Self Help Yourself

I heard a radio interview today with a lady who for a split second was the saver of my day.  Hell, she was the light at the end of a dimly lit tunnel with fog & snow & other things that make visibility hard to come by. She was being interviewed because she wrote a book, along with another tormented woman, about how to get over getting dumped. Where has this book been since I was 21 years old? Evidently not on my book shelf next to my coveted Berenstain Bears collection.
It’s been calculated down to a science, how we get over someone. Or, on How I Met Your Mother, it was calculated down to something like this: Lily (half the length of the relationship), Marshall (a week for every month you were together), Robin (10,000 Drinks), Barney (steps from the bed to the front door). I’m not a fan of closing doors. I’m not a fan of those rotating ones either as I have a fear I’ll get stuck in one. I can tell them with certainty that I’d like to have my dinner planned out by 10am on any given day but I cannot accept that they will be out of my life. Breakups are too much of a death to me. And I have discovered, that though I leave scars un-scabbed by doing so, I will let someone bleed me out until my friends will tell me to stop listening to Bon Iver & pour some hops & better advice down my throat.
There’s a line in a Colin Hay song (if you’re drinking or sad or both or even really happy & shitting butterflies I wouldn’t recommend listening to him unless you are okay with sobbing for 3 hours & Pinteresting sad quotes all over your page) that goes something like this, ‘I don’t want you thinking that I don’t get asked to dinner cause I’m here to say that I sometimes do.’ It’s true I guess. There have a been a few XY chromosomes who have thought it would be fun to watch me try & eat while holding my hand over my face (I have a complex about shit in my teeth around new people) but it has never led me to a ring on my hand that I secretly hate but pretend to like & make my cover photo.
It is not at all that I want to still be with him. It will never happen again. I even wrote a song about how I’m glad it will never happen again. But I still find my life infected with him every blasted day. I was so torn to bits by his shenanigans that I find myself recounting them. It’s impossible not to. One reallyextremelyrareday I was sorting through piles of paper that had accumulated a dust allergy. I found a planner (because I pretend to write my life on a calendar) & in it were days with little x’s on them. Actually, it was probably more like big violent slashes but who’s checking.  The marks meant that those were the days that my ‘boyfriend’ stayed over at his ‘friend’s’ house. That really meant he was falling in love with/putting his wank in someone else. One time my friend asked me if I was mentally ill because I still talk to him. That day I considered it.
I also still get his mail. I know I can do something about it, but I don’t. I know that I could go pretend to buy some Forever stamps & tell the postmaster that this gentleman hasn’t lived with me for a while but I haven’t made the trip yet, I mean, the roads are icy.
I got a call the other morning at 3am from said ex crying into the Iphone. He caught her in bed with another dude. And day by day I was getting playbacks of how she has ruined his life & is tormenting him slowly. He’s been discovering all the boners, I mean skeletons, in her closet. This has basically been happening since the end of our relationship & the beginning of theirs. I have listened to him live the life that I just did. And you know what? It worked.
And through a whale sized miracle & a lot of pretend face punching in my head, I have worked my way over it. I couldn’t have done this via a self help book or with someone else’s advice. I did it on my own terms. Slow as hell – lots of gin – lots of wine – lots of marathon T.V. shows – other people’s relationships working – other people’s relationships failing – breakfasts with friends – instagrams of my dog – trips to the woods – salty salty tears & the new life of my old love, being told to me through re-assuring phone calls that I’m meant to be right where I am. (I mean not literally right now, I’m in bed. I guess that is where I’m supposed to be because it’s nearly 2 am, but for reals. You get it.)
Much like Sasquatch, there was a sighting of him & her tonight at my place of employment. It made my heart palpitate for a second because I don’t feel he should come pissing all over my territory with the girl that I’ll probably get a text about some drunken morning. But then I did something I haven’t been able to do in minutes/hours/days/months.
I grabbed a Sharpie & scribbled ‘No longer at this address’ on one of his envelopes. Tomorrow I’m going to visit the postmaster to pretend to buy some Forever stamps.

Cheers friends,
-a damsel & her dog-

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