It’s a warm hug. A pat on the back; ‘well done’. The cheers and toast. The celebration and commemoration. It’s laced with memory. gratitude. newness. adventure. bravery. joy… and stories… oh, the stories.

The crazy, funny, loving, warm stories. Laughter – oh – the laughter, but also the tears. It’s friendship. It’s belonging. It creates a space for me. Spaces in places I feel I don’t belong. It’s romanticised. Idealised. Smooth and soothing. Sophisticatedly satisfying. Sing me your lullaby. Play me that melody. The one that hums to me… hums through me… gently.

And then there is the numbing. The escape. The pieces it pulls apart from me. The constant mind-ticking is paused. Deliciously quiet. The ramblings still. Am I finally breathing? Is that a sigh of relief or was it a gasp for air?

But it creates a place for me. A space for me. A perfect silhouette for me. A lonely friend. A busy mother. A tired wife. Here – drink of me and I’ll give you rest. “Still the mind”, it whispers. “You deserve this”, it chimes. Remember the times: the stories of laughter and celebration. The tales of bravery and adventure. The newness of love. They’re still in your reach – mother & wife- they can still be found.

But it sells me lies. It steals my mind, instead of stilling it. The contentment is lost, and all that is left is ritual and routine. An act of reward for getting through another day. Measly payment for a measly existence. But it is the liquid courage, it’s cultural, it’s social lubricant, it’s the life of the party, it’s my ticket in, it’s the thing we do, enjoy, need, want, desire. My vice I love and loathe. Find me my place. Show me that I belong – here, there, anywhere.

But it is not us with the problems. We are the people of the grey. We are the bleedings of the white and black. We are the smudges. We are smears not defined within the lines. We are the functional, the productive, the achievers. There are no cataclysmic events of revelation, only gentle moments of awakening. We are measured. We can exercise choices. We can stop at any time, and yet, the nagging, the pull, the undying internal stirring continues – because we are the grey. The grey yearns for more.

This is not a call to arms; put down your pitch fork. This is not to mirror your own internal battles; your path is different to mine. This is not a cry for help; it’s simply an edit.

Reread and edit. Reread and edit. Add, remove, insert, include, elaborate, summarise, delete – rewrite.

We have gone without each other for weeks, months, even years… yet after each reunion I’m even more certain: you add no value. No value for me, for them, for us, for connection, for health. So, I’m rewriting this chapter. I choose to write a new version; to embrace the now, to create that place for me, a space for me, the silhouette of me… where I belong… without you.

Cheers.

“Your life is your story. Write well. Edit often.”

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