I heard a radio interview today with a lady who for a split second was the saver of my day . . . hell, she was the light at the end of a dimly lit tunnel with fog & snow & other things that make visibility hard to come by. She was being interviewed because she wrote a book, along with another tormented woman, about how to get over getting dumped. Where has this book been since I was 21 years old? Evidently not on my book shelf next to my coveted Berenstain Bears collection.
It’s been calculated down to a science, how we get over someone. Or, on How I Met Your Mother, it was calculated down to something like this: Lily (half the length of the relationship), Marshall (a week for every month you were together), Robin (10,000 Drinks), Barney (steps from the bed to the front door). I’m not a fan of closing doors. I’m not a fan of those rotating ones either as I have a fear I’ll get stuck in one. I can tell them with certainty that I’d like to have my dinner planned out by 10am on any given day but I cannot accept that they will be out of my life. Breakups are too much of a death to me. And I have discovered, that though I leave scars un-scabbed by doing so, I will let someone bleed me out until my friends will tell me to stop listening to Bon Iver & pour some hops & better advice down my throat.
There’s a line in a Colin Hay song (if you’re drinking or sad or both or even really happy & shitting butterflies I wouldn’t recommend listening to him unless you are okay with sobbing for 3 hours & Pinteresting sad quotes all over your page) that goes something like this, ‘I don’t want you thinking that I don’t get asked to dinner cause I’m here to say that I sometimes do. . . ‘ It’s true I guess. There have a been a few XY chromosomes who have thought it would be fun to watch me try & eat while holding my hand over my face (I have a complex about shit in my teeth around new people) but it has never led me to a ring on my hand that I secretly hate but pretend to like & make my cover photo.
It is not at all that I want to still be with him. It will never happen again. I even wrote a song about how I’m glad it will never happen again. But I still find my life infected with him every blasted day. I was so torn to bits by his shenanigans that I find myself recounting them. It’s impossible not to. One reallyextremelyrareday I was sorting through piles of paper that had accumulated a dust allergy. I found a planner (because I pretend to write my life on a calendar) & in it were days with little x’s on them. Actually, it was probably more like big violent slashes but who’s checking . . . The marks meant that those were the days that my ‘boyfriend’ stayed over at his ‘friend’s’ house. That really meant he was falling in love with / sexing / annoying me with / someone else. One time my friend asked me if I was mentally ill because I still talk to him. That day I considered it.
I also still get his mail. I know I can do something about it, but I don’t. I know that I could go pretend to buy some Forever stamps & tell the postmaster that this gentleman hasn’t lived with me for a while but I haven’t made the trip yet, I mean, the roads are icy.
I got a call the other morning at 3am from said ex crying into the Iphone. He caught her in bed with another dude. And day by day I was getting playbacks of how she has ruined his life & is tormenting him slowly. He’s been discovering all the boners, I mean skeletons, in her closet. This has basically been happening since the end of our relationship & the beginning of theirs. I have listened to him live the life that I just did. And you know what? It worked.
And through a whale sized miracle & a lot of pretend face punching in my head, I have worked my way over it. I couldn’t have done this via a self help book or with someone else’s advice. I did it on my own terms. Slow as hell – lots of gin – lots of wine – lots of marathon T.V. shows – other people’s relationships working – other people’s relationships failing – breakfasts with friends – instagrams of my dog – trips to the woods – salty salty tears & the new life of my old love, being told to me through re-assuring phone calls that I’m meant to be right where I am. (I mean not literally right now, I’m in bed. I guess that is where I’m supposed to be because it’s nearly 2 am, but for reals. You get it.)
Much like Sasquatch, there was a sighting of him & her tonight at my place of employment. It made my heart palpitate for a second because I don’t feel he should come pissing all over my territory with the girl that I’ll probably get a text about some drunken morning. But then I did something I haven’t been able to do in minutes/hours/days/months.
I grabbed a Sharpie & scribbled ‘No longer at this address’ on one of his envelopes. Tomorrow I’m going to visit the postmaster to pretend to buy some Forever stamps.
-a damsel & her dog-