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‘I'm in my mid-30s and split up with my long-term boyfriend, but now I think I still love him'

‘I'm in my mid-30s and split up with my long-term boyfriend, but now I think I still love him'

Irish Times4 days ago

Question
I'm in my mid-30s and feeling very down. I split up with my long-term boyfriend some months ago and I can't seem to come to terms with it. We had been going out with each other for more than three years and lived together for the last year. For at least eight months there had been a distance growing between us. There was nothing you could put your finger on, no fights or arguments, just a sense that we were not a unit any more. I am suspicious that he may have been with someone in the lead-up to him ending our relationship, but I don't have any proof. I had stopped all physical contact, and we were essentially living together as flatmates. I think he needs to take some responsibility for this, as I need to feel that someone is very attracted to me before I can allow sex to happen.
However, I now think I still love him. He moved out, and I was fine at first, but, as the weeks have gone on, I have become more and more down and sad about it. He is talking about going to Australia for a couple of years, and this might have been an adventure for both of us and I am questioning the decision to end it without any real fight. I miss him and would love to tell him that, but I don't want to cause any upset. I now realise what a lovely person he is, but I don't want to cause him more pain. But I'm struggling and am wondering how to move on.
Answer
It sounds as though the inevitable happened – the relationship was slowly winding down for a year and there may have been a third party and there was no intimacy. This was a significant relationship in your life and so sadness and loss is not only normal, but also appropriate to the level of importance this played in your life.
You should trust that you made the best decision at the time – that is, to let the relationship end. When you made this decision, you were happy with it and had your own best interest at the centre of your plans. Now that you are feeling lonely and sad, you are questioning your choices, but it is always good to follow choices you made when in a good or strong place, as these are likely to be right for you.
READ MORE
Hindsight might not offer you the best perspective in that it can put a rose-coloured tint on the years you were together when in fact you had a long eight months when you did not want any intimacy with him, and you mistrusted that he desired only you. Our bodies can often express intelligence and yours backed away from him and this is worth remembering. Many couples get back together and repeat the same pattern as they had previously – it takes a huge continuous effort to change habits and both people would need to be very motivated to achieve this. You ask two things: whether to tell him that you are reconsidering the relationship or whether to let it go completely.
[
'My husband is obsessed with exercise and sports ... it feels a bit like an affair'
Opens in new window
]
It is important to make a decision about which direction to go in. If you are considering asking for a second chance, you might talk to friends and family that knew you together and ask what they saw in the relationship and take their advice seriously. If they are overwhelmingly in favour of reconnecting, then you might reach out to your ex for a conversation, but both of you would need things to be significantly different if a new chance were to have a chance of success.
If you wish to move on, then you will need to accept that there is a period of grief to process as you begin to put into place all the things your life needs, even if your heart is not quite in it at the moment. For example, having a social life, mixing with friends, making sure that your work fits your interests and create some focus for your passions. It is also good to take up some kind of exercise or sport, as this really helps with the mental trauma of breaking up.
[
'I'm worried: My ex-husband and I have been invited to a wedding'
Opens in new window
]
There is a possibility that many of your friends are urging you to go dating or do some online flirting, and while this is a generally good idea, the chances are that you are not ready for this yet. You are grieving a lost love and a lost opportunity, and you need to give this time. You mention that you are missing the possibility of an adventure, and this might be something you could explore and put some energy into planning for your future.
To send your question to Trish Murphy, fill in the form below, click
here
or email
tellmeaboutit@irishtimes.com
.form-group {width:100% !important;}

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If you can't say ‘I love you', a grand alternative is ‘Come here to me, you big eejit'
If you can't say ‘I love you', a grand alternative is ‘Come here to me, you big eejit'

Irish Times

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  • Irish Times

If you can't say ‘I love you', a grand alternative is ‘Come here to me, you big eejit'

