Letter number 8: Strength

Dear Alexandra,

I’ve always thought of myself as quite strong. Like most blokes, I’ve been conditioned to suppress emotions, although I do like to think my awareness of the emotions of others is quite well tuned. With us I on some level prioritised your emotional needs — of course with the added complication of PMDD and hormonal imbalances they weren’t always within your control. Allowances need to be made for that, and I was (and am) totally on board with that.

We were able to start talking much more openly about this, about the quasi-experimental nature of balancing contraceptive injections to try to strike that balance, without inflaming the so far benign cyst on your ovary. You talk regularly to a therapist, of course you didn’t discuss many details of those talks, nor should you if it isn’t appropriate. I floated the idea a few times that there could be some benefit to us in arranging a session with her for both of us — to give her an outside perspective, to perhaps help me in treading the right path to help you when things were bad. You never said no, but it also never transpired.

More than once you bemoaned my reticence to open up myself about things. I was always quick to show you how much I loved you, I think — in words and deeds, but it would be fair to say that I bottled frustrations or hurts. When you called me out on it I took it seriously, but I worried too — you are a person who assumes criticism when none is intended, and very fixated on “impact felt” rather than that which is intended, regardless of how much reassurance follows.

So when I did start to try to find ways to open up about things that were bothering me, it didn’t go brilliantly. I carefully chose my words, but whatever I would say you’d interpret as an attack on you, absolutely not my intention and I thought I’d made that really clear. I understood very well that many aspects driving problems between us were beyond your control, but that this doesn’t stop there being an impact.

I don’t like the phrase “I can’t win” because I didn’t see our relationship as a competition — but it felt like I’d be punished for not opening up, but doubly so if I did. Contrasting that with how I see some family members or friends (including the online ones) “get away” with overtly inconsiderate behaviour at times, it felt like I was on a tight rope. If I opened up I was attacking, if I tried to apply some humour to lighten the mood it was a snipe or snide remark. It was really hard. If I got it wrong I’d be punished with days of radio silence.

But I was determined to find a way through. Latterly as I’ve written before I almost felt I was begging you to spend time with me, either virtually or physically. Throughout much of the last year I’ve been working at home, living alone too it meant that the fact we’d formed a support bubble you (and your Dad) were the only means I had of attaining human company within the legal framework surrounding the pandemic. I talked a lot to you about how isolated and lonely I felt, you understood on the face of it, but didn’t seem to register just how seriously it was affecting me, and your role in easing that burden. Even when I told you at times I’d had idle thoughts of ending it all (never to a point of being close to acting on it) it didn’t seem to illicit much more than fairly cold indifference. That’s a pretty big red flag thinking about it.

I don’t think that that is because you don’t care, I just don’t think you could or can take yourself far enough outside of your own head to appreciate the suffering of someone else. Or you’d already started to deprioritise me in your concerns, and that hurts to think about. I’d been busy preparing my house to become our house, I set you up an area with a dressing table and light up mirror to do your make up, we agreed we’d convert the spare room to your streaming/computer room, we talked about the future in terms of marriage, plans, animals we’d like to adopt, things we should get done in the garden which needs an overhaul. Maybe they were good distractions for both of us.

You were drawn like a magnet to online friends with “issues” — you’d tell me this, I’d feel resentful you find time to worry about them whilst seemingly oblivious to my suffering. Maybe that degree of separation the digital space casts makes it easier — you only told part of your story to these people, and until latterly weren’t overtly involved with them. Maybe that made it easier to play counsellor. I was jealous. But if I’m honest I didn’t dare posit the idea that you might prioritise me a little more in your life, partly because I’m not adept at the idea of putting myself first let alone suggesting someone else should, partly because I was scared what the answer would be. I think we both know now I’d have lost out!

I tried to be supportive — I bought you a Streamdeck which you’d wanted to make your gaming sessions easier, to show I was on board with what you were doing — proud even, it’s a pretty male dominated environment and you were holding your own and carving a niche. I just wanted to exist in that world — not take control, not even be involved — just not be denied as a person in your life. I don’t think that’s all that unreasonable.

