Packed

Tomorrow, I head off to Terminal 5 at Heathrow for my flight to the US. I have packed my suitcase with determined efficiency, using a new packing technique (new to me, at least), and I have crammed in a huge amount of stuff into one suitcase and one cabin bag.


Sadly, there wasn't really enough space for this monster. She tried.

It is at about this point, when the trip looks very real and inevitable, that I get some nerves. I look at my packed bags and feel certain that I am forgetting something utterly vital and irreplaceable.

I also have to tidy up my bedroom before I leave. Something about coming home to a chaotic room is very unsavoury to me. I'll have to hoover and put everything away before going to bed tonight, and in the morning I will probably change my bed sheets so that when I get back, a month from now, everything will be ready.

A fair amount hinges on this trip. Life could be extremely different in just a few short weeks.

Learning how not to be deluded

Despite my previous attempt to be rational and calm and not bite Cowboy's head off the other day - which I deemed to be successful - I followed that success with an epic fail of temperament.

Psychosis is brewing

He messaged to say good morning. Said he loved me. I asked him about plans for the horse expo which we'll be going to while I'm visiting next month. He said he didn't mind.

Something in my brain flipped.

It doesn't matter he had said. I blew it as far out of proportion as I could. I huffed and puffed and typed a ridiculous message back to him, to the effect of: If you can't say more than three words about anything, I'm going to assume you don't care about anything.

He was baffled. He asked me to call him, trying to make the effort that I had courteously requested the previous day, ready to talk to me. This is a visual representation of what he got from me down the phone:

I ranted, raved, accused; I was furious and defensive; I was entirely out of patience. Clearly, I was still bothered about our communication failure. I should not be so deluded about my psychological progress with issues that I think a simple two message exchange will remove an entire chunk of rage from my psyche.

He listened patiently. He asked what he had to do to make things right.

He is so very tolerant of me sometimes.

Learning how not to over-think things

I am a chronic over-thinker. People I don't even know tell me I'm over-thinking things (see my experience with a crash mat and a fake horse at the Centre of Horseback Combat).

I over-think what to wear in the morning. I over-think what people in the village would think if they saw me running (flailing) through the village in an attempt to get fitter. I over-think what people say. I over-think what people don't say.

Since he left the UK and went home, Cowboy and I have slipped out of one of our old routines. Before, we would always message good morning and good night, every day. Didn't matter what I was doing, the last thing I'd do at night would be to reach over, get my phone and type him a message: "Good night. Love you. xxx"

When he would send me a message some time in the afternoon saying "Good morning. Hope you have a beautiful day!" it would make me smile, and make me feel a warm sense of appreciation for him. It was as if he reached out through the phone and hugged me (this has an advantage over a real hug, in that he cannot tickle me this way).

We fell out of this habit recently. Maybe neither of us got back into the old routines this time. Life is a bit weird just now. Still, I found myself reading more and more into it. I decided he didn't want to message me any longer. I decided that he didn't say good morning any longer because he didn't care if I had a beautiful day or not. I started to purposely not message him, to see if he did care. I started to rehearse the fight we could have about how he doesn't care and never messages me, how he doesn't make any effort.

Coupled with my PVP about my upcoming trip out there, I was becoming irrational and aggressive.

Then I started to panic, and realised I needed to address this before I over-thought it into a serious issue in our relationship. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to explain exactly how I felt: angry, frustrated, neglected. I planned to call him and give him an earful.

Luckily, I wimped out. I took a deep breath, and decided to message him, and be as calm and rational as possible. Here's how the conversation went:

And just like that, all of the stress went *pooff* and vanished. I felt very silly indeed.

The Small Cry

I have just come home from the trip taking Cowboy to the airport for his flight home. The airport run is always difficult for me. I usually battle to stay chipper and cheerful whilst the tears rise in my throat.

This time was made worse by the fact that the norovirus struck me last night, and I had next to no sleep all night, had to run up and down to the bathroom several times to be sick, and today I am shivery and aching and the thought of food makes me feel faint.