There are three types of 'I love you' outside of romance. The first one is activated when you are not sure if you will ever see the person again, possibly ingrained in Irish people through the intergenerational and ongoing upset of migration . Going to boarding school, with my parents a 27-hour journey away, that kind of I-love-you was underpinned by fear. Just in case we never see each other again, I love you. I give them to my husband as he lifts his bag from the hallway to go to places where worse things are happening than here. Those ones mean, 'Please come back'. The thread of fear in the goodbye-I-love-you carries through to when I hear my children say it. From the hob, I'll hear a, 'I'm going now, love you, bye!' and the slam of the front door. I'll get a call with a bunch of lads messing in the background and hear, 'Sorry, I'll be late for dinner, we're still playing in the park, love you, bye'. The second type of 'I love you' is the one that feels like someone giving you their winter jacket when you're freezing. More than ever before, I have paid attention to this one. It is rarely deployed, and it should stay this way, or it will start to lose its effect. My brother, 14 years my senior, sat at my kitchen table not so long ago. We discussed life. He understood, more than anyone else could, what I was telling him. He's a man of few words, particularly in text, which are normally limited to K (okay) or Tx (thanks). Later on, he texted, 'Love you'. I sat back down in the same chair with tears of reassurance and thanks (or Tx) streaming down my face as I texted back, 'I love you too'. It took me back 30 years, to 6pm on a wintry Sunday night, when it was time to go back to boarding school after a weekend with my adult siblings. The Simpsons was on, sirening the countdown to the dreaded bus back to the convent. He was lying on the floor watching TV, his head propped up on a stack of books. At 13, and he 27, I was tucked under his arm, head on his chest, tears soaking through his plaid shirt. He didn't try to fix it, he just held me. That's what his 'love you' text felt like. There's a good chance they won't say it back, even if they do love you On the phone to a friend who has come into my life in recent years, he told me about a debate in his head that could change the course of his life. To explore it together, he had to tell me about some difficult times. I knew he had been through something, but I had waited for him to be ready to tell me, if ever. 'I can't believe I'm after telling you all that,' he said, worried slightly about what I would think. I didn't try to influence his choice. I said, for the first time, 'I love you'. Neither of us needed to say much more after that. That one meant, 'You are safe with me'. READ MORE The last type of 'I love you' is the best one. It is the one where you can look someone in the eye, with a giddiness crackling in your chest, and, because of the fabric of who they are, and the way that they make you feel, you can't contain the words any more. This jubilant and pure 'I love you' is reserved for people whose happiness is consequential to your happiness. There's a good chance they won't say it back, even if they do love you. They'll have no bother referring to some gas character you both know and declare that they love them, but not be able to open their throat to let those words out to you, even though they've shown you in so many other ways. The speaker's tongue only needs to softly touch their teeth once to let the three syllables slip from their mouth. Don't say it to hear it back. If you are going to say it back, say it back. Adore is such a gorgeous word, and in French, 'je t'adore' sounds much more luscious than 'je t'aime', so maybe in French, I'd take it. 'I adore you,' is better than 'Cool, thanks,' but it's not 'I love you'. Being mad about someone as well is taking the ring road. It's not, 'I love you'. Used in isolation, those are excellent things to say to someone. Used as a response to I love you though, they're inadequate. 'Thank you', or 'come here to me, you big eejit,' are grand options if you can't drop the L-bomb. [ I love being called 'love', although there are some exceptions Opens in new window ] When used too much, it can feel like being deep in a stuffy department store that you didn't want to go into. When said casually, it is a receipt needlessly printed and binned without a glance. It needs to be used to a level that feels like walking up the road alone and finding €50 on the ground. Take it or give it with a sense of wonder, a thread of gratefulness, and keep it safe in your pocket for when it's needed the most.

