The most interesting thing about breaking up with someone is finding out how many of your friends actually hated the man you spent two years of your life with. That, or they’re just trying to nurse my wounded self in the only way they know how. Who knows? All I know is that the man I thought I would spend my life with is no longer with me, and I’m a mess. A complete and utter mess. My friends say I’ll get over it, just give it time, and I’m sure they are right. This isn’t the first relationship I’ve ever had, others have ended and I’ve moved on. I’m waiting eagerly for the morning that I don’t wake up looking for him beside me, for the night I don’t wait by the phone hoping he’ll call just to say good-night. I just hope it comes soon.

In the meantime, I’m sitting around a lot, feeling sorry for myself and trying not to cry. I’ve reached a point in patheticness I’d never thought I’d hit. The good news is I’ve lost ten pounds from not eating, and the black circles under my eyes are in fashion this season. Got to look at the bright side of things, no? It’s amazing how a sick sense of humor can get you through the darkest of days. So he’s gone. So he said he needed time, needed space, and a week later he’s with someone new. Big deal. I’m listening to a lot of good music and reading up on Sylvia Plath. My life has never been better.

Ok, I’m lying again. I’m skipping school because otherwise I’d see him in class. (See previous paragraph: pathetic). I sleep a lot, smoke cigarettes by the carton, and neglect everything else. This breakup thing is the pits. I’m really annoyed with myself and at the same time I try to give myself time to grieve. Because, technically, that’s what I’m doing: grieving. A loss of a relationship is almost as hard as losing a person. Someone you cared immensely for and spent your days and nights with is suddenly absent, with no hope of them returning. So you grieve, and grieve some more. Suddenly everything is a memory, a song, a flower, an ugly stuffed pink god-knows-whatsit that sits on your bookshelf picking up dust. Every song on the radio speaks directly to you- for some reason, radio stations seem to be in tune with breakups and it’s like in that movie “Better Off Dead” where every channel sings of lost loves. Talk shows on TV start focusing on “I Dumped My Girlfriend and Now I’m Ten Times Happier”. The local movie theater decides to show a double feature of

“Romeo and Juliet” and “Love Story.” Even your friends get into the act, suddenly they are lovier and dovier than ever. That guy you once looked at sideways asks to talk to you, he wants to date your worst enemy. He wants your advice. It’s not fair.

See, the ideal break up scenario is more like this:

him: I’m leaving you. I need space.

me: ok, see you. By the way, I just won the lotto, I’ve been given permission to graduate
early without finishing up this semester, and George Clooney has been suicidal over
the fact that I was devoted to you. I guess things will be ok.

him:waaah!!!

But no, that’s just not the case. I’m miserable. I’ve taken up a new hobby: painting. It helps kill time. I’ve done a few nice canvasses, I seem to have a theme going. See if you can guess, I called one “The Deep Inner Despair of My Soul” and the other is “My Wounded, Wounded Heart”. A friend slipped me some new music by Ani DeFranco, I use it for background inspiration. It has meaningful lyrics like “Fuck you, for existing in the first place”. It makes me happy. There’s also the Murmurs, with “You Suck”, and happy little Alannis Morrissette’s stirring “You Oughta Know”. I have them on repeat mode on the CD. When I get tired of feeling invigorated, I play my aptly named “Tape of Deep Soul Scarring Despair and Heart Annihilation”. By the time “Linger” comes on, I’m dredged in a sorrow that sweeps me through “#1 Crush (I Would Die for You)” and “I Alone”. Hah! I’m not that pathetic, I end with a rousing chorus of “All Over You” and a mad dance around my living room. It always helps. A little.

I’m trying to remember my last major breakup and how I got over it. I recall six weeks of pub-crawling, pot smoking, and a cute little eighteen-year-old named John. How apropos. Why is it that your mind convinces you a night with a fawning adolescent will help ease your wounded ego? And why the hell can’t I find his phone number? Nah. Not going that way, I’m trying to be big about this whole thing. It’s not really fair to fuck with someone else just because you feel like shit. I’m going to be mature and get through this like a rational adult. No cheap, easy one night stands with really pretty boys with big blue eyes… God, I’m starting to sound like a man. But wait, that’s a whole new topic.

Sigh. This really, really sucks. My friend Jen just called, wanting to hit a bar and scam on strange men. She’s been single a while, spends a lot of time doing the party scene. I tried it for a while, it just didn’t do it for me. Not that I’m superior in any way, shape or form to anyone who frequents bars, I just want to spend a little time hanging out with me. And maybe a Valium or two. Kidding. It’s just that for some strange reason the “recently dumped” neon that illuminates my forehead translates as “easy lay” to a lot of folks. And when you’re getting over something that was meaningful, it’s too easy to slip into something unfulfilling to fill up the vacuum. So I’m at home, with “The Greatest Love Songs from the Musicals” fighting for space with Nine Inch Nails on the CD player. Yeah, I’m feeling a little lonely, a little sorry for myself, a little scared of a new relationship. So be it. We live, we grow. We walk away from people, people walk away from us. It happens. Mine isn’t the first breakup in this world, and won’t be the last. I’ll take my time to mourn, to make peace with my memories. It may be a month, it may be two or three. That’s ok. In the immortal words of Dorothy Parker:

Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;

I’ll not be left in sorrow.

So long as I have yesterday,

go take your damned tomorrow!

Funny thing here, I’m feeling better already.