Expecting the worst (a bit of a PSA)

My first two serious relationships ended in almost identical fashion, four years and 1,000 miles apart. In Budapest and in Oxford, two different women looked down at the ground and confessed that while they still loved me, they were no longer in love with me; two different women listened patiently as I argued and reasoned and pleaded with them to reconsider; two different women couldn’t keep the pain of hurting someone they cared about out of their voices as they reluctantly agreed to take a few days to reconsider; and shortly thereafter, two different women held my hand and cried with me as each delivered the same message – “it’s over”.

When traumatic events repeat themselves like that, they invariably leave a mark. I grew wary and cynical, like the dog that’s been kicked by its owner just often enough for blind trust to be replaced with fear. I learned to protect myself more in relationships, and the more I covered up to ward off the anticipated emotional blows, the more the women I dated saw someone who was distant and detached: who would sooner shut them out in the cold than allow them to approach the fire.

Anyway, I’ve written about all of that before, and I don’t want to rehash it in any depth this afternoon. It’s on my mind because as well as turning me into a bit of a basket case when it comes to relationships, those two break-ups numbed me to the agony of waiting. Not at first – initially they acted as a trigger, and I would panic any time I sniffed the prospect of being placed in that kind of holding pattern – but over time, I developed the patience I’d always lacked, and a level of serenity that allowed me to float above the sort of despair into which I’d previously been sucked.

In some ways, the change is fairly simple to explain: I learnt to expect the worst. I grew up in a happy, loving family, in small-town Oxfordshire, where bad things rarely happen to good people. I was the adoring puppy, as yet unkicked, and while I certainly wasn’t blind to life’s injustices, I held onto a fundamental belief that hard work and good faith would generally lead to a positive outcome. If I did all of my homework and paid attention in class, I’d do well in my exams. If I did well in my exams, I’d go to a good university. If I was a conscientious student, I’d get a good job, and earn money, and be happy. That was how life worked.

Needless to say, I see the world a different way at 33 than I did at 18. On Friday, I was told that the company I worked for did not intend to extend my contract beyond its six-month probation period. On Monday, that contract was terminated. Once upon a time, I would have spent the weekend in a state of fevered, twisted agitation, playing out a million scenarios in my mind and forever clinging to the hope – the belief – that because I was a good worker, who’d done a good, honest job, everything would be ok. I would have met with the HR Director on Monday morning and had the bottom ripped out of my world, because I’d have convinced myself by that point that everything was going to be fine.

As it was, I played hockey, and I slept, and I went out for dinner with friends; and then yesterday I sat with a cup of tea in the Royal Exchange and listened patiently for 15 minutes as the HR Director repeated his summary of the partners’ decision, and requested my resignation. I asked a couple of questions, clarified some of the language in my contract, then shook his hand and went out into the cold, grey London air.

And I felt ok. Not great, or happy, or relieved, or anything positive, but not devastated by it either. Quietly gutted, I guess. The pain was a dull thud, not the sharp, stinging slap in the face I’d once have experienced. It was – and is – manageable, because I’d braced myself to expect it. As much as one can be, I was prepared.

There’s danger in numbness though. Even when bad news ceases to knock the wind from us with such immediate ferocity, it can still drag us down, slowly and cruelly, into despair. I felt that drag two years ago, the first time I lost my job. I was ok, I was ok, I was ok…and then suddenly, one day, I wasn’t – I wasn’t ok at all. I drifted for six months, and I cut myself off from the world, because even though the pain was a dull thud at first, I left it untreated and it just spread through my body, draining me of life. I still wore a brave face, but it grew strained and tight, and eventually I stopped seeing people because I knew they’d see through it.

I hope I’ve learned from that. I sat down today to write about losing my job, but my intention was to dive into some of the reasons behind the decision, and to confront the notion that maybe – just maybe – I need to consider a proper change of direction. I might still do that at some point. For now though, it feels more important just to say this.

I’m not ok. But I will be.