‘I'm in my mid-30s and split up with my long-term boyfriend, but now I think I still love him'
‘I'm in my mid-30s and split up with my long-term boyfriend, but now I think I still love him'

Irish Times

time4 days ago

  • Irish Times

‘I'm in my mid-30s and split up with my long-term boyfriend, but now I think I still love him'

Question I'm in my mid-30s and feeling very down. I split up with my long-term boyfriend some months ago and I can't seem to come to terms with it. We had been going out with each other for more than three years and lived together for the last year. For at least eight months there had been a distance growing between us. There was nothing you could put your finger on, no fights or arguments, just a sense that we were not a unit any more. I am suspicious that he may have been with someone in the lead-up to him ending our relationship, but I don't have any proof. I had stopped all physical contact, and we were essentially living together as flatmates. I think he needs to take some responsibility for this, as I need to feel that someone is very attracted to me before I can allow sex to happen. However, I now think I still love him. He moved out, and I was fine at first, but, as the weeks have gone on, I have become more and more down and sad about it. He is talking about going to Australia for a couple of years, and this might have been an adventure for both of us and I am questioning the decision to end it without any real fight. I miss him and would love to tell him that, but I don't want to cause any upset. I now realise what a lovely person he is, but I don't want to cause him more pain. But I'm struggling and am wondering how to move on. Answer It sounds as though the inevitable happened – the relationship was slowly winding down for a year and there may have been a third party and there was no intimacy. This was a significant relationship in your life and so sadness and loss is not only normal, but also appropriate to the level of importance this played in your life. You should trust that you made the best decision at the time – that is, to let the relationship end. When you made this decision, you were happy with it and had your own best interest at the centre of your plans. Now that you are feeling lonely and sad, you are questioning your choices, but it is always good to follow choices you made when in a good or strong place, as these are likely to be right for you. READ MORE Hindsight might not offer you the best perspective in that it can put a rose-coloured tint on the years you were together when in fact you had a long eight months when you did not want any intimacy with him, and you mistrusted that he desired only you. Our bodies can often express intelligence and yours backed away from him and this is worth remembering. Many couples get back together and repeat the same pattern as they had previously – it takes a huge continuous effort to change habits and both people would need to be very motivated to achieve this. You ask two things: whether to tell him that you are reconsidering the relationship or whether to let it go completely. [ 'My husband is obsessed with exercise and sports ... it feels a bit like an affair' Opens in new window ] It is important to make a decision about which direction to go in. If you are considering asking for a second chance, you might talk to friends and family that knew you together and ask what they saw in the relationship and take their advice seriously. If they are overwhelmingly in favour of reconnecting, then you might reach out to your ex for a conversation, but both of you would need things to be significantly different if a new chance were to have a chance of success. If you wish to move on, then you will need to accept that there is a period of grief to process as you begin to put into place all the things your life needs, even if your heart is not quite in it at the moment. For example, having a social life, mixing with friends, making sure that your work fits your interests and create some focus for your passions. It is also good to take up some kind of exercise or sport, as this really helps with the mental trauma of breaking up. [ 'I'm worried: My ex-husband and I have been invited to a wedding' Opens in new window ] There is a possibility that many of your friends are urging you to go dating or do some online flirting, and while this is a generally good idea, the chances are that you are not ready for this yet. You are grieving a lost love and a lost opportunity, and you need to give this time. You mention that you are missing the possibility of an adventure, and this might be something you could explore and put some energy into planning for your future. To send your question to Trish Murphy, fill in the form below, click here or email tellmeaboutit@ .form-group {width:100% !important;}

When I was told ‘Your dad's had an accident' it didn't occur to me it might mean he was dead
When I was told ‘Your dad's had an accident' it didn't occur to me it might mean he was dead

Irish Times

time14-06-2025

  • Irish Times

When I was told ‘Your dad's had an accident' it didn't occur to me it might mean he was dead

