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.
This is day one.
Day one hurts.