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It’s Time to Break Up with The Breakup
That lethargic, tedious ache — scarring up a little more every day.
Another looming birthday, another failed relationship; or rather, another bucket of ice water over the head, realizing I had settled into old destructive patterns yet again, with a new asshole. Another round of “damn, those were some red flags I ignored, I can’t believe I tolerated that for so long.” A new person to be angry at for false promises and disappointment. That familiar midnight panic “I need to run five miles every day starting tomorrow to get my revenge bod, or maybe I can do some sit ups right now in bed!”
Yikes.
I want to talk about the breakup all the time. I want to dissect it, every limb, every moment special or not. I plot out conversations in the shower, how I would respond, having the upper hand. In my head I have the outfit picked out that I’ll be wearing when I run into him in a year from now — as if I have control over that. I throw a leg over a pillow, closing my eyes and indulging for just a few minutes that it’s not a pillow, it’s him, and this never happened, and he never did or said all of that stuff. I blast my music when I drive with the windows rolled down, I need the city to know I’m unbothered and have more important things to do than mourn.
