The art of compromise

After spending a period of time believing I’d be a single parent, even having my own house for a time, Ewan’s dad and I made the decision to get back together and make one more go of things. Our magic word has therefore become compromise. I know with my anxiety and depression I have not been the easiest person to live with. I actually feel I can reflect on this now I am suitably medicated (by anti depressants and lots and lots of coffee) because I did lose my shit a lot. I still lose it at times but nowhere near as much as before. So the compromise is he is still annoying, I just have better coping skills to deal with it. I do jest of course… mostly. We both jointly admitted to each other’s wrongdoing and came up with our version of a ceasefire. There’s something quite refreshing about letting go of things and putting them behind you. A while ago I wrote a blog post about relationships and having children and at the time I thought it was a funny well researched piece, which apart from one reference (a stag do to Benidorm), did not have too much bearing on our relationship, or it was loosely based on us and what I considered to be humorous. Looking back now though I do realise it was a bit of a dig. So as part of our compromise deal, I removed said blog post. Even though I still think it was one of my most witty writing moments (and that probably doesn’t say a lot really) and was (mostly) only meant in jest. His work colleagues had apparently read the post and told him I was slating him. I never even imagined this blog would have even got any traffic when I wrote that, and his attitude to my blogging was IDGAF so looking back I think what I was actually doing was crying out for help and not expecting anything (certainly not a backlash). I was writing to cope with how I felt, which I still do and I still love to write, but really what I should have been doing was expressing to him more how I felt. He’s the kind of guy that needs things literally spelling out to him. He doesn’t reply to me texting him much. He’s totally useless at remembering things, and as an emotional crutch he’s about as useful as a chocolate fire guard. The biggest clue he got I was so unhappy was when I actually left him. What depression has done to me for most of my life has made me feel like it’s something that needs to be hidden. It’s my great weakness, my shame. What’s different now is I’ve become more open in telling people how I feel. I’m sometimes still met with shaming, from members of my own family no less, but nonetheless I am learning to become more open about my feelings so my OH who has about as much emotional sensitivity as a sledge hammer, knows when I’m struggling. Then he can support me in his own way, and he says he will be there for me. That’s all I wanted to hear really. So we’ll see how it goes. It’s not perfect but what is?

So basically we’ve come to a compromise where we have both promised to be less of a knob to each other. Oh yeah and he needs to not go on anymore stags dos in the near future. Let’s call it the Benidorm agreement.

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