Before last week, the last time I wrote something of meaning was a day or so after our second date. At first – I really just had nothing to say. I wrapped myself in a cocoon where it was just me and him. I essentially moved into his apartment. I woke up in the morning, did the dishes from the dinner he would make us the night before, go to work, leave work and meet him on the Ashmont/Braintree platform, go home, watch TV, drink some beers, have dinner, and repeat.
That was my life for three months until I woke up one day and by that afternoon got de-friended on Facebook and received a cold, impersonal break up e-mail that could have easily mirrored an e-mail one would write to a hairdresser or dentist to let them know their services were no longer required. By that evening, all of my personal effects had been returned to me (a carload of stuff I might add) and he exited my life as abruptly as he had entered it.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was that.
Now, I had plenty to say. In fact, I’ve written and re-written this post countless times in my head for the last three months. Writing is how I deal with things. It’s how I relate to other people. But for the first time, I couldn’t bring myself to release the word vomit that boiled inside of me. My best friend suggested I write an e-mail of what I would want to say to him and simply never send it. I knew I didn’t have the willpower for that – I was already impressed with myself that I was able to refrain from sending a drunk text or mailing a sappy Hallmark card or calling him begging him to see me after spending far too long crying in the shower.
I think the reason I like to do a year in review year after year is because I gain a lot from perspective. There is much to be gained in taking a step back and allowing yourself to see the bigger picture. To wait until the fire inside you subsides and you can allow yourself to really think about what happened, and the ultimate impact that it had. It’s been about four months since he left me crying on my doorstep, and I finally feel like I’m in a place to write.
The biggest problem I had after he left was the deep sadness that I felt. I had never experienced depression, and I didn’t know what to do with the deep, black pit that had taken over my chest. I felt stupid. How could I have possibly gotten so attached to someone I had only known for three months? I had lived a full, happy life up until then. How was it possible that I wasn’t strong enough to handle something like this, to continue on with my life without him in it.
And so I spent a lot of time mulling over why I was so distraught. Did I miss having a warm body in bed next to me? (No – I sleep like shit when I share a bed with someone). Did I miss having him in my life? (Yes – but I also knew deep down that he wasn’t right for me). I came to the realization the thing that upset me the most is that I felt like I had failed. I failed at being someone’s partner. I’m almost 30 years old and he was my first serious partner since my high school boyfriend – and it failed.
Failure is a scary thing for me. Not trying to sound conceited, but t’s just not something I do all that often. I also have an intense fear of not being in control (which would explain why I fucking hate flying). The idea of allowing a big part of my happiness rely on another human being is something I didn’t permit in my life for a long time. I finally let love back in, and it blew up in my face.
…to be continued (and I promise there’s a light at the end of my shitty breakup tunnel)