The last letter my father ever wrote to me was written on Father's Day 40 years ago. He thanked me for the two Father's Day cards I'd sent. He underlined the two as if to emphasise either surprise or appreciation. I never got to ask which; he was killed exactly one week later in a car accident. The letter, on weightless airmail paper that is beginning to show its age in faint sepia stain, is written in astonishingly elegant hand – for a bloke and a farmer. A seam has ironed itself into a central fold which speaks to the letter being read and reread a hundred times in the intervening four decades. For a long time after Dad died, I imagined I could smell traces of him on the paper – Old Spice, tobacco, engine oil. For years afterwards I imagined being able to 'unwrite' the letter, push some cruel genie back into a bottle, erase the words Dad had written because they described what proved to be an ill-fated weekend: where he was going, why, who he'd planned to stay with. I was told of my dad's accident the day after, over the phone, while at work. It did not occur to me as the sentence 'Your dad's had an accident' was delivered that it might mean he was dead. I remember that I asked if he was okay. READ MORE 'No, I'm so sorry; he's dead.' I remember I dropped the receiver as if it were something hot. I imagine a voice kept speaking into the void – 'Hello, hello, are you there?' – as the handset dangled above the waste-paper bin into which the remainder of my lunch – egg and anchovy on brown – would be tipped after a single bite. I recall so much of that day with startling clarity, as if the cold, hard shock of it etched the day's profile more sharply into my memory. I remember the taxi ride to the station to catch the train to my aunt's to meet my mother; the worried faces of my two small cousins as they each clutched one of my aunt's hands as she stood to meet me on the platform. I recall sitting in the bay window of my aunt's kitchen waiting for Mum to arrive. I remember what Mum said as I delivered the news: 'I should have been with him.' (At home in Kenya, not heading to Ireland to see her parents.) I remember what I said. 'No Mum, then you'd both be dead.' Anthea Rowan with her parents and her brother Rob My mother chose not to tell my brother, who was in the middle of his Leaving exams. What difference would it make, we rationalised: telling him won't change anything, except perhaps the results he got, compromising his university entrance. I remember my mother sitting over a letter to him which she posted to my grandparents so that they could hand deliver the news, as if she was trying to couch this terrible finality in as many protective layers as she could. My brother would tell me years later that he was confused when our grandfather collected him after his last exam (instead of the aunt and uncle he was expecting). He remembers the headmaster being unusually warm in his farewell to this young man whose life, he must have known – my brother says now – was about to be split open. 'I remember Grandad stopping at a parking area overlooking the Blessington reservoir and that's where he told me what had happened. I went rigid and felt my legs were pushing through the bottom of the car.' My brother boarded a plane for home – and our father's funeral – the next day. He travelled via Amsterdam. He got himself a haircut during transit. On boarding his connection, he found himself in a seat next to one of our father's best friends, who asked my brother whether Dad would be meeting him at the airport. 'How do you tell a 6ft giant that one of his best friends has died unexpectedly?' How do you tell a barely 18-year-old boy that his life will never be the same again? My little sister's memories are cut-glass clear too. 'I was meant to be playing in a school match then, but the head told me I had visitors waiting for me in the car park.' Friends of our parents, who broke the news to this small just-13-year-old. 'I think I said', she remembers now, ''Thank you for telling me,' and turned to head back into school. But they bundled me into their car, men in the front, me between the ladies in the back. I remember I was given a spotted hanky to cry into.' I ask Siân Williams at Dublin-based Marino Counselling and Psychotherapy why that day is carved so deeply into the distant past where time has blurred so many more recent days since. 'When the nervous system is jolted by shock, especially without adequate emotional support or physical safety in that moment, it often encodes the event in vivid, sensory-rich detail,' she says. 'This is why so many people remember the smallest things: the room they were in, what they were wearing, what they ate just beforehand. These are known as flashbulb memories, deeply imprinted snapshots of a moment the brain registers as life-changing or threatening. 