Either way, it was going to end up like I was on some television sitcom. Either I was going to uproot my life, move to some strange city, become fast friends with the quirky gay guy at my new job (who would invariably set out to update my wardrobe and emphasize my most positive feminine features) who would bolster me with snappy encouragement while I attempted to snuffle my way through a broken heart; OR I was going to get an email from my ex-boyfriend minutes into a fresh batch of despair over the job in my current city that I couldn't take because that's where my broken heart lay, and suddenly realize that we wouldn't, indeed couldn't breakup because the past two days were just a complicated, emotionally-wrought fluke.
The second one is what's actually happening, by the way. After two days of spontaneously combusting into tears everything swiftly evaporated leaving me first baffled, then immensely relieved.
When I was in middle or early high school, in the muddled middle ages of my adolescent life during which I regularly attended church and youth group in an attempt to be a Good Christian, I found myself participating in a trust fall exercise (Step 1: Get a bunch of peers to stand around and hold out their hands in the form of a makeshift net. Step 2: Stand on a chair. Step 3: Trust your peers. Step 4: Fall backwards, knowing in your heart of hearts that the hands of your trusty friends will be there to catch you). To make a short story shorter, I went into the trust fall with much excitement and a complete lack of reservation (this is youth group, I told myself, these guys don't fuck around!) only to be - yes, you guessed it - dropped. During the trust fall.
Thanks a lot, peers.
Anyway, since the youth group leader jumped in at the last moment to grab my skull before it was dashed on the ground I emerged unscathed. Afterwards, however, everyone kept asking me if I was okay and I couldn't stop myself from crying; they were being so nice.
It's like that, now. I can carry myself with a passable degree of poise and composure until somebody expresses their concern or offers to help and then I'm gone in a siren of wails and a whole mess of hiccups. My friends have been so fantastically, earth-shatteringly kind I don't even know what to do with myself. They've been hugging me, distracting me, offering me their time, their food and their homes. Even as someone who recreationally scoffs at religion, I can say that I am, without a doubt, deeply blessed. One of the women I work with (whom I adore; she's the closest thing I've had to a mentor during my college career) offered to let me and Moxie stay at her house, if we needed it, or to come over for dinner.
As someone who always wants to take care of things herself, this outpouring undermines my false confidence. The fact that I want to fall into their arms and take up all of their time gets under my skin and reminds me that I'm just a scared kid, desperately in need of some sort of comfort.
Today I worked on reversing all my plans and fixing up the details so that I could skip town come June. But no. Just as I was panicking because I'd come to realize how good one of the jobs I have a fair shot at here in the city could be for me (but how could I take it, when it meant staying here, where everything hurt?), I got an email from Scott explaining everything, calming all of my fears and snapping everything, suddenly, into place.
Forgive me if I turn a hyperbolic phrase; I'm not miserable. Doesn't it have flair, though? Can't you imagine some teenage goth chick with white makeup and black fingernails telling you that in a deadpan voice?
Don't get me wrong; this isn't any picnic. And there is definitely something keeping me from eating. Since Friday night I have consumed exactly 4/5 a box of Mike 'N Ikes, half a banana and 1 handful of Skittles (why fruit and their candy equivalents are the only thing my stomach will even consider is far beyond me). I just have no appetite. I've been sipping on water to keep myself from keeling over, but other than that the very thought of food makes me nauseous.
Scott came over today. I'm not sure if that's breaking a breakup rule or not but it somehow settled everything in my brain. I made him tell me that it was over and that he was certain about it at least three times. I cried. A lot. Told him some things, shared some feelings, so on and so forth. And when he left, I felt alright. I didn't throw my back against the door, crumple onto the floor and weep tears of pain and anguish; though if I had done that, it wouldn't have been at all out of my current character. I got back to my homework. I went about my business. And I felt okay.
One of the things I'm finding the hardest is removing him from my physical surroundings. On Friday night, immediately after he left, I went around my apartment taking pictures down from the fridge and his books off of the bedside table. I did this numbly, unfeelingly, since I knew that if I thought about it for a moment I would be devastated, and that if I left it for the next day I might never bring myself to do the deed. I came across one last thing tonight and slipped it into the trash can, willing myself not to think about what it meant to me.
I'm going to talk about this ordeal and about Scott a lot in the next few days (weeks?). What I want you to know, and what I'm going to try hard to concentrate on, is that the past twenty months have been twenty great ones. Falling in love with and getting to know the guy was some of the most fun I've ever had. I look forward to everything in the future and regret nothing in the past.
We're going to be ok.
This is day two.
Day two is cloudy, with a chance of emotional trauma.
So yesterday I was thinking to myself about how I'm gonna start blogging every day, again...at least just a little, just to get back in the swing of things for when I graduate and have time/sanity. The everlasting problem is having something to write about; something more than the passing whim that I forget a few minutes later. Well, nothing makes for good writing like anguish, and now I've got my year's supply.
This fucking hurts.
Scott and I broke up last night; a "good" breakup, as breakups go. It was a quiet end. No screaming. No anger. I knew when he told me he was coming over after work. I knew when he walked up to the door. I knew when he sat down on the couch and when he said it. I tried wrapping my brain around this thing I knew - that I knew was for the best, even - and couldn't. The ends wont meet.
Welcome to: The Breakup Diaries
I don't feel rejected and I don't feel wronged. I don't feel like I'm not good enough or I didn't try hard enough or that I fell short somehow. I know none of those things are true for either of us. I just feel like my security blanket is gone. Scott cushioned me from everything I hated in my life and he handled me when I broke down. When I hurt, I went to Scott. Now I hurt. And I can't do it. I could - he would even take me - but that's not how you do breakups.
Maybe it would be easier if I felt wronged; if I had thrown him out of the house, hurling his shoes after him and chasing his car with a pitch fork. Then I could feel righteous about my newfound independence and I could buck up knowing that I'm better off without the bastard. The nature of this beast, however, is that we still care for each other. So I still want to call him. I still want to take care of him. I still want him to comfort me. But we can't do these things because again, that's not how you do breakups.
Quick, like a band-aid, I tell myself.
So gently, I told him he should go home and quietly, he left. Having said what we both knew was true (had been putting off, denying), there was nothing more to say that wouldn't take us in circles.
This morning I woke up before my early alarm. My body didn't immediately recall the previous night, but as it set in a dull pain burned its way into my forearms. This appears to be the physical manifestation of my internal pain: aching brachioradialises. Lame.
Awake too early even for an 8:30 meeting, I dressed and got on my bike and rode around the neighborhood, hyperventilating to myself when the reality hit me too hard. The movement, at least, felt good. Action is how I'm going to deal with this, I know. Sitting still, even sitting and reading, is a precursor only for crying. My guess is that when I move my body sends all its hot vapors to other appendages in need; that way they don't come spewing out my eyes.
This changes all of my plans. In a way, it's exciting; like an adventure. In another way - the way that seems the biggest and most obvious right now - it's just terrible.
Scott realized, last night, that the tickling we both felt on our sides as we lay in bed was not our loving, wayward fingers but a small yellow spider. Thrust suddenly into the light of my bedside lamp, the creature attempted an escape.
I, ever the scientist, was intrigued and studied him on his journey.
Moxie, ever the hunter, sprang into acute awareness, pawing and snapping at the bug.
And Scott, ever the the cold-blooded killer, grabbed a tissue and squashed the thing before it could tickle any other poor victims in their sleep.