On Saturday afternoon, I started crying and it took me a while to stop.
It had been a long week of late nights and work pressure and plans for a restful weekend were scuppered by having to drag myself out to IKEA on sale weekend because they messed up my delivery. Perhaps this was the straw that broke what I suppose was this very fragile camel’s back.
The thing about breakups is that they are a quagmire of mixed emotions. It’s sort of like navigating your way through a field littered with landmines where the smallest, most insignificant misstep can leave you bloodied and broken. And so it has been for the last week or so that I have been stumbling upon landmines and bearing the brunt of memories in silence until I am finally broken by a forced trip to a furniture store and an errant dowel.
I’ve been doing the things you’re supposed to do when a relationship ends; following the Post-Breakup Rule Book to the letter and feeling just fine a lot of the time. Except the other times, when I lose my grip on all of the “fine-ness”, are pretty tough and I veer off the rails of recovery ever so slightly. And try as I might, I can’t help but think of things that could have been said but weren’t and make a mental list of the ways in which my time could have been spent that didn’t end with my sobbing quietly on my bedroom floor on a Saturday afternoon.
I have been told that breakups are somewhat similar to deaths in that the future you saw for yourself and for the other is gone and that you have to mourn it and give your permission to do just that. Perhaps I have been a little stingy with the permission; trying to shape my feelings into what I want them to be rather than what they are. I might not necessarily want to ride the wave of emotions when it comes but there’s little I can do keep it at bay. I have to rage and cry and mumble about how unfair it is into my pillow and then I have to keep moving forward.
In times like those, I am loath to step outside of my solitude but doing so has led to comfort in the shape of friends who have offered advice and who have carried my pain for me and when words failed, simply listened which was such a gift. This past weekend, I leaned on friends like a crutch and can’t express my gratitude enough. They let me talk and talk some more and even those separated by oceans (hi, Kim) made me feel like I could tilt my head and find a shoulder on which to rest.
It will take time; this I know and as much as I long for it, there is no fast-forward button to press so that you are transported to the time when you can listen to certain songs and you aren’t fighting back the looming fear of ending up alone or worrying about how much it will hurt when they find someone else. There’s no hop, skip and jumping past the part where you are beset by regret and anger and an overwhelming sadness.
Breakups, even the “good” ones (which I suppose is the kind I experienced) require a healing period. You wade through the quagmire and hope that you come out in tact on the other side.
I should slide in an apology here. This isn’t something I thought I should write about at all but reasoned that I could do so in a respectful and truthful way which is what I hope I have achieved here. It’s been over a month and I know I have a long way to go but TRUST me when I say this blog isn’t going to become some dreadful account of one woman’s trek through post-breakup heartache. I’m pretty private as it is so I think this post will be the extent of my public musings on this subject. Thanks for slogging through even this.
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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