My dad offered to drive us to the airport, and I slouched on the back seat of the car while Cowboy sat in the front, and I managed to hold it all together until we had to walk in to the terminal and find his check in desk. Mostly, that was because I was concentrating so hard on not feeling like I was about to die that I didn't have brain-space to consider crying.

We don't do long, drawn-out goodbyes. Once I'd got him safely checked in and his bag dropped off, all he had to left to do was get through security. A quick kiss, a hug, and he said "See you later." I forced a smile and said "Yep. See you soon." Then I babbled about letting me know when he lands, and have a safe journey, none of which were things I needed to say. They were just an attempt to prolong his being here.

It's been a lame ten days on paper: both of us were ill more than once, and to compound matters, our plan to have a romantic get-away and make up for er... "lost time" was scuppered by a very unglamorous affliction that struck me, and we were limited to cuddling. Only very little cuddling occurred, because either he or I were contagious, and neither of us can sleep well if we're cuddling. The weather was miserable, and Christmas wasn't as glittery and fabulous as we had imagined.

It made no difference to me. I loved him being here. I don't love that he has gone again. As I always do after leaving him at the airport, or him leaving me at the airport, I have a small cry. It's about the only way to deal with it.

And, breathe

He made it. Despite a late take-off from Seattle and my paranoia that he would miss his connecting flight, Cowboy is here. Whilst he was chirpy enough when I picked him up from the airport at around 10am this morning, he has crashed this afternoon and is sleeping off the journey while the cup of tea I made for him goes cold beside the bed.


Over the last few days, I've harboured some tension that I have now been able to release. The PVP was excessive. I worried that travel disruption would steal some of the time we have together over the holidays. I worried that his feelings might have changed. I worried that my feelings might have changed. I worried that Christmas would become an awkward festival of realising I'd made a huge mistake, a catalogue of huge mistakes.

And then he walked through the doors of International Arrivals at the airport, his guitar on his back, and he smiled at me and kissed me and hugged me tightly, and I forgot all about my absurd worries.

I love him.

Worlds apart

It's getting close to the time when Cowboy will be arriving in the UK for Christmas, so naturally there's a bit of PVP starting to kick in. I am restless and irritable, and scrabbling about for ways to make the days go quicker. It's harder to do that without uni or a job to take up the bulk of my time.

If I had my head in a sensible place, I'd be working on the businesses (mine, and Cowboy's) behind the scenes: adjusting websites, planning updates, drafting letters etc. My head being in an insensible place, I tend to drink a lot of tea and faff about.

Yesterday I joined one of my oldest friends for her birthday celebrations. I drove from the Oxfordshire countryside back to Tooting (where I could park for free as I still have my resident's permit), hopped on a bus to Clapham and wandered down Northcote Road. It was cold, but not bitter. I didn't wear gloves or a hat and I was fine.

We went to the pottery painting cafe and had tea and cake while we dabbed paint on to the various pieces of crockery on offer. I had to resist the teapot with a capacity of an entire gallon. I went for a more demure one pint mug.



The mug features a rope around the bottom, three emblems of London (pictured), a black and white cow (inaccurate, because Cowboy doesn't work with dairy cows, he works with beef cows, which are usually black Angus), a yellow horse (Sunshine) and a blue dog (Blue Dog).

I've never been artistically accomplished, and I'm hoping Cowboy will like it for the sentimental value and its generous tea capacity.

After our pottery escapades, we had a lovely dinner at The Breakfast Club (pie and mash, a side of mac and cheese, banoffee pie), and some drinks in the bar next door. On the way back to Tooting, I went past lovely shops and restaurants, and I wondered why I had left London. I drove back to the Oxfordshire countryside.

Cowboy messaged me from Montana, where he is taking some time out to see his family before he comes over here. All it said was: It hit -40 this morning.

That's in Fahrenheit, but it happens to be exactly the same temperature in Celsius. Minus forty. Minus forty degrees. What alien ice planet is he on?? Hoth?

The only suitable response I could come up with was: No thanks. No minus forty for me. In his little hometown I expect the wind is whipping across the prairie, and there aren't hundreds of lovely shops and restaurants to take refuge in.

