The other side of the 8 year itch

I’m sitting on the plane on the way to Ubud, Sari Resort (in Bali) for a full health retreat week, to detox and give this body a full overhaul. To detox, means to remove the toxins from your body. We think of toxins as the physical, tangible elements we put on our bodies. Alcohol, nicotine, sugar, saturated fat, chemicals, additives or the horrible MSG. We can understand theses are toxins because they are well publicised, written about and taught to us by our doctors, the media or friends that too much of these things are bad for you.

The other side of the toxins we put into our bodies, are emotional toxins. Feelings that we suppress caused by experiences that we invite into our lives yet become an unbearable source of pain. The instant gratification that tastes so sweet one moment, but then once it sits with you turns bitter and ugly inside. Poignant toxins that you think have no impact because you’ve shrugged it off and said, “I’m fine”, but what you haven’t realised is you’ve given it a nice home to live and bread somewhere inside.

I think we’ve all gone out and got drunk and said “I’m fine”, gone for a run and thought, “ah, that’s doesn’t matter”, over indulged in hedonistic activities, had sex with some one just for recreation, done retail therapy to dismiss the blues or kept ourselves ultra busy to with an industrial hover to “sweep it all under the carpet”. All to feel anything but the emotion we don’t want to connect with.

It’s kind of a “fuck you emotion”. But what many don’t realise, is the other side of this self congratulating ‘bird’ to the hard stuff, is actually the hard stuff fucking you right back.

The Chinese say that emotional pain stays with in our organs for us to 8-9 years. They lay scars on our organs that weaken them and can lead to further illness of repetitive sickness in one particular area. I’ve had a run of bad health, and it’s starting to make sense why.

I said to Judith this week, I’ve been single for 8 years now. When I say single, I mean I haven’t lived with anyone, or been serious about anyone as my life partner (accept for Richard, but that doesn’t count, because he turned out to be engaged!) for 8 years.
She said to me, “…and what have you been doing in that time?”.

Bloody good question. What have I been doing all that time? Filling my life with everything and anything but what is right for me. So busy not wanting to deal with my emotional-toxins.

Eight years ago I lost what looked on paper as the perfect life and happy ending. I had a gorgeous partner Andrew that wanted to marry me, we were desperately in love and would gush that we could live on a dessert island, no need anyone else to survive, eternally happy just the two of us. I was super successful at work, earning a mint, driving a convertible Mercedes CLK, I had put a deposit on a house in Battersea, a stunning two story cottage with a kitchen picture perfect for my cooking and we had two babies, George and Pippa that we loved and adored. You would think they were children, but no, they were our cats that we chose from a litter one Christmas from Andrew’s parents enchanting farm in Stroud, Cotswolds.

One night sitting on the sofa, I decided that if we were going to marry, we needed to have an honest start and chose to share a secret that I kept from him for our entire relationship. And just like that, I lost it all. And more.

I remember immediately flying to Australia, completely broken, and numb. I didn’t cry I didn’t talk about the break up I was in survival mode.

The other side of this break up was the master of keeping up appearances. Choices were made and I lost Andrew, I lost the house, my car, I left my job, I ran out of money, I cut off old friends, my family, disowned my mother and yet, created a whole new world that I lived with in, so that I didn’t have to deal with any of it.

I took a year out, did a diploma in holistic massage and foodie'd up in a cooking school in Tuscany, and then had three years of work hard play hard. London was a great “distraction”, just perfect for me to hide away in. There was a group of 40 of us, so there was loads of willing partners in crime at any time of the day or night; it was an easy playing field. Don’t get me wrong, I had some incredibly memories of those three years and I have some friends that will have for life. Most of you will be reading this. “Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end....” but they did, and they needed to too.

The frightening thing is, I’ve always had someone on the go over these eight years. Either as a surrogate boyfriend or Mr Right Now. It’s rare that there hasn’t been someone I’ve been talking about, thinking about, complaining about or laughing about. And laughing isn’t in the bitchy sense; it’s more about me and how my moods with these men could give anyone whiplash!

Owen, Max, Luke, Dave, Matty K, Del, Peter, Richard (Aka Bob), Mike, Bryan, Ged, Adrian, The Silver Fox, Mickey, Fraser, TC, Pete and the latest addition to the list was Kerry.

