Passion Play

I
think I’d been crying for a good five minutes before I realised. I wiped away a
stray tickle on my cheek, and the sleeve of my jumper came away damp. I looked
down to see my friend’s hand on my arm. Are
you okay? she whispered. I shook my head. I wasn’t.

I
felt sick, and dizzy. She took me by the wrist to lead me up the stairs as I
kept my head bowed low, eyes fixed to the ground, tears now freely gushing. We
pushed past the crowds and crossed the road, nearly walking into the path of a
black cab in our hurry. In an alleyway I threw my coat and bag and glasses down
onto a plant pot, and let out a yelp, a huge gasp for air, for relief. My
friend rubbed my back and told me I’d be okay as I stared at the sky and willed
myself to stop sobbing. It didn’t work.

Dramatic
is my middle name- after verbose and attention-hungry- and I know how it sounds
to say that this, but the sobbing and the hiccups and the inability to breathe?
It happened at the theatre. 

Passion Play at the Duke of
York is the best piece of drama I’ve ever
seen on stage, with a cast so perfectly chosen and a production so
magnificently orchestrated that I felt every doubt, every wonderment, every
confusion of the story as if it were my own.

In
fact, as the story of a middle-aged couple torn apart by lies and infidelity
unfolded, it wasn’t just my own hurt I was thinking of. By the last ten minutes
of the production, my head was swimming with memories of all the hurt. You know. Like, ever.

I’d
intended to write this post about dating, about how I’m excited to be diving
head first into actively finding a friend who will also put his penis inside
me. But Friday night knocked the wind out of me. It made me think that I don’t
know if I’m brave enough anymore. I don’t know if I can put myself through the
risk of la douleur exquise when,
quite frankly, it’s so extraordinarily hard to exist as a two and I’m doing
quite fine alone anyway, thankyouverymuch.

I
don’t understand how people can be so goddamn awful to one another. Watching
the heartache and drama on stage, I thought of myself, of course, because oh haiiiii narcissism. But I also though
of every single family member- and there are multiple- who has been broken by
somebody else’s selfishness or betrayal. Friends who have been lied to and
cheated on even when they were engaged or married. I thought of boys that have
kissed me when I didn’t know they had girlfriends, men who have slipped off
their wedding ring to buy drinks for the girls at the bar. I’ve read other
bloggers’ stories of unfaithfulness experienced, received emails from people
who have read my story and want to tell me their own.

We
can be real dicks to each other.

And I
keep re-writing this because I don’t want to sound like I hate men. I don’t. My
brother is my best friend, and my actual best friend inspires me every day. I
have a handful of boy mates across the globe of whom I think yes. Any woman would be blessed if you
decided to be in their life and occasionally- very occasionally- I even hold
hands with ones I might like to think about daring to hope about. Maybe.

But
there seems to be so much awfulness around, so much shitty behaviour and lying
and fibbing and truth-twisting that even though I wanted to tell a story about
how, actually, I’ve had an epiphany whereby actively dating and seeing what
romance might happen, rather than, you know, sitting in front of the telly and
wondering why nothing romantic happens, Imma get out there. Feel the fear and
do it anyway. FACE MY EMOTIONS AND THAT TINY PART OF MY HEART THAT SAYS YES!
INVEST IN LOVE!

But
then there’s so much evidence to the contrary, so much stacked up against the
chances of ever having a relationship that ends happily, that as my friend and
I walked arm-in-arm though the West End in search of a bus home, I found myself
saying, I don’t think I believe in love.

That’s
a lie. I do. I think what I meant to say is that I don’t believe in love that
doesn’t end, and a bit shittily. And I know all the songs and films and shows
and fairy tales that tell us we have to believe because the alternative is just
too damned depressing, but that play, on Friday? It made me want to stop
trying. 

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