Treasures of a Lost Decade

Coping with losing your identity after a relationship break-up

England in the early 1990s; an era that saw a sometimes thrilling, often terrifying, but mainly unrecognisable change in direction from the previous decade; gang culture and gun crime were on the increase in our major cities of London, Birmingham and Manchester, whilst a new, colourful, carefree, urban “sound” was edging onto our music scene (what we know now as the birth of “Brit-Pop”), threatening to leave the sultry and serious “New Romantics” behind.

 

It was an exciting time; ecstasy became rife in our club-lands and the weekends saw convoys of partygoers clustered together in their vehicles, engines revving in motorway garage parking areas, waiting for designated mystery vehicles to beckon them, leading them like the Pied-Piper, to an unknown rave location and the chemical possibilities that lay there.   Who could blame them? The Gallagher brothers told us we were to “Live Forever” and who were we to argue? We were “fear-free”.

 

It was during this heady and exciting time that I met my boyfriend, who later became my husband. I met him at just after 10.30 pm on New Year’s Eve, 1994; to the sound of Pulp’s “Do You Remember the First Time”.

 

And it was precisely ten years later, almost to the hour, sitting at my lonely kitchen table on New Year’s Eve, listening to the same song on my IPOD, whilst he resided on another continent, I wept uncontrollably at the decision I had just made; I no longer wanted to be married to him.

 

The gap in-between? There is too much to tell and not enough words to describe the heart-breaking rollercoaster ride that we both embarked upon. All in the name of true love...or was it obsession? I am still not sure.

 

When we met, if I am to be totally honest, we were both pretty drunk (it was New Year’s Eve). But it was said by others, perhaps more sober than ourselves, that we held hands as if we had known each other forever and seemed to display an incredible bond, despite only knowing each other for a few hours. We seemed to fit, somehow. 

 

As it turned out, he was a military man, and he left for Germany the next day, and in turn left with me the inability to think about anything or anyone else but him. I could not eat, sleep or function. After a few weeks that felt like an eternity, we were together again on Valentine’s Day and remained together for the next ten years.

Our lives continued in the same vein. For the next decade, I loved him so hard, so fiercely, with all my conceivable might.

 

But in essence, that was part of the problem. So completely in love was I, I had already unknowingly ventured onto a path of self-destruction. The strength of my love, mixed with my immaturity, my naïveté, his stubbornness and our common need to jostle for the stronger position within the hierarchy of our relationship, eventually lead to our inevitable demise.

 

Loving him so much, in what I now know to be such an unhealthy way, meant that I had nothing at all left for myself. I lost myself to him completely and utterly. 

 

And, unfortunately, in the quest to find myself after our final separation, I was only to suffer more bereavement. I lost friends and acquaintances due to the inevitable, judgemental reactions that no divorcee can ever escape from, no matter how hard they try. My relationships within my immediate family suffered greatly, leading me to question everyone in my life. I felt so alone, that I could trust no-one. 

 

I couldn’t even trust myself or my feelings. I went through a disturbing period of sexual promiscuity, all in the name of new-found sexual confidence. Of course, I had been deprived of attention for so long that I was only too ready to become involved with those who offered me the slightest hint of appreciation.

 

But after the initial high of these encounters, which I felt at the time were good physical “stepping stones” away from my husband’s control, I came crashing back down to earth and into a pool of low self-esteem again, adding to my confusion and lack of reference.

 

These times of “sexual freefall”, of wanting to “numb” out the physical pain I felt, were punctuated with periods of such anger and resentment because of the decade I felt I had lost. I had invested ten of my most formative years on someone that I adored, but someone that essentially had never been able to give me what I needed; not even from “day one”. I had just been too blind to see it.

 

But, eventually the freefall had to end, as the ground came rushing up towards my feet. I was forced to slow down; to stop. And, thankfully, sometime later, my eyes began to open and see the dawning of new horizons before me.

 

I have learned that when we break apart from those with love, in whatever circumstance, we grieve. The grieving process takes time. We suffer greatly from the pain, the hurt, the anguish, the uncertainty. In a way we have to surrender to it. But, thankfully, serious suffering is always temporary; at least the kind that causes us to cease to function normally; the unmanageable kind.

 

I now know that my “lost decade” was never a useless investment. Loving my husband in the way that I did has enabled me to now be a better partner to the new man in my life; my true love, my best friend, my soul-mate and the father to my two beautiful children.

 

I have learned, no matter what, we all need to know who we are. We need to have a singular identity, and it is only in this singular identity can our partnerships with those we truly love be successful.

 

If you are grieving right now, if you are lost, I promise you this; you will find yourself once more. You will feel content and whole once again, but this time with a world full of choice, freedom and the blissful simplicity to start over, to build yourself a new life.

 

And you will rejoice in knowing yourself again.

Reviews

[Emily B]

well-written and so beautiful to see where you are now . . .

[deeps]

I can feel the heat and frustration in this write.
I like all the emotions you poured out in this.
Your feelings are well expressed.