“…oh he’s amazing, he’s so funny, so intelligent, he’s so sexy, god he really has something about him, there is something different about this one” to the a few weeks later, “I can’t stand him, he annoys the shit out of me, he’s a lost dog, he’s completely self obsessed, he needs a mother, he’s a toxic cunt….”


The other side of spending eight years with the wrong people is about patterns that needed to be broken. As I have said before, we all have patterns, behaviours that we repeat over and over again. I call mine Fleur Syndromes – I have perfectly crafted and invested a lot of time in two of note. 1) The Surrogate Boyfriend Syndrome, and 2) The Lost Dog Home Syndrome.

A surrogate boyfriend is a man that I treat like a boyfriend, speak to every day, talk to about everything and anything, but don’t have sex with; the safe ones as I don’t have to have intimacy with them. The lost dogs are the ones that I do generally go to bed with, but a completely different ball game, it’s a different kind of avoidance of intimacy.

A lost dog is spunky, warm with charm and a real survivor. His dohey eyed and has a streetwise charisma that always gets him into the warmth where he can spend the night. This is no Lassie either, he’s not clean cut or pretty, he’s left of centre and different, unusual, cheeky and fascinating.

My lost dogs are cunning, with supersonic tracking devices and highly sensitive radars to pick up on the signals, my light is on and they can see it, they can smell my cooking, “she’ll take me in, and all I have to do is….”. Let play begin.

He’s cute and cuddly and incredibly alluring, he’s got all the tricks, because he doesn’t want to be out there in the cold for another night, alone, with out a safety blanket or dry surrounds. He’s a storyteller and has some tall ones as well. A master of disguise, because there are scars that he doesn’t want to show, they’re too painful to relive, and if you get too close he'll bite. After all, that’s what makes a lost dog, they wouldn’t be lost if they hadn’t been so badly hurt by their previous home.

You see my problem has been a massive sign above my head of “I’ll fix you”. I have spent years trying to change the ending for so many doggies; rubbing their bellies as we talk through their problems, sharing parallels of life experience, offering books to read and hours of dialogue discussing new avenues of inspiration on how to get him out of whatever rut he's been in - or just giving Fleur strategies on the “how”. Generally the how has become, how do I get into the next camp, kitchen or knickers?. I’m exhausted, my fridge is empty and they’re all ready for a new home, shiny coats and sparkling new. And what do I have?

You see, what happens is they fall in love with me because I’m so damn interested in all their tales and with the ensuing generosity of counselling and insightful advice, then they see me as the “the helper” or “the mother”. And suddenly, what do you know, I’m not attractive anymore. I’m not sure I was ever attractive to these people, but there was something about me that they needed. Altruistic - maybe? Mirror - maybe? That’s enough - surely.

Then there are the lost dogs that can’t get enough of love emotional porn; a great show that gives them a high, they feed off it, set it up so they can roll around in it and be glorious. Those juicy moments when you’re both on all high from the emotion, the fantasy the endorphins, “you’re amazing, you’re incredible, I’ve never met anyone like you” it’s so exciting you get dizzy, and I can’t help but tickle that tummy until one leg flies in the air and starts to shake - I’ve hit his good spot! On queue, I'd ask a real question, then POW, he’s vanished. The high has gone and the cold light of day has arrived, no promises kept, the Chum has run out and what’s left is a poof a dust and a chewed on Jimmy Choo. Woof, they’re off to the next dish of fresh meat. “Chum, it’s so chunky you could carve it”. Good luck sister!

To break the cycle, I learnt I had to take some responsibility for my choices and redefine what intimacy meant to me. Then be realistic about the fact that these men all had similar traits; they all followed the same pattern. A fascinating exercise to look at.

What I realised was, the very theme of intimacy, being completely venerable with a man warts and all, was far too scary to deal with. There was baggage stuck in the Tardis of my inner emotional sess pit that needed to be shifted.

Archaeology – Wikipedia definition:
that studies historical human cultures through the recovery, documentation, analysis, and interpretation of material culture and environmental data, including architecture, artifacts, biofacts, and landscapes. Archaeology aims to understand humankind through these humanistic endeavors.

