Flight mode

I don't know what's going on. 

This is a hard thing for me to admit, and write down, and say out loud.

The last time I said it out loud was in a pub last week, and then I cried while my mate looked concerned and her boyfriend hugged me as their baby wiggled on his lap.

For some reason, it's embarrassing to admit when you think something has shifted, when you think something's amiss; not quite right.

It's embarrassing when you're surrounded by sure-footed single people, or friends in committed, straight forward relationships, it's embarrassing to admit you're in one that is uncertain.

It's embarrassing when you don't know, then you do, and actually forget what I said last time - it's all ok.

Or isn't.

Fuck it, you don't know.

Another thing that's hard for me to admit and write down, and say out loud, is that I sent a text the other day and watched my mood drift downwards as I imagined worse case scenarios until the only logical solution was to switch off my phone completely.

It's embarrassing because I used to pride myself on knowing what's going on, what I want - and now my sense of self-worth and the course of my day regularly hangs on someone else.

On this occasion, my mind whirled until precisely 4:35pm.

Take that, I thought, putting the phone into flight mode. You cannot get me here. 

And when I think about it flight mode is an apt term: for it is in these moments - when everything I've known for the last four years is up in the air - that I want to flee.

When everything's uncertain, and I want to say "sod it" and shut it down, and go back to it being just me.

When the phone is off and I'm running in the opposite direction and doing my own thing again, it's almost a relief.

Imagine if I just knew I was single, I'd know what to do.

Flight mode is the safe one; it stays until I've managed to put myself into a better mood on my own.

And then I switch the phone back on, and the message arrives immediately, and then although I still don't know much - at least I do know I'll be ok.