I realise I have never been to the US when it's been cold. It worries me more than a little. I will need to invest in a space suit. I mean, in a really good coat.

"Is she stupid?!"

Maybe she is. Let's see...

Something in the mechanism of writing this blog prompted me to be honest with myself about my depression, and prompted me to be honest about needing to seek help, which I did. The counsellor at university, whom I've now seen twice, was very good, and his acknowledgement of how I'm feeling about life has prompted me to think a little harder about things.

When I applied to university to study physiotherapy, life was very bleak. I had a dead-end office job that I largely hated, lived in a shabby house in a busy corner of London, and despite my best efforts, I couldn't find a decent man anywhere and was beginning to feel that I was destined for tragic spinsterhood.

When the offer from the university came through, and it was unconditional, it felt like the start of a new life ahead. I'd get a decent qualification in something that would be a good, solid career, and still live in London so that I might yet bump into that nice, wealthy banker who would eventually marry me and install me in a house in suburbia where I could raise organic children and go to yoga.

Then I discovered Cowboy. I had been determined not to discover anybody, but they say it happens when you stop looking, and after a whirlwind summer with him, suddenly I was in love with a man who was neither wealthy nor a banker, and his ambitions couldn't be further from a house in suburbia, organic children and yoga.

It was early days in our relationship, so I threw myself into my new degree with enthusiasm and enjoyed my first term immensely. I lived in a lovely little house in Tooting (they do exist), and I waited out the long months until Cowboy would visit for Christmas with a rosy optimism. It wasn't clear where this relationship was going, or if it would last that long, so I kept my sights on finishing my degree.

After he left from his long visit over the Christmas holidays, depression hit me hard, and I told myself it was just because I missed him. Looking back, it was the first sign that my goalposts were moving. After my trip over there in the springtime, I felt less and less interested in my degree, and more and more interested in how I was going to end up where I wanted to be: with him, raising partially organic, free-range children and probably working so hard I'd never have time for yoga.

And now? I spent long, glorious weeks with him this summer, and it was obvious where this relationship is going: marriage. Let's gloss over the part where I don't have a ring on my finger and he hasn't learnt that he can't propose with a bottle cap that says "Marry Me?" on the inside. His intentions are noble.

Now I sit in my lovely little house in Tooting wondering how best to forge our life together. Now I sit in lectures and tutorials imagining how long it will take for me to finish this degree here in London, move to America and get established before we're in any position to start a family. Then I think about how I could make that time shorter.

I could stop studying physiotherapy. I could enrol at a manual therapy school in Seattle and study there for 11 months, and come out with a diploma that enables me to be licensed to practise in America without any further hassle (glossing over the whole Green Card thing). I'd be educated in the requirements for running my own practice, I'd be informed about how to be accepted by insurance companies. I'd be two hours away from Cowboy instead of 24 hours.

This is of course dependent on being accepted to the school, on being granted a student visa, on finding somewhere acceptable and affordable to live. It's a little terrifying to imagine just flying over there and landing myself in a whole new city, a whole new country, but I have friends over there already, and the prospect excites me.

It's all theoretical just now. Cowboy is doing his best to be supportive and understanding, although I can tell he is freaking out. He confided in a friend of his that I was thinking of leaving my course.

"Is she stupid?!" was the response. Time will tell...

Adjusting

I have scurried back to the Oxfordshire countryside for the weekend, trying to stay away from the bright lights of London and get my body clock back on Greenwich Mean Time. I've experienced a double-dip jet lag coming home, where I thought I had it conquered by Tuesday, but overslept until noon on Wednesday, and still struggling to go to sleep at night time and wake up at day time.

Cowboy is doing his best to help. At 7.30am this morning, he spammed my phone with messages:

You awake yet?
Wake up woman ;)
It's morning
Rise and shine
Wake up!!!!!!
Quit sleeping!!!!
Do I need to come pull the covers off you?

It took seven messages to rouse me from my dream, in which I was receiving messages from him telling me to search for something on Youtube but I didn't understand what it was I should be searching for. I was a little confused when I eventually came to.

