I guess I use them as a warning. Stay clear, don't hurt me, but also don't expect anything stable, and please excuse anything I might do that's nuts...

I am torn between kicking myself and saying get over it and between saying it's okay, take time to heal. Recently a friend of mine went AWOL because they had, simply had, to get away and get over things. I can accept that, as painful as it is to lose them.

But how are the people who choose to stay around you supposed to react when you are a sodden ball of mess?

Today, my barbaric Yawp over the rooftops is this: "I still hurt. Someone said they loved me and walked away and left me in Finland, a country that gets excited when it's mentioned on The Simpsons. I hurt so much, some days I am nuts and cry at Russian love songs I can't understand, and some days I am so happy to be alive I can dance in the streets. Please cut me some slack and normal viewing will shortly resume."

It doesn't help that the Irish man is leaving, lucky him, exciting holidays. And I am staring in the face another three month stint of hotel rooms, which means its nakemin to my cosy little studio in Helsinki. And for once I don't want to go. I want a home to be more than my backpack and room key. I want to buy soft towels not have them delivered to me by housekeeping. I don't want to bury my emotions amongst the inflight reading matieral. I want to stand up, shout that I screwed up, scream that I have been screwed over and move on, but not necessarily move away.

For once, moving away is filling me with fear and loathing.