My plan is to avoid writing about my actual relationship with the ex until this project is finished. However, I do feel that I should provide you with the story of how this all went down.
I didn’t see it coming.
Minutes before he broke up with me, he looked at me in the eyes and told me that I have adorable freckles. “I love this man, I think I’ve finally found the one,” I thought to myself for the 89th time in my life.
I know. I’m that girl.
After casually slipping ”I think I’d like us to just be friends,” into our conversation about winter coats, I immediately went to that bad place that I try to avoid. It’s the place where I lose all rationality. The place where words start flying out of my mouth faster than you can say “cheese.” The place where if I ever went deep enough, I might be inclined update my Facebook status to “My ex has three testicles, and IT IS NASTY.”
It’s the place that I like to call, “Fucking Crazy Town.”
I cried… and I begged him not to do this. I wailed “WHYYYYY??” in desperation. I took jabs at his character, his appearance, and his stupid cats.
He explained to me that I didn’t do anything wrong, and that he just needed some time by himself to figure out what he wanted.
And then I left.
The first two days were the worst. I could barely stop crying long enough to sip my double vodka soda. I kept dramatically walking around the house, throwing my arms up into the air while moaning things like “But what did I doooo?” My friends told me that during a very drunken attempt at a karaoke session, I howled “I’ll never sing again!” and then promptly stumbled my way up to the DJ and requested our song. That was followed by a very angsty performance of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that included the word “fucken,” 29 times.
The next few days were a little easier. Anger had began to sit tight in my chest where desperation had been before. I started channeling my inner bitch, and expressed my feelings through emo-tweeting. I retold the details of the break-up numerous times to all of my friends, my co-workers, and basically any ole’ stranger whom I could trap into listening to me.
On day six, people started to ignore my phone-calls and I was back to crying again. I had resisted any contact with the ex for almost a week, but I didn’t feel any better. I didn’t have any answers… and I got a sinking feeling that I would never be OK again.
I gave in and wrote him a carefully drafted 3-page email with subject matter that ranged anywhere from “I’ll do anything to make this work,” to ” I never even cared about you.” I knew that I should have resisted, but it made me feel a tiny bit better to say the things I didn’t have a chance to say before.
Day seven was the worst. I stared at my gmail inbox for 9 hours straight and then went and had a breakdown at my friendly 7-11, where I had stopped to get Cheetos and wine. I locked myself in the bathroom and let myself have one final breakdown, and then that was it.
I took a few deep breaths and proceeded with my personal pep-talk.
“Girl, you are going to get through this. Even though you feel like you are more hurt than you have ever been before in your life, one day, you’ll be OK. So get out there, girl and make-out with some random guy like you did last night. And don’t forget that everything happens for a reason, you will learn something from this. You’re going to get over this soon, you always do.
That’s went it dawned on me that I was right about one thing. As much as I felt like this is the worst feeling I’ve ever had in my entire 28 years of existence, I have felt like this before, and I do always get over it.