One Hell of a Year
by
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Still lying on my stomach, I glanced up and over to the left hand side of the wardrobe. The side furthest away. I noticed the sleeve of a red and white shirt. It was rolled up so it was three quarter length and fastened with one of those straps that come from inside the sleeve and attaches to the button on the outside of the sleeve. I loved him in that shirt.
Tears stinging my eyes, I hauled myself up slowly and stood up next to the wardrobe. I was almost too scared to touch it, as if it might bite me. I lifted it and the smell of him wafted upwards.
“It still smells of him,” I whispered to myself, quite taken aback by its strength.
It must have been one of those he bothered to spend 20 minutes ironing, put on and then took off again a few minutes later as it hadn’t looked right or was still too creased or some other reason just as ridiculous. He would then have ironed another one.
I stroked it, letting it run through my fingers. I smiled through the tears that were now burning down my cheeks again as I remembered him in it. He had worn it a lot compared to some of his other shirts. I thought he looked great in it. I let the sleeve go, watching it fall back to where it was. The lost feeling bit at me, the empty hole where my heart had once been burnt, the pain moving through me in waves crashing up and down.
I stood still for a minute just about keeping my balance with the sea of emotions tugging back and forth inside me. I slowly pushed one strap of my night dress off my shoulder and then the other, letting it fall to the ground. Standing in just my knickers, I reached out and took the shirt off the hanger. I unbuttoned it and slowly put the first arm through the sleeve, breathing in the smell of his aftershave as it went. I placed my other arm in its sleeve and pulled the sides of the shirt in and up to my face. I sobbed into it for a few seconds before letting it fall back down. I fastened the buttons carefully, making sure they were right through the button hole so as not to undo again.
In slow motion, I turned and crawled back onto the bed. I pulled myself into a ball and brought my knees up to my chest, under the shirt. I let my neck sink inside the collar and bowed my head further forward, pushing my shoulders up so I could take in the smell of him more. I didn’t want to pull the duvet over me in case it clouded it in some way.
There I lay, in that position. The light from the lamppost outside shining across the bed. My sobs making my whole body shake. That’s where I stayed, wallowing in him, breathing in the last little bit that I had left.
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About the Book
Lost…..Empty…..Abandoned…..Alone…..Unloved….
How could a man have made her feel like this? Not just any man either. Her husband. The one she had loved and looked after and had three children with…..her world. He had just left her behind, left his children behind, left his old life behind. He hadn’t looked back either. How could he?
Marcus had walked out on Stephanie to be with her….that woman, Sue. She had him now and Stephanie hated that. He now had his new love, his new friends, his new flat, his new life and his freedom.
What did Stephanie have now? Her children - but being a single mum was so hard…and so lonely. Her new house - but that meant she had no friends around her….they had moved away from everyone. Her new life - she didn’t want a new life without Marcus….she just wanted her safe, secure life back. Didn’t she?
She needed to keep hold of normality somehow, she needed to understand her feelings and the thoughts that swam through her head constantly. She needed to keep hold of her sanity. It was all so difficult to do though. The web of deceit that Marcus was spinning seemed to consume her in so many ways. The frustration was intense and the confusion was endless. But time would help. Time would heal too, wouldn’t it?
Each day, each week, each month, Stephanie clung to her emotional rollercoaster until her knuckles turned white, detailing every steep climb, every bump and every loop in her diary.
One break up, one broken heart, one woman who was unsure she would recover, one diary, one year…..would time really make a difference?
About the Author
Beverley White’s writing began when her husband left her for another woman. She became a single mother of three children in a new area with loneliness and solitude consuming her life. Not only did she have to learn how to juggle her teaching career, her children and settling into a new home, but she also had to learn about being single again, socialising again and even dating again.
She began to write a diary so she could talk to herself openly about her feelings and try to understand them and also the progress she was making. It showed her fight for her children to see their father, fight to understand her own feelings towards her husband and other people in her life and also fight to keep her sanity. She used it to help her build a new life for herself and also to find herself once more. Although this started out as a tool to aid her own recovery, it soon became more.
Not only did this diary become the inspiration for One Hell of a Year but it also became an aid for the new friends she made who were experiencing the same pain, heartache and mixed up emotions. They came to realise that what they were thinking and feeling were not unusual or wrong in any way but perfectly normal. Most importantly though, they came to realise that they were not alone.
Through One Hell of a Year, Beverley hopes to reach out to many others who are unfortunate enough to be experiencing the same sadness and show them that although these times are hard, life does get better and they will become stronger and happier. She also hopes they see that eventually the smiles and laughter they thought were lost forever, will one day return.