This entry was posted on Thursday, January 17th, 2008 at 9:31 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
I have become my own worst nightmare.
It certainly wasn’t an intentional development, and had I any self control left, I’m sure I would have taken preventative measures. Unfortunately, thanks to my complete inability to deal with the end of my relationship, I’ve become a simmering twit without the good sense to know when to staple her own lips shut.
My rational thought? Gone, and replaced by incessant chatterings and obsessive ticks.
My self control? Usurped by moodiness and irrepressible crying jags.
No longer can I snicker self righteously at others wallowing in drama, because my own has become all-consuming. And all the head pounding, alcohol and exclamations of “Let it go!” and “Get over it!” do absolutely nothing for me. Instead, I only sink deeper into my own stupid wretchedness. Somebody please hit me.
There’s a mathematical equation that says it takes a person approximately half the time spent in a relationship to recover from it ending. That’s reassuring. Now, I can count down the days until I return to normalcy the same way I do the days until I leave for vacation. Current count: 18 days until I leave for Disney World; 516 days until I resume being a person that I actually like.
The internet is teeming with advice columns and articles on “surviving” the end of a relationship. I’ve never put much faith in the advice of others when I doubt anyone can know me better than I do. But since my perception these days is somewhat warped, I figured clicking the “5 Ways To Get Over Him” link my e-mail home page so thoughtfully provided couldn’t hurt.
I can only assume that the article was penned by a 17 year-old intern, or perhaps someone wearing a sweatshirt with a unicorn on it, because the sentiment was so cheerfully impractical, I’d sooner gargle with razor blades than ingest that saccharine.
Still, 516 days is a long, long time to be miserable, so I decided to give the article some consideration. I figured if even one idea proved useful, it might stave off the inevitable therapist recommendations and men in white coats.
Or not.
Tip 1: Take care of yourself. The article suggested that using your newfound free time to do something good for yourself would lead to an improved sense of well being.
Rather than molt on my couch, I decided to spend more hours at the gym. A good idea in theory; my mistake came in allowing my ipod to randomly choose the music. Halfway into my treadmill routine, “Tornados” by Drive-By Truckers came on. Of all the 5,787 songs on my ipod, it HAD to choose the one song that will always remind me of Him. Hearing it instantly brought on tears, threw my balance off, and caused me to ride right off the treadmill. Of course, that’s not what did me in. In attempting to get back up, I banged my head on the arm of the treadmill, fell back over, and wrenched my stupid, already gimpy foot under me. Yeah, I’m real graceful.
Tip 1 Rebuttal: Well being is hard to come by when your efforts to obtain it result in walking on crutches.
Tip 2: Clean house. Apparently, having reminders of your defunct relationship are bad for your psyche. The author suggested tucking photographs, cards, and other mementos in a “memory box” to be opened only when you’ve moved on and want to remember your past fondly. (That reeks of scrapbooking. ‘Scuse me while I stick my finger down my throat.)
Nearly three years cannot be pared down into a lone memory box, especially when I can’t look anywhere in my home or office without finding something that reminds me of him, from furniture we purchased together to artwork he gave me. I suppose I could toss it all out, but stark white walls bear too close a resemblance to a padded cell to ever be comforting.
Worse still, he lives right down the street from me. Countless times I’ve sprinted out of our joint Target when I’ve thought I caught site of him. Admittedly, I rarely wear my glasses. Considering my eyesight has deteriorated enough so that helicopters often resemble giant prehistoric birds, it’s likely I abandoned my full shopping cart and bolted at the sight of a mop display.
Tip 2 Rebuttal: To wipe my slate clean, I’d need to move to Siberia. And get new glasses.
Tip 3: Spend time with your friends. It’s true enough that being with your friends can lift your spirits. And to their credit, my friends have been wonderful about loading me up with alcohol and keeping me entertained. So it’s no one’s fault but my own when something as innocuous as a home movie night resulted in a complete breakdown.
For the night in, I deliberately avoided watching a movie that I would have really enjoyed, like Hostel 2 or The Hitcher, because I knew I’d wind up obsessing over how “we” used to watch those movies together. (A shared passion for gore is the hallmark of any good relationship.) Instead, some twisted feminine instinct possessed me to select a Jane Austin film. Lord knows it was something I would never have considered watching before. My friends were thrilled with my change of heart… until they had to pound on the bathroom door to make sure I hadn’t fallen in or downed a bottle of Tylenol. I emerged red eyed and sputtering. “Mr. Darcy… He looks just like my guy… [sniff] and when he called Lizzie ‘Mrs. Darcy’, it was just like what my guy and I used to do…”
Needless to say, I’ve been banned from watching Jane Austin movies.
Tip 3 Rebuttal: For as sick as you are about being alone with yourself, your friends are even sicker of hearing about it.
Tip 4: Try cross-stitching. Rather than writing something intelligent like, “Quit wallowing and get off your sorry ass and do something,” the genius who wrote this article offered cross-stitching as a viable way to get over a break-up. My well being is not so damaged that I need to resort to arts and crafts as therapy, thank you very much.
That’s not to say I couldn’t use a new hobby, though. A link to information about Amateur Night at the local gentleman’s club has been making the rounds between me and my friends, and the thought certainly meets all of the criteria the author listed as an appropriate diversionary activity. Engaging and fun pastime? Check. Way to meet people and make new friends? Check. Potential to earn extra money? CHECK!
Tip 4 Rebuttal: Sometimes, new hobbies lead to far more grief than they’re worth.
Tip 5: Have sex. Another winning suggestion from a writer who obviously never spent longer than three months with the same person. Please shoot me if my self esteem ever gets so low that I feel the need to hop into bed with someone just to avoid solitude.
It’s certainly not that I’m lacking in sexual desire, I just don’t have the interest in sharing it with anyone else. For years, I was quite happy about the fact that I wouldn’t ever have to deal with an unworthy partner or worry about the issues that accompany having sex with new or multiple people. I had exactly what I wanted, and it kills me to think that if I ever want that again, I’m going to have to wade through the masses to find it. Somebody get me an antibacterial wipe. And maybe a blindfold. And earplugs.
Tip 5 Rebuttal: I hate people. If I didn’t loathe organized religion, I’d become a nun.
At this point, I think it’s safe to say I’m beyond help. 516 days is going to be a long, long time. Sigh.
January 23rd, 2008 at 3:35 am
Two things you must remember:
1. In the long run, life is pretty short.
2. This applies to you in ways that, after much self-analysis, only you can identify.