Diary of a Crap Lesbian: Living with the past

Diary of a ‘crap lesbian’ part five…

Don’t laugh, but I think I have a lot in common with Belle from Disney’s retelling of Beauty and the Beast. It’s true – we both have ideas above our station, are discontent with our given lot, have a great love of books and regularly converse with cockney teapots. It was with this in mind that I dressed in my best blue pinafore this morning and ran, arms akimbo, into a field in rural France singing,with all the zest I could muster, ‘There must be more to this provincial life!’ As I explained to the doctor later, we all need some outlet for our frustrations.

There is a reason for my suddenly going crazy, and it’s this: I’ve been thinking about an ex-, a lady with whom I had a very tempestuous relationship while studying for my ‘A’ levels. She could fairly accurately be called my first love, and while it was I who ended the relationship, I was still distraught. This sudden remembrance was rather badly timed, too, it came while I was away – sitting in a pub on a date with someone else. I don’t know why the ex- is with me again, I rarely speak with her , but she still occupies my thoughts.

This leads to a problem. I am happy to move on with my life and my relationships, but I don’t want to let Her go. They say that our past shapes who we are, and I’m happy with that, but as a certain fictional sex columnist once said – can we have a future when our past is still present?

The biggest issue is comparison. There is a new someone in my life; my relationship with her is, on the surface, similar to that which I have with The Boy, but she is a lady, and a very fine lady at that, so I can’t help but compare. I do not want to do this; I can’t help myself.
While the comparisons are largely positive, I do worry. The concern, of course, is not that I’m comparing, but that she might be too. Like everyone I have my insecurities, but competing against an unknown entity is difficult. The Cosmo solution, just talk to her, is easier said than done.

If I talk will I say too much? Will she think I’m crazy, and promptly tell me to go and never return? Will she, horror of horrors, tell me that the women in her past have been toned and tanned and witty, and everything I am not and by the way so-and-so won a Pulitzer prize when she was nine, but I’m over her and you’re, well, very nice, I suppose.

The other boys and girls In her life at the moment don’t pose so much of a threat. I can see them, so I know they have flaws, and should I ever need reassurance, my bezzie mates can always be counted upon for a bit of empty, but ultimately satisfying, bitching. It’s hard to be jealous of The Girl’s current lovers, I am, after all, moving in on their territory.

Bridget Jones, the anti-hero for a generation, may have had the wrong idea, but I see where she’s coming from. How can so-and-so be happy with me, when the rest of the fish have sparkly scales and letters after their names? I am the single celled amoeba of the dating pool -surely she can do much better.

The other Big Issue is the inevitable demise of our relationship. Or should I say the inevitable demise of the relationship we do not yet have. Too early to be thinking along these lines? Maybe, but I have a good reason for doing so. Let me illustrate with two examples of girls
I really liked: the first one, well there was the outside chance she was sleeping with someone who was not me, so I dumped her. I didn’t ask her, oh no, that would have been way too sensible. The second, I didn’t want to meet her parents, so I chucked her. Why? Why, oh why would someone do such a thing? Because they are a crazy person, that’s why. There’s no other explanation for it.

So – my name is Libby, and I break up with people for stupid reasons. Do you see my problem? I’ve met a girl, I like her, so the next logical step is to invent some fantastical reason why it will all end in tears, then leave before it does. Let me tell you, it ain’t easy being me.

If I believed in God, I’d be praying for this one to work out, as it is, let’s just hope I don’t Fuck It Up.

Libby