BEL MOONEY: Can I risk falling in love after my devastating split?

Dear Bel,

It’s Jane, from Sussex, here again. Over the past eight years I have written to your column, and your wise and compassionate replies have provided great solace.

Now something new presents me with a conundrum. To recap . . . eight years ago, my partner Peter left me suddenly and shockingly after 13 years.

As we went shopping for our holiday, he told me he hadn’t wanted me for several years. His rapid departure followed the death of both of my parents. The cumulative loss caused profound grief and shock.

At my lowest ebb, unable live with the pain, I even contemplated suicide. I’m grateful that your compassionate reply brought me back from the brink and encouraged me to see that my life was worth something to myself and others.

Years passed; I worked for a charity, supported prisoners, trained as a crisis counsellor and began to travel again, often solo. Life started to offer light, fun and warmth again, and I was thankful. But there was still a gap and I wrote to you again, because I doubted that, at 60, I’d ever meet anyone again.

Your reply made me think: you pointed out how much I had done to help myself and others and made me realise that I should acknowledge achievement, friendship, and courage. You also reminded me that it is important to believe in possibility.

A year later, I wrote yet again, just before lockdown blighted our lives. I was struggling on various fronts — health, redundancy, and Peter’s forthcoming marriage. I continued trying to be positive but the London Bridge terrorist attacks had just taken place, and the world seemed dismal and dark. I asked why (when I try so hard) are there so many obstacles?

Your response was honest, pragmatic yet compassionate. You used the excellent analogy of being lost in a maze, and emphasised the need to keep going, to try to adhere to values, inherited from my parents, of courage, integrity and humour. Because what else can we do? So that’s what I have been doing: carrying on. Then, the unexpected happened: exactly one year ago I met David. We knew each other slightly through our work, and I’d tried to offer support when his wife died too soon. He is lovely, and we make each other happy.

We travel, share values; I teach him to cook, he fixes my IT, we enjoy the big things (champagne in Paris) and the little things (arguing over the cryptic crossword). There’s so much we’d like to do . . .

So, what is wrong? Me. I find myself pushing him away, keeping an emotional distance, and almost concocting disagreements. I’ve longed for the affection, the romance, the security, yet refuse to believe it’s genuine.

I’ve talked to David about this and he’s understanding, but hurt that I don’t trust him. I do, but simply cannot believe I deserve anything good, or that things will not come crashing down again.

Do I take the risk, Bel? Or should I cut my losses now?

JANE

A question I’m often asked is whether I hear back from readers whose letters were published. The answer is yes, and it’s always heartening.

I am especially grateful to you for keeping in touch, because your story (neatly summarised by you here) is at once deeply personal and touchingly universal.

You are a strong, questing individual, yet at the same time you can hear the voices of others lost in the maze, asking, ‘Where am I going? How do I go on?’

Very often readers find comfort and guidance within the problems of others, and I’m sure many will empathise with your long search for consolation and for love. You’ve kept going, writing to me along the way, and never quite giving up hope.

Hooray! But (here I need to be as honest as you are) other readers may be exasperated at what they’ll view as a wilful refusal of happiness.

Be glad of what you’ve got, woman, they will say! Me, I can see both sides, so let’s pick our way through, untangling as we go.

When I was a child my father faced up to the yearly tussle with Christmas tree fairy lights. My brother and I would watch, so excited, as he carefully unravelled, draped, switched on, and . . . nothing.

Patiently he’d test every single bulb, try again, test again, tighten a bulb, try again . . . growing more and more exasperated and biting his tongue, as his kids whined, ‘Why won’t they work, Dad?’ and the lights stayed dark.

But he’d go on trying (no alternative really) and in the end the little artificial tree blazed scarlet, green, orange, blue and yellow, illuminating the glitter of baubles and tinsel and creating a thing of such beauty it took our breath away.

Decades later, I can still relive the miracle of darkness made light. Disappointment banished yet again.