I remember Owen saying to me back in 2004, “…. wow when you scratch beneath the surface there’s not much there?”. I was so offended at the time, but you honestly he would have needed to be an archaeologist to get to my core, or any kind of real emotions. I didn’t have the tools to even start the exploration of the site. My power-tool only had one speed back then.

In 2007, I’d started seeing my archaeologist compatriot Judith on a weekly basis - we got out the pick and fine brush and started to chisel and gently manoeuvre our way in.

I realised then why so many people choose never to deal with the deep stuff because what I was about to uncover was a pretty confronting and at times, a fairly harrowing experience. When I got back to Australia, something had to give, because it was like I was a freight train out of control that was going to hit a brick wall at full speed. And when that day came it was going to hurt, it would be carnage in fact.

I’d had such ‘control’ over everything I’d done for years, but what was about to happen would have power over me, rather me of it. I didn’t morn the loss of my relationship with Andrew until some 4 years after we broke up.

That day came when I was sitting at home watching “Medium” with Patricia Arcquette, and she and her on screen hubby were at the supermarket in a scene buying some milk. A simple scene really, of a couple walking down an isle, talking to each other about something completely irrelevant. Then out of nowhere, boom, smash, the obliteration of the wall. The freight train had hit at full pleat. All because of a simple trigger that unleashed what felt like a tsunami erupting inside of me.

That was Andrew and my thing, we’d do the weekly shop together and banter away all loved up and it was just life getting on with itself as we did. Seeing Patricia Arcquette reaching for the cow juice (and I don’t even drink milk), was enough, it was that fatal trigger, and I lost it. I absolutely lost it. I couldn’t breathe, the pain in my chest was like someone was crushing it with a vice, I had pins and needles all over my scalp and my head felt like it didn’t fit inside my skin. I was whaling through a paralysed dribbling open mouth, choking every 30 seconds on a silent gasp and too much mucus coming out. The sofa was my pillow, but all I wanted was it to have been a trap door that would let me fall through and this would all be over. That episode was relentless, and lasted for seven hours. The floodgates had opened up.

The other side of the flood gates was the introduction of a constant flow of anxiety that could not be controlled, or hidden. I was presenting to 25 of our top executives, brand new in a role, and front centre stage of the power base, and good Lord, it hit, two minutes into my speech. Oeuf, my cheeks went aluminous red and I started to sweat like I had a massive fever and running a temperature of 41’. My friend Brian was there, and I had to laugh it off afterwards with him to say I’d been suffering from some kind of early menopause. I was mortified; actually, beyond that, it was complete humiliation. There was nothing I could do right about it though; I couldn’t go back.

Needless to say, I learnt how to live with it and have some fun with it. My dear work colleague Rebecca and I would have hilarious coffee breaks regaling over my stories of a bright red Rudolf coming out to play in meetings. Thank god he’s not on staff anymore.

The other side of the emotional toxins is the ability to release them. My week in Bali is significant for more than just a chill out detox. I’m having a week of fasting, to rejuvenate my blood cells, massages, body brushing, meditation, and daily colonic irrigation to get rid of all the shit. And I don’t mean just the waste that I’ve had blocking my lower intestines. It’s a very spiritual experience; they teach you to meditate on releasing the emotions that have been repressed deep within.

I’m letting go of a lot of wasted time on this trip and the emotions all tangled in the choices I have made to keep me in this position for so many years. I wrote about being available for what’s available before, yet I realised, I needed to make myself available too. Eight years is a long time to waste with the wrong kind of people all because I’ve chosen to play in this space.

Apologises to the needy, but I have opted not to renew the lease on the Lost Dogs Home in favour of supporting the Cambodian Children’s Trust to fulfil my altruistic desires. What’s more, I am very grateful and proud to have some healthy “friendships” with men that I talk to as mates. All syndromes are treatable in my books.

When you’re breaking a pattern it’s hard, and we all struggle from time to time, but with new eyes it’s easier to spend time more wisely. Good news is - I’m starting to realise that there are some really nice fish in the sea that I should get to know, slowly. That, and I think we won’t need the neck brace for much longer to cure the whiplash.


The right light is now on.

Fleur

TBS