I'm currently enjoying the wonders of... compression! That is tubigrip from my left ankle all the way up to above my knee. Swelling from my torn knee ligaments (long story) was apparently pooling in my calf and behind my knee, and needs to be encouraged to get out of there. I tend to view it as a nice excuse to put my feet up for a few more days.

I started to sort through my photos from Washington and Montana, and immediately began pining for my trip.


Doesn't seem like that long ago that I was sitting with my feet up, a cup of tea and a good book, with this glorious sight spread before me.

So it's only natural that, upon returning to London and to university, stricken with jet lag and PMT, my first impulse is to hide in my dad's man cave and research preserving jars. The adjustment phase is an interesting journey.

Returned

I've been returned to London. Cowboy drove me from the US, over the Canadian border (much, much easier than driving into the US from Canada) and to the airport where I picked up the long flight home.

After a day in the Oxfordshire countryside, I drove back to my home in London. London had a distinctly autumnal smell to it in the dark and chilly night air. Before too long I'll be wearing a scarf and my sheepskin boots again, watching fireworks and drinking vast amounts of tea just to keep warm.

But not yet. First, I spent a jet lagged afternoon in my parents' garden, which couldn't be more shamelessly English if it tried.




Then this morning, I returned to university. With jet lag so severe that I thought I was going to vomit, faint, and die, I sat through several pointless lectures introducing us to year 2, and slept through one actually useful lecture about something I will need to know in the future (lumbar spine dysfunction).

Whilst away in America, I had various adventures and learning experiences which I will share in due course, but the most foolish thing I did out there was to buy something that literally eats money... But she's so very pretty...



This is Sunshine, she's a 4 year old quarter horse mare with no breeding or papers to speak of. She's not worth much money, and she came to us with a little too much jiggle in her jig, having been living the easy life for a while. Cowboy loves her. He's turning her into a dream horse.

I get to deal with the sleeplessness and the jet lag for the next few days. Funny thing about the insomnia - it's not because I'm not tired. It's because it's too quiet. I imagined I'd be glad to have the whole bed to myself and not have to endure Cowboy snoring down my ear, but the reality is I miss the sound of him being there. I miss his warm, solid presence. At night I feel exposed and alone without him.

"I ain't sleepin' for sh*t right now," he said over the phone yesterday, which is Cowboy code for: he feels the same way.

He's coming over to England for Christmas, just as soon as he gets his dates worked out with his bosses and I can book his tickets. It's exciting beyond measure.

Powerless

Sometimes in life, we are powerless. The media and marketing moguls would have us believe that we can have anything, do anything, be anything, any time that we want (provided we can pay for it, of course), but the reality is that some things are just the way they are and there isn't much to be done.

As I lay awake last night until around 6am, fretting that I wasn't sleeping at the correct time and agonising over how this would ruin the rest of my entire life, I eventually shrugged and said to myself, "So, you're wide awake. You'll catch up eventually. Just be awake, then." Of course, the moment I let go of the angst I had pinned to my insomnia, I fell asleep.

I have an exam scheduled for tomorrow morning, which I'd very much like to have done already so that I can get on with my life without having to think about it, but there is nothing I can buy that will make the exam move, or make time go quicker. I could sit and fret, or I could sit and wait. Either will work, but one is more stressful than the other.

This morning, I heard from Cowboy that one of his employers doesn't think he's pulling his weight - opinions are like arseholes: everybody has one - and I get very defensive about him when people put him down. He doesn't deserve it, he works harder than anybody I've ever met, often for difficult people, and I am the only lucky soul who gets the brunt of his frustrations. There is nothing I can do about this, though. I can't snap my fingers and make people change their minds, nor can I magically whisk up the money and wherewithal to get him out of this job and in to a well-equipped ranch of his own so he can work for himself. Right now, I can't even give him a kiss and rub his aching back.

Powerlessness is an uncomfortable feeling, and many people would demand to try everything possible to avoid it. Some might say "There's always something you can do about your situation." They'd be right, but in cases like these, the only thing you can do is accept the situation. Be patient. Be forgiving. Be resilient.

There is a curious strength in giving up the fight against something you cannot overcome. 