A cheap, bottle-brush tree and old lights totally transformed by the patience of an ordinary young man who would always strive do the best for his family, even if he did get cross along the way.

Why am I telling you this? Because I know you’ll understand where I’m taking you, you who still mourn your own father, and treasure the lessons he taught.

How sad he would surely be if his daughter were to refuse to continue untangling her life. Might he feel a little frustrated by the woman who stubbornly refuses to believe that lights can work?

You know your cruel treatment at Peter’s hands was bound to have a lasting effect. If I remember rightly, there was an earlier failed marriage, which would hardly have helped your confidence.

Looking back to your first letter I see just how badly Peter treated you over a long period, indifference which (astonishingly) you accepted.

That suggests a woman able to present a brave face to the world she has travelled fearlessly, yet a weak, scared child inside who does not think herself worthy of kindness.

You wear a heavy mask of defiance to hide your tears and keep people away. How can I persuade you to ditch it?

Over the years, in this column, I’ve written much about change, that constant process which leads us inexorably towards spring even as we celebrate Christmas, hunkering down for midwinter.

I’m drawn again to the sayings of the medieval Persian poet and philosopher Rumi, who advised, ‘Don’t think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It’s quiet, but the roots are down there, riotous.’

Indeed, the process of change can be very painful, as you are discovering. You have to allow it to happen, which involves opening yourself to painful truths, just as the Earth has no choice but to let itself be sliced open by sharp green.

Do you realise that in not believing in David’s affection you are allowing Peter to continue destroying who you really are? Can’t you see that in refusing to think yourself worthy of the love of a good man, you are allowing the ‘bad’ one to write the narrative still?

Isn’t it time you stopped using past unhappiness as an excuse? Another gem from Rumi: ‘Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.’

It’s unbelievable that eight years on you are still bending your head for punishment, so it’s time to change.

At last say ‘Yes’ to being happy! You and David have both known great sorrow and now have a chance to share so much, if you allow it.

Of course, love is always a ‘risk’. Even those which last a glorious lifetime are ended by cruel death, or rather, not ‘ended’ — just put into a different form.

People afraid of any pain at all might as well never leave the dark room they hide in.

So please vow to make 2023 the year you learn to switch on the lights inside yourself.

Let the baubles and tinsel glitter as you celebrate new love. Crack open a bottle of sparkle for me — and enjoy.

And finally… Share the happiness all around

The wonderfully appreciative cards, letters and emails I receive from you are early Christmas presents and I’m so grateful. This one, especially, delighted me so much I wanted to dance for joy:

Dear Bel

I turned 18 this year and for my birthday my mum gave me my old books from nine years ago as a valuable gift. Among them I found your series of books KITTY AND FRIENDS, which was the greatest part of my childhood and I almost cried last night. I just wanted to thank you for being in my memories and remind you of your value.

Best wishes to you.

With love,

Stella

Can you imagine anything more pleasing to a writer? We always hope to have an effect and every now and then are lucky enough to be given evidence. So thank you, Stella! (and Mum).

Those years as a children’s author, during which I had about 35 books published and went all over the country talking in schools and at festivals, were immensely happy. I thought when grandchildren came along fresh inspiration would strike, but it didn’t. So a re-invention happened in 2005 . . . and here I am, saying Happy Christmas to you at the brilliant Daily Mail.

This year will be my first as an ‘orphan’ and I’m finding that (and another family issues) quite hard. But we must always be prepared for change.

As I was writing our Christmas cards, turning the pages of the old Filofax, I saw how many people had lost contact, or moved away, or (sadly) died. It happens, doesn’t it? Perhaps you don’t want to do the things you used to enjoy.

Children grow, times change, we change with them and the process must be accepted. Life shifts you in new directions, so try to make the most of them. Meanwhile, there’s the quiet satisfaction of living in the present and sharing what happiness we can. Like Stella — the real star who warmed my heart on a bitterly cold day.