Chapter Twenty-Three
“Yes, that’s exactly what you need,” Jason advised as he pointed a finger exuberantly in mid-air. “A blueprint for life.” He placed extra emphasis on the word ‘blueprint’, as though he’d discovered the Holy Grail or solved Einstein’s theory of relativity.
“Blueprint?” Sasha echoed, her face puzzled and defeated. Clearly she wasn’t feeling the same energy or excitement that her friend Jason was experiencing. In fact, her energy had sagged so low that her body had sunk halfway down the sofa, and she had pulled the crocheted blanket on top of her. She was snuggled so deep in the confines of her comfort blanket (literally) that she couldn’t quite grasp the level of zest for life that her friend was trying to transmit to her.
“Yes! Blueprint!” he repeated. “Remember that time you cooked that delicious moussaka for me – you took all the separate ingredients and you magicked them together to create a delicious dish? Well – that’s what you need to do with your life. You need to look at all the areas you want to be happier in, and improve on them. Create more balance.”
Sasha peered at him from underneath her blanket. He did have a point, she had to concede. Her life did drastically need an overhaul. Ever since Kirk dumped her, she had never really picked herself up from the gutter. She had tried, half-heartedly, but always sank back down into a pit of depression. The trouble was, she firmly believed that life would never be the same as it had been with Kirk. She’d never find that same chemistry, that same connection, as she’d had with him.
When Kirk had arrived on the scene, it was as if her world lit up like a Christmas tree. Her life suddenly had meaning, purpose, passion.
She remembered the first time she’d met him. She was at a friend’s party. He’d sat next to her and chatted. His smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way he looked at her as though she was the only woman in the room. She had tingled with excitement. Then the way he had asked for her email address; promising that he’d keep in touch. She remembered her surprise and excitement when he emailed the very next day. There was the flurry of emails between them over the next few weeks; tentative, innocent, tip-toeing around each other, doing a merry dance of flirtation and courtship. He sent her songs; songs which pulled at her heart-strings and opened her heart so wide to him so that even now, if she heard those songs, her heart smashed again into a thousand pieces. How could she ever find chemistry like that again? That was love: pure love. A special connection, between two people, which happens once in a lifetime. There was no way she’d ever be able to re-create that with someone else. No matter how hard she tried. No matter how hard she trawled round the various pubs and clubs, hoping to bump into a Kirk-replacement; hoping to recreate the great memories of the past. There was an insistent yearning, and a heart-breaking obsession.
Then there was the small matter of the fact that he had emailed her all those times in the past, playing with her emotions. The emails had come late at night or in the early hours of the morning. Sasha suspected that drink had been taken, or even drugs; that his defences were down and he was being morose and reflective. Often he had sent her songs; songs that they had listened to together; songs from movies they had watched. Songs that said, ‘I’m thinking of you. I remember you. I still love you. I miss you.’
Her hopes had lifted like a bodybuilder effortlessly pumping weights.
See? I knew it, she had thought. I knew he didn’t want to finish with me. I knew he still loves me. I knew he wants me back, I can tell!
Her hopes had always soared like a bird flying gracefully through the air. She had replied immediately, embarrassingly grateful for any morsel of contact from him, like a little puppy sitting upright with paws outstretched and tongue drooling.
But the next morning, when the drink had worn off and his hangover had kicked in, his responses had been cold and abrupt. The shutters were down and she was locked out again. Her emotions had veered between hope that he still thought of her, and hurt that he had pushed her away yet again.
Her vain attempts to move on had been thwarted every time. Every time she signed up to a dating service, her enthusiasm never lasted. First there were the messages; painful in their lack of charm.
“Hi. How r u?” The guy would say, his message as generic and unoriginal as all the rest of them.
“I’m good thanks, how’s you?” she’d reply, thinking that if he couldn’t be bothered to make much conversation, why should she.
“I’m gd thx. Wbu?”
‘Wbu’ infuriated her. It meant ‘what about you?’ It was the height of laziness. She considered that if a guy couldn’t be bothered to type out three simple words, there was little hope of him being bothered to take her out to dinner.
On the rare occasions that a guy managed to string a few sentences together and they actually arranged to meet, she’d be so disappointed at the lack of chemistry that it depressed her even further. How on earth, after the excitement and passion with Kirk, could she ever hope to find that same level of connection with anyone else?
The guy would turn up; he would look nothing like his picture. He would be shy and awkward and uncomfortable. And Sasha would spend the whole time trying to make conversation and feeling her heart break even further. The only outcome of the date was that it made her sink into a full-blown pit of depression. She’d put on weight. She’d lost interest in going out. She rarely even bothered with make-up. She could hardly run the length of herself anymore. And well, she had just stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped dreaming. Stopped hoping. She had given up.
So why on earth had she decided to confide in her friend Jason, tonight of all nights? Why now was she lying on her couch, like a client at a therapist’s office, being advised by Jason on how to pick her life up again?
Because she’d had a panic attack, that’s why.
They’d tried to go to a gig. Sasha felt she couldn’t breathe; the amount of people, the loud music, bodies bashing into each other, she couldn’t cope with it. So she left. And asked Jason to take her home. And that’s how he ended up sitting here, listening to her tale of woe, eating pizza with her and now advising her she needed a blueprint for life.
“Give yourself a year,” he said. “A year of forcing yourself to take tiny steps each day. Little steps towards your goal. I promise you, you’ll feel better this time next year – but only if you put the effort in.”
Sasha nodded slowly, the magnitude of his suggestion suddenly starting to resonate in her brain.
“You don’t want to be sitting here in another year’s time, having still not moved on from him, do you?” he chided. “You really don’t want to let three years go by and still not be over him?” Sasha shook her head slowly. No. She really didn’t want that.
“No, you’ve got a point,” she conceded. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
Because that was the other fly in the ointment. The date was 15 December; her birthday. Yes, on her birthday, she was lying on the sofa, eating pizza and feeling truly depressed, after having a panic attack in a club. Thank God for Jason, that was all she could think. If he hadn’t have been there, well, she didn’t know what she would have done.
“So I’d suggest you sit down with a list and make pointers on what areas of your life you’d like to change, and then work out small steps each day,” he went on. “Call it – The Year of No Rules,” he grinned.
“The Year of No Rules.” Sasha smiled at his reference to Kirk’s controlling lists. She considered Jason’s plan, mulling it over in her head. She decided that she should try it. After all, what had she got to lose? She’d either fall into a greater depression, putting on even more weight, or she’d pick herself up and move on with life, hoping that this time next year, she’d be in a much better place. Possibly with a new boyfriend and, hopefully, happy.
“Okay,” she smiled. I’ll do it.”