Who needs Resolutions when you need a new life
New year and while we reflect on what has gone we focus on what could be.
While I got divorced, I decided I should ease off the confessionals. The divorce was quick, my husband admitted having an affair. I kept the house, gained money to pay for our children’s upkeep. Although, if I am to keep to the style I am accustomed to, I have had to start work.
Is it such a sacrifice for freedom? Having to give up thirty hours of my life a week in return for cash. When I worked before it was for pleasure and I lasted only while it was pleasure. The house is paid for, the car too. The only bills I have are food and council tax, the rest are my husband’s domain. My solicitor insisted my name is placed on all the bills he pays so I can deal with them independently. All very boring stuff.
That is my life now. All very boring.
Boring, bored, bore. Or the other way. Perhaps you have already read it as the title. Nigel said, “I don’t like your three-word titles” He had that priggy tone of his: That I know better than you. We are all familiar with it. How he got his wife to walk down the aisle I will never know. Surprise, surprise, none of us were invited. What is more if you go to Medium.com you will find a story called: Family: Country: Globe from the not fan of three-word titles. Prig off prissy.
When I look in the mirror, I find a face not smiling. A face that does not smile anymore. A face looking wearily back at me. ‘Mia, Mia, on the wall,’ it says to me, ‘do you have any direction at all.’ And this long whining fills my head like smoke in an unventilated room. And all I can think is that does not rhyme.
What the fuck! It is easy to swear when I am typing, and, truth be told, aloud when I am not around my children. Although why I should be so prudish over this when the language in the playground is full of the words I would use. But I am. It bothers me. I don’t want my children to marry ruffians. The life of a mother. Bastard boring.
So how do I change this life of mine.
Christmas is days past and 2024 is here at last and Mia needs an escape plan.
A holiday would be lovely. It is the cliché of depressed. The baggage inside my skin comes with me, no matter how many string bikinis I take. It would not matter how many men hit on me; I would still feel the same. My husband won custody of my confidence in the divorce. To make matters worse he also got child visiting rights for every weekend, every holiday, and two weeks in the summer. When I need the distraction of children the most, they are gone.
That will be my task for twenty-four: regain my confidence.
I know I cheated on my husband, yet I never stopped loving him. It was Conchita that drove me. She just desired all she could get, and I refused to control her. I accept that it is my fault I am divorced. That is in my head and has yet to travel down to my heart. Ashley thinks I should shag my way back to happiness. Medular was the reverse, she told me to become happy on my own before even thinking of finding a boyfriend. Sir Skinyboy offered to punish me with a severity that would take days to heal. He believes that will bring me back to equilibrium.
I have not discussed this with Nigel, he is too busy with other things on his mind. Though if I can distract him, he will be honest. Ashley, Medula and Sir all suggested from their own perspective. I need to do this my way. Ashley is happy and single, without a man and not hooking up like she used to. Medular is never happy, and she has been alone for so long now that she may as well become a nun. Sir Skiny is just not my type – short in stature and outlook.
I saw the doctor, well spoke on the phone as you have to these days. He offered antidepressants and referred me to mental health specialists. The waiting list is long, and I don’t want medication. I do not want a chemical haze around me.
I want to forgive myself.
Forgiveness, Grace as the church puts it. The Christian church, I know no other. And before all those ‘saved’ souls make comments, I am not looking for a religion. Nor a church that is different. Pre-Christmas a few came to my door. They saw the sadness or found out from a friend of one of my children that I was divorced. They wanted to offer the solace of God.
The promise of salvation, the temptation of a friendly church unlike any I have been on before. Not for me. I am Mia, I have desire. I don’t need the life of religion. I do not need the dogma of control. Mia wants to hear yes, not no, to life and laughter.
It is easy to make New Year’s resolutions on any subject. The aim to have a better year than the one before is universal. Why would anyone wake up on the first of January and think, ‘so begins the year that I will make worse than last year. I will treat those in my life like shit, be so lazy that it will be like I have retired. I will spend more than I earn and become gluttonous.” For me, it is a waste of time making resolutions on anything.
The last time I celebrated New Year’s Eve I was just married. Once my first child was born it all seemed so irrelevant. Tussling with the crowds just to buy alcohol. Only to find my head in a toilet bow vomiting to the smell of urine tinged with excrement. While something damp is soaking through my stockings to my knees.
But I’m single now. Should I party? If I got an invite to a private party perhaps I would. But an early night alone seems so appealing. Why did I give him custody on all those holidays? Do people my age throw private parties on New Years Eve anymore?
Time to check the mirror again. Just in case I have morphed.
Nope, still desperate, still despair. The new call of Mia.
The new year. It is time to look forward. A time for patience. To put behind the disasters of 2023.The exception being my children’s wellbeing, 2024 will be the year of me.
The year of Mia.
The year I find the single girl I used to be.
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