When we were last talking in person as we explored “what would need to be true” for us to have a future as a couple, I didn’t even go as far as to say that you’d need to knock the online gaming stuff on the head. Which really I don’t think would be that much of an ask, particularly within hours of me finding out what had been happening, just that you couldn’t present yourself as single as you do now. It’s patently ridiculous if you think about it. I don’t blame any of the individuals you call friends in this realm, because who knows what they actually know about your situation, you can craft it carefully — some knew I existed, maybe they think I’m a jealous, controlling negative factor in your life. Some didn’t know at all. How could they be expected to help you behave in a fair way?

I imagine as this virtual romance you established developed they encouraged it and thrilled in it, why wouldn’t they? When I say that it’s a toxic thing, that’s because in it you’ve established a community that enables you to be deceptive, cruel and hurtful in the real world. That isn’t on them, it’s on you. I’m sure they’re mostly lovely people with good intentions. I imagine this is what your ex thought about your music community friends as we were becoming close. Full circle?

But anyway, strength. I thought I was strong. And the hardest part of this process so far is admitting that I am finding it difficult to cope, that I need help. Talking to a friend made me realise that other traumatic events — notably the murder of a family member — are things I also haven’t processed. Over years I’ve let things build up without resolution, and the ricochet effect of losing Frankie, Digby, D in literal terms, then you in relationship terms just filled up and overflowed whatever capacity I had to cope. All against the backdrop of more than a year of lockdown, tantalisingly close to being lifted if the government measures work.

When T was murdered we’d not been long together. Nobody gets a manual in how to deal with a loved one going through that, so it would be unfair to be critical but you weren’t a great support in truth. I didn’t resent that, I didn’t know how I was meant to cope and if the roles were reversed I’m not sure I’d have done any better in a supporting role. It was an exceptional circumstance. It was awful timing for the issues that my family had with our relationship, I do think they were unfair on us — and whilst I was very clear with you that was my view, I perhaps didn’t do enough to stand up to them. You worked hard to build bridges with them, with success, then pulled back just as you were getting there.

But then again, years later when Bill died at the vet I told you, your response was that it was another bad thing happening near your birthday (as was T’s murder), jumping to impact on you rather than asking if I was okay. Another red flag, I let it slide, I didn’t want an argument. I brought Bill home to show Frankie why he wouldn’t be around any more and arranged for him to be cremated. I told you recently about Digby being put to sleep, you told me off for telling you whilst you were at work. I get that it’s upsetting news, but I needed just some comfort, an “I’m sorry, are you okay?” — this was a dog I’ve known since he was a puppy, you met him a handful of times. That meant when I found out D had died I didn’t tell you, you found out when it was announced on Facebook. A couple should be able to talk about these things shouldn’t they?

Skimming back through this letter it does suddenly read like an attack, doesn’t it? But I am being much less subtle and more direct than I ever was in person. I’m not attacking you, I’m just documenting the impact of things that happened whilst we were together. Either I didn’t do a very good job of articulating that at the time, or you didn’t possess the empathy or capability to understand the impact of these things, either life events or ways you reacted, on me. Whatever the straw that broke the camel’s back of our relationship, I know that we both contributed to the build up prior to that. I’m not blameless. Nobody is.

I’m surprised this letter sprung forth from me today, yesterday we exchanged texts on good terms — it had me starting to idly formulate/fantasise ways we could work towards working things out as a couple in the future. I still haven’t ruled that idea out entirely, and reading back through this I wonder why in truth. They do say love is blind. I do love you. And I know that your emotional scale is impacted by things outside of your control, however, seeing the imbalance between my treatment and other people in your life makes me realise that that isn’t the whole story.

I still don’t believe that these were conscious things either, I know you well enough to know you’re kind, considerate, loving, thoughtful. For whatever reason some kind of blind spot clicked in where I was concerned. And a lot of our mutual friends too. It’s almost like part of you doesn’t think you deserve to be loved so you start to sabotage it, treat people badly, push them away. That makes me incredibly sad for you.

The point of this letter though was to let you know I’m not strong, and you were right to point out that I need to be better at opening up (even if when I ultimately did you couldn’t find a way to deal with it). I have sought help, and found it. You are doing the same which I’m really happy about. I know from experience that in time I will heal, that there’s a chance of future romantic happiness. You have more time than me on this score, too.

Ultimately I’m glad we have semi-open communication channels. We are still not saying more than we are, but it’s good to know you’re doing okay and working things through in a constructive way. But not having you in my life at all still feels devastating, even if — when looked at with cold calculated logic — it would probably be a good thing. I’m not sure about that yet. I miss you so much, despite everything.

I love you, Bert