“Who does this song make you think of?”
It was 1am. My flatmate and I were driving through the city in a BMW he'd rented to drive my now ex-boyfriend from our home in North London to his new house – and life – in Manchester. I had dragged myself out of bed to go to an oestrogen party – who better to cheer you up than a bunch of women? – and managed to red wine myself into a good mood. Now we were gliding across the city at death-wish speed listening to the UK equivalent of Love Song Dedications.
Why didn't I say the things I needed to say? How could I let my angel get away? Now my world is just tumblin' down, I can see it so clearly but you're nowhere around, The nights are lonely, the days are so sad – We wailed along to Babyface as we drove through the night.
“Do you mean, is there a 'someone' I always think of when songs like this come on?” I asked him. “Like, the one who got away?”
“Yeah.”
I thought about it for a minute and shrugged.
“Not really.”
Most of us have got a song that attests to a time of personal heartbreak. A song that you and that 'someone' used to listen to all the time when you were happy and which you now have to switch off before you find yourself staring out a window, wistfully shedding nostalgic tears or stalking their Facebook and then smashing something.
A song you played over and over during a long period spent living in your pyjamas and weeping while you stared at walls.
An album you listened to all the way through until the wine ran out and you had to go to the shop to get more, in a big coat that you hoped covered your pyjamas, before coming back and turning the volume up so it would roar over the top of your howling.
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I had two whole playlists once. They were titled Sad Face and Angry Face. Tunes ranged from 'our songs' to songs that were simply mine for the moment. Jeff Buckley's Last Goodbye, Sia's Lentil, Beyonce's Halo, Jazmine Sullivan's Bust Your Windows, Katy B's Go Away and on both lists – a whole heap of Damien Rice.
Oh how I enjoyed roaring – Cause this is what you've waited for, Your chance to even up the score – with Glen Hansard on Say It To Me Now.
But that was a few years ago. That was The Big One. The one that went on and off for years. With endings that ranged from mutual and amicable to (on my part) hateful and then back to mutual and amicable again.
This most recent break up was very similar. We just sat down and mutually came to the decision to end our relationship because, for want of a better cliché, sometimes love just isn't enough. With hands rested on each other's we finished our beers and walked home to our place, together, got into our bed and, with puffy eyes, snuggled up to watch The X-Files.
Screw amicable! God! It's too much! I would have preferred violently kicking each other in the shins, furiously storming out of the pub, going our separate ways and shouting 'Thank fuck' over our shoulders.
A Kelis Caught Out There break up (I hate you so much right now) rather than Mariah Carey Butterfly (Spread your wings and prepare to fly).
BOOM, CRASH, BANG, GOOD RIDDANCE TO SACKS OF SHIT, rather than Let You Go So You/I/We Can Grow.
At least the first one has a sense of accomplishment to it. Of being released, of Life Starts Now. There's something really cathartic about setting fire to an oversized teddy bear that someone who turned out to be an arsehole gave you for Valentine's Day. Much more so than watching your best friend pack up their half of the room because you both came into each other's life when it was needed and now, purpose served, it's time to move on.
I got up the next morning, flat to myself, and proceeded to self flagellate. With music, obviously.
By now I should know, I sang-cried Alicia Keys in the shower, That in time things must change, So it shouldn't be so bad, So why do I feel so sad?
Sad. The plain old sad break up. There really isn't any other way to describe it. “I'm fine, I'm just ... sad.” “It was for the best. It's just ... sad”. “I find all that glorious sunshine offensive because I'm just ... sad.” “I'm going back to bed to watch old episodes of Midsomer Murders for the rest of my life 'cause I'm just ... sad.”
No histrionics, no drinking alone, no vengeful best friend shagging, no lying awake at night imagining slow and painful ways for them to die, no ritualistic bonfire of their belongings before sweeping up the ashes and popping them in post.
Just this flat dull sadness, gaps on the clothes horse, a half empty bookshelf and a room that echoes.
But at least your friends and family aren't considering having you sectioned, right?
I came home from the pub the other night, alone, and realised I could now resume one of my all time favourite activities which you can't do when you live with your boyfriend – drunk dancing in front of the mirror.
I mixed the last of my Patrón into a blow-your-head-off margarita, rolled a fag, moved the clothes horse out of the way, slipped my phone into the iPod dock and proceeded to slow-groove while clutching at my chest like Toni Braxton performing Un-Break My Heart, except I went for St Paul & The Broken Bones' Grass Is Greener so I could wail – Time, time, time, Ohhh, sweet time, Please don't leave me, Please don't leave me. I can't have you leavin' me.
It felt good.