En route

Currently on the M25 on my way to Heathrow Airport. So excited, I feel quite sick. When I messaged Cowboy to let him know I was on my way, his reply was:

"It's about damned time."

I know, Cowboy.... 

England is rather grey this morning at 7.47am, and the sooner I'm above the clouds, the better.

Let's just hope he doesn't notice where I accidentally had the wrong setting on my trimmer and shaved a patch out of my bikini line...

Pre-Visit Psychosis (PVP)

Just a few short days now stand between me and Cowboy. I've entered the phase which I like to call "the pre-visit psychosis" which means I can't remember anything, I do a great deal of faffing about, and I generally cease to function well.

I spent yesterday in the kitchen, using up all of my vegetables in soup. One of my creations was the fabulous Beetroot Haters' Soup which smelled and tasted quite divine. If I hadn't been suffering from pre-visit psychosis (PVP) I'd have taken a picture or two.

Today I need to finish a project that I started a few weeks ago, which seemed like such a good idea at the time.



Cowboy and I will have been together for a whole year when I go out there on Monday, which certainly defies my expectations. To mark our anniversary, I'm putting together a scrapbook of pictures from my trip when we met, and what we've been up to over the year. This is partly for my benefit too, as I don't want to forget how we came to be together when it's such a ridiculous story.

I have a few pages left to do, but with PVP they've become quite difficult. I only have a couple of days left to fill the remaining space in the book. It's been a lovely experience to sit and take time to look back at my photos, think back to our earliest conversations and interactions, and remember all over again why I fell so hard for him.

We had a curious coincidence of thoughts last night. I dreamt that he had turned up in England and surprised me. When I told him about it this morning, he paused and then said "That's weird. I actually thought a little while ago about what it would be like if I just showed up in England and surprised you. I imagined doing it."

More likely, we've both got seeing each other on the brain and it's inevitable that we think the same things at around the same time.

I'm pretty excited. One of the strangest things I'm excited about is seeing Cowboy's dog, Blue Dog.



I'm firmly a cat person. Or I used to be firmly a cat person. These days I'm not so sure. I made friends with a stranger's pitbull on the tube the other day, and played with my brother's dog while nobody was looking last weekend. I have an overwhelming urge to shove my face in Blue Dog's stinky, grubby fur and give him a big hug. He hasn't had a bath in goodness only knows how long. I can only blame the PVP. No rational person would want to go within three feet of him.

Apart from how he is blindly adoring and obedient (mostly), and just loves attention. He gets a whole double page spread in the scrapbook.

A small thought about long distance relationships

 A casual 5,500 miles separate me and Cowboy for the majority of the time. Another part of the deal is the 8 hour time difference, which means that when I wake up, he is just going to bed. I am lucky that it is only 8 hours, and I do get to speak to him for the last part of my day, and sometimes first thing in the morning if he stays up late.

Getting to see each other is expensive, both in terms of high flight costs and in terms of the time needed to get across the planet and back.

It's really not the best idea either of us ever had (but he started it, so I like to blame him).

For a little while, I joined a very popular forum for people in long distance relationships, and for a while I thought I'd found a good place to hang out. Then I grew tired of the threads detailing how somebody hadn't replied to a message, or somebody hadn't wanted to sleep with Skype running, or how somebody had said something like "We need to talk" and the forum was supposed to suggest what it was about.

I realised I didn't identify with any of these people. Sure, they were in long distance relationships, just like me, but I came to the conclusion one day that, actually, I was secure enough about my relationship not to need to wise counsel of complete strangers. I didn't panic (any longer) when I didn't get an immediate reply to my message. I would put my phone down and go and get on with something else. I didn't get jealous of his friends who are girls. I didn't feel the need to share my relationship with these people.

Cowboy and I take it one day at a time. We say good morning, we say good night, every day without fail - unless we have no signal, no battery, or one of us is drunk. We don't get angry with each other for having a life outside of Skype and What'sApp. I encourage him to go out and socialise and flirt, because I know he enjoys it and I also know that he would never go beyond flirtation and a dance. We trust each other completely. We talk openly and frankly about marriage and kids, so we both know where this is going. We also avoid games at all costs.

