Notes from the Sofa by Alex Neve

Mistake Number Eight: Staying When It’s Wrong

Photo by Amel Majanovic on Unsplash

Hi, I’m Alex. I’m a writer, I’m thirty-nine and will shortly be living out of a suitcase again, something I thought I’d left well behind in my twenties. Back then, I was a regular sofa surfer (thanks to everyone who put me up! Apologies if I cried too much or you caught me masturbating when I thought you were out).

Of course, thanks to London rental prices, my situation is unexceptional and I’m lucky enough to have been offered many a sofa to surf, but with several of my friends purchasing their first homes, some even their second, I’m starting to wonder how I’ve fucked up so badly, that I’ve ended up in this situation (again).

So, rather than moan, over the next few weeks I’ll walk you through a series of mistakes that perhaps you can avoid. I’ll have to go back to the very beginning to unpick the missteps that have often led to friends and family holding me up as an example of what can happen if you don’t work hard enough at school. It may, at times, contain foul language.

Mistake Number Eight: Staying When It’s Wrong

Relationships, friendships, jobs, nights out, whatever it may be, I have a terrible habit of sticking things out when it’s not right. I can get myself comfy even when the circumstances are terribly uncomfortable. I’ve spent years watching opportunities roll along and pass me by. It’s like I’m sitting at a bus stop on those strange days when they all come at once, but I just never get on. Often too scared to board and try something new.

My first long-term relationship is probably the best example of this, and whilst it’s one I’m sure a lot of people can identify with, it’s something that did impact both my confidence and finances, and ultimately led to my first bout of sofa surfing.

We’d met at work during a rare moment of me being confident in my skin. As such, I knew my worth and was not about to get shacked up with someone when I was focused on my career. But, after a year of being utterly and dreamily love-bombed by him, during which time I gained weight, my confidence flying right out the window as the scales shot up, we became a couple. What followed was a blissful twelve months living together, but then, of course, the reality of me wore thin. No longer was I this unattainable, perfect woman that he’d had dreamt up when trying to win me. Now, I was just some plain girl whose periods arrived abruptly and painfully, and he felt cheated, behaving as if he was one of those people on Watchdog who’d been conned into buying some sort of luxury holiday, only to arrive and find the resort is still a building site. So I was out.

Not only was this my first real hit of heartbreak (aside from the boy in Year Three who gave me a King Size Twix for Valentines Day only for his grubby little hands to snatch it back and hand it to a far prettier, far more popular girl), but after nearly two years of being completely adored by him, he’d withdrawn completely and I’d been forced to go cold turkey. My love supply cut off at the mains.

However, whilst my friends and family had to deal with the sobbing and the wailing and the constant playing of Back to Black, he was none the wiser. I didn’t text, call or cry at his door. For all he knew, I was fine and after a few months of him fucking about, he wanted me back. Essentially, he just wanted the summer off. A six week holiday of getting high and shagging whoever he wanted, and just like it had with our relationship, the novelty of this summer of love, quickly wore off.

Much to my friends and family’s dismay, we got back together, and so desperate was I to keep him, I clung on for a further six years, our relationship worsening day by day. We were terrible for each other. We didn’t fit. Constantly butting heads, he’d get angry, and I’d beg him not to leave (this was also during a time of huge and unresolved daddy issues). We were both so desperately unhappy, but I couldn’t let go. He was what I knew, and my self-esteem having plummeted, I assumed I had to stand by my man. Dating apps were just beginning to creep in, and the thought of putting myself out there again in this new field where the rules were different terrified me. As did being single. Naively, I thought I should be with my forever person by that point (I was with him from the age of nineteen to twenty-six…), and besides, we had a routine. A dull old routine, which saw us plod along miserably together, my time largely spent wanking myself to sleep and crying.

Drama school, as it so often does, eventually blew the whole thing up with him roaring off in jealous rages (about whom I was never quite sure), but I could’ve saved us both the heartache if I’d have been brave enough to end things sooner.

And this has happened time again, whether it be toxic friendships, jobs that pay poorly, bad habits or being in the wrong career lane entirely. I’d hang on, terrified of change even if it meant being in a better position. I was clutching so tightly to the idea that everything is meant to last forever, refusing to believe some things naturally come to an end, that it left me skint and often heartbroken.

Perhaps if I’d just made the leap, diving headfirst into singledom or a new place of work, I’d not have wasted so much time, especially during those years when my tits were still perky. I may not have found love or landed a huge pay rise, but I could’ve had fun and not stayed so long that by the time we eventually split, the flat had been trashed so badly we’d lost our deposit.