Reflect, or regret?

Photo by Mark Stebnicki

I've never desperately wanted to be that person. The one who debates with their partner which dishwasher tablets to buy in the aisle of a corner shop, sees them off to work in the morning, goes to house viewings on weekends - before long forming rapport and private jokes with the estate agents, knowing them by their voice as soon as they pick up the phone.

I tried it. I lived that life, and I put my all into it. I told myself I didn't mind that we'd moved away from the heart of my wacky little town where I'd existed joyously for four years, alone; I didn't mind that we were in a terrace with nosy neighbours always eager to take our parcels in so they'd have an excuse to knock on the door and chat; I didn't mind giving up so much of my independence, my dream flat, my velvet sofa bed, the TV he told me I paid far too much for; I didn't mind that by the end, sex was only on the cards twice a month maybe, and I'd quickly become too scared to initiate for fear of rejection. (don't worry - I've more than made up for that by now)

I'm proud of myself for trying. Nobody can say I didn't. I don't regret. It felt good to do something I hadn't really considered or aspired to before, to actually give a relationship all of my trust, time and belief - to have had the experience. I did it. And now I'm getting back to my real life, and truest self.