There's no time for sulking or manipulating, and where would it get us anyway? When he does or says something I don't like, or that upsets me, I tell him as simply and honestly as I can, as soon as I can. He usually then tells me simply and honestly that he's sorry, and also that I am overreacting. He rides out my moods with patience, unphased, and doesn't hold it against me. Maybe that's from his work with horses...

We true to keep the bigger picture clear. When times are tough and I'm lonely and sad, and I miss him so much I could chew through a pillow, he reminds me that "one day we'll be together all the time, and then you'll get sick of me."

He is probably right, but distance seems to have taught us a great deal of tolerance. Those little things, the missed messages or the plans that don't include waiting by the phone or the computer, don't matter. The geographical space between us isn't enough, we give each other space away from communicating. And we work hard at keeping drama out of it. I choose not to mind about his grubby fingernails or his (obscenely) smelly feet, because on balance he's a pretty good catch. I like to think we'll keep these things going when we finally live together.

I don't think our relationship is special or different because we're long distance. Maybe that's why I didn't last on the specialist forum. 

A Japanese proverb (which I found on Pinterest) says: Who travels for love finds a thousand miles not longer than one. If you find the miles long, maybe it's just not quite what you should be chasing after...

Passing the time

Sixteen days until I fly off to see Cowboy, which means sixteen days of finding ways to pass many hours without losing my mind.

Today, I watched five episodes of The West Wing back to back. That was a good start.

I've also peeled eight pears and three apples, cored and diced them, and I'm currently stewing them with some cinnamon, sugar, sultanas and the juice of a small orange. Look at the golden, bubbly goodness... Mmmm...



Meanwhile, over in Washington (State), Cowboy is spending his days building fence. I don't know the technical details about fence building - no doubt I will very soon learn - but as I understand it, it involves a lot of posts...



It's back-breaking work, so I think he is most excited about getting a massage when I get out there. I don't really blame him.

I'm going to go spend my afternoon rearranging my possessions and pretending to be productive.

One month to go

It's thirty days until I fly out to Washington State to see Cowboy. It doesn't sound like long, but it's astonishing how long a day can be when you are apart from the one person you want to see more than anything.

Cowboy is a Scorpio, I am an Aries. If you buy into this sort of thing, we should be a pretty good match - my parents are the same combination and have been married (mostly happily) for well over thirty years.

It means, in this waiting period, that I am prone to random, ridiculous outbursts of frustration, rage, loneliness and love. Cowboy is prone to be stoic, calm, logical and quiet about his feelings, although he is starting to admit that he might be having trouble sleeping because he's just as impatient as I am for our summer together to get started.

Here are some things I've been doing to try to keep busy now that university is over for the summer, and I still have time to kill before I can pack my bag:

1. Cooking - I love to make food, and I will often spend a day in the kitchen. Last week I spent twenty minutes peeling chickpeas because I'd read that it would make my houmous smoother. I'm not convinced yet. But it passed the time.
2. Moving things around - my room in my shared house isn't huge, but it's ample if you're a normal person who can throw things out. I happen to be a hoarder. I have recently re-jigged my storage options around my room and found homes for things that previously lived "in that pile there". I'm still a chaotic mess, but it passed the time.
3. Xbox - I am a girl who games. Just a little. I'm terrible at shooting and driving, so my game options are limited to things with auto-aim, and things with no vehicles. My games of choice are: Skyrim, Red Dead Redemption, Dragon Age and Fable. Good games for passing the time and questing about, doing good in the world.
4. Pinterest - as if this needs an explanation. Possibly the most efficient time-waster ever invented.
5. Moping - I try not to overindulge in moping, as it loses its edge. Sometimes just lolling about on my bed, wishing I was in America, can kill an hour or two.

Not entirely productive pastimes, but there's a limit to what you can do when you have no income and a lot of time on your hands.

I have also been volunteering at a Riding for the Disabled Centre for the last couple of weeks, and I have one more week with them. I do three days a week, helping out with yard work and leading in lessons. I have discovered my "sweeping" muscles, and I'm feeling pretty sore. Morally, I feel super.

How would you fill thirty days?