Breaking-Up is Not the Hard Part

Day to day living is the hard part.


The break-up, the mental, verbal, physical act of breaking away from someone is like breaking your arm. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s fixable. You wrap it tight and re-align the broken parts, and if it’s really bad you get outside support for those broken parts. Mental pins, if you will.


This is the hard part; this is the hardest thing I have ever done. This day to day living in the ruins of a world that no-one else knew existed.


And, without being arrogant, I want to stress that living in a personal apocalypse is something I am very. Very. Good At. This is too much, though. Doctors, psychiatrists, and family members all tell me that the way I feel is normal… they’re right, of course, and oblivious to the fucking point of the matter. It’s not my feelings that concern me, it’s my reactions. Which are numerous, varied, and range from mildly upsetting to bat-shit, FUBAR, fuck-storm crazy.

Then again, at the risk of sounding like a moody teen, how do they really know what I’m feeling? Lets run it down; my mother who has had many long and short-term relationships, my doctor who remains happily married, the psychiatrist who is MY AGE and happily single. And my grandmother, who was married for twenty years, from the age of 19 or so, and whose husband died. Her experience is closest to mine, but none of these people have found themselves at the end of a relationship which has lasted their whole adult life so far when the end has come because the other person got bored and started seeing someone else. My grandfather died. That was not his fault; my partner sat on his changed feelings for a year, let me cook for him, write his CV’s for him, care for his dogs, and jeopardise my credit rating to get a mortgage on a house that he’s keeping.

I don’t hate him, though, and that’s the worst part. That’s the doozy. He said at the beginning he wanted to be friends. I was understandably hurt and scornful. Now I would be his friend, but he treats me like an enemy because his friends don’t like his behaviour.


This is the hard part; coming to terms with the death of a loved one, and its harder when some other person is walking around in their skin.


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