'The fact that all three of you have clear memories of that day shows how significant and defining it was.' It makes complete sense that, as a parent, you now feel hypervigilant about your children's safety. The nervous system remembers, and it does its best to guard against any repetition of past pain even if the original wound occurred decades ago — Siân Williams My siblings might share the clarity of my memories of that day, but mercifully, for they are both younger than me, not the nightmares that followed. I dreamt that Dad was alive but broken. Or I dreamt that he returned but he could not stay. Sometimes, in those dreams, I was relieved to be reunited briefly, but always freshly devastated at his forever-absence when I woke. The dreams lasted for 20 years. Williams says my dreams are significant. 'Nightmares after traumatic loss can be a manifestation of unprocessed trauma, particularly when there was no space at the time to safely grieve or make meaning of what happened. I believe that the mind often tries to complete the story it never got to witness – hence the recurring dreams of your father alive but suffering, or on the edge of returning but never quite making it.' There is obviously more risk of this when a person is told over the phone – grief can be complicated then, says Williams, and can compound the resultant trauma. I tell her that I worry our digital age means more and more people are in danger of receiving catastrophic, life-changing news impersonally or in the absence of checking they are supported before it is delivered to them. Or dreadful news seeping out before the right person has the chance to tell them. I imagine how I might have received mine had the internet been a thing back then, had news spread like the wildfire it does now: 'So soz about ur dad' crying emoji. At least my news came from a voice I recognised and loved. Anthea and her dad, Jim 'The absence of human connection, physical presence or emotional containment in those initial moments can leave a person feeling not only shocked but emotionally fragmented,' says Williams. This, she says, can impact people much later in life, 'surfacing in anxieties, anticipatory grief', or the kind of catastrophising I am vulnerable to and which I describe to her. [ Death and grief in the digital age: 'We were able to let her say goodbye through a WhatsApp video call' Opens in new window ] 'It makes complete sense that, as a parent, you now feel hypervigilant about your children's safety. The nervous system remembers, and it does its best to guard against any repetition of past pain even if the original wound occurred decades ago.' Father's Day the following year and the year after that – days of which I have no recollection – were hard but, with time, they became easier and, with more time, I could celebrate my children's wonderful father; my sister and I could celebrate the extraordinary father our brother had become. Anthea Rowan with her mother and siblings Many years later though, Father's Day presented itself with a new memory. For a long time before my mother died with dementia her memories of Dad were non-existent or fragmented; certainly the memory of his death was. 'My husband,' she would say, in an indignant tone, 'he left me, you know. He just upped and left.' I didn't always correct my mother's fictive stories. But I always corrected that one: 'He didn't, Mum; he died.' I assumed hearing that might help, until one day I asked: 'Does it help, Mum, to know he died and that he didn't leave you?' [ 'My husband recently died. We are in our early 50s. My whole future has been taken from me' Opens in new window ] She thought about my question for a bit and then said: 'I don't know. If he'd left me, you see, he might still come back.' Very, very occasionally flicking through a photograph album, his young face might swim into a mind fragmented by Alzheimer's. 'Look at Jim,' she'd smile as Dad smiled back from celluloid. 'He always made me so happy'. Anthea and her late mother. 'Her death was so different from Dad's' On the 38th anniversary of Dad's death (and I check my diary now, for it seems so implausible), and five days after Father's Day, Mum asked when my father was coming. 'Will he be here soon?' she wanted to know. For years she had not known I was her daughter, had certainly not connected her husband with me and suddenly and lucidly, there it was: her husband, her daughter in one sentence: Is your dad coming soon? Did she know, I would ask myself, when she died six day later? 'Your mother's question, 'Is your dad coming soon?' says Williams, 'though perhaps startling, is something those who walk with the dying hear often. It is believed that those who have gone before us come to meet us, guide us, and accompany us across the threshold. So, when someone near death begins speaking of departed loved ones as if they are close by, we take that as a sign.' [ 'She won't read again': I can't conceive of my whip-smart mother not being able to fathom words on a page Opens in new window ] I am not a person of faith, but this belief speaks to me. That Mum talked of dad in this context near the end was of enormous comfort; it made me think that not only was she prepared for what was coming, but she faced it with a calm that had been rare in those final weeks of dementia. Her death was so different from Dad's, a gentle parting at the end of a long life, not a brutal ripping away in the middle of one. And that is how I remember the anniversary of Dad's death – and Father's Day – now: with something approaching peace.

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