For all my big talk about making changes and living a brand
new life that is full of wonderful things, some of these huge changes are
hard, and I hate them. Some of them feel terrible and are hard to talk about.
Some of them, I chickened out of talking about. Yesterday, I wrote all about
how I got a brand new job, and I am so excited and it so great and my life is
all in upheaval, and backspaced the part with the real upheaval, the part I
cannot stop thinking about, the part where I told you about how Guy and I broke
See how I am just steps away from Tijuana? I don’t want to be just steps away
from Tijuana. I
still don’t want to be a cliché, someone who thinks she deserves better now
that she is skinny and the world is suddenly her delicious, protein-laden
oyster for the plucking and other irritating mixed metaphors like that. I want
to take you by the shoulders and swear to you no–I am not like that. I wouldn’t
do that. I wouldn’t do something so extreme for such petty reasons, and I
wouldn’t hurt someone for selfish, shallow reasons, and you’ve got to believe
me that it was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, and the most difficult thing
I’ve ever done.
We talked, the Monday after we got back from New York, sitting in the back patio of the
bar, out in the cold, where we had had our first date four years ago. He bought me a drink, and
held my hand, and it got darker as we talked. I couldn’t look at him, and he hung on to my hand as we talked, and it was the most difficult conversation of my life. I was the
one who broke up with him, and he apologized
to me. How do you live through that? You live through it. You feel like an
asshole, for telling someone you love them, and that they mean the world to
you, and that they are wonderful, but that it’s not enough. You tell someone you are not enough, and you hate
yourself for it. You hate that he is comforting you, when he should be angry at
you, and blaming you. He is telling you he understands, and you want to hit him,
to punch him, to tell him to yell at you, because it feels like you deserve it.
I miss him. How can I not? He’s been my best friend for four
years, a constant in my life. This has been coming on for a long while now, and I
hate that I didn’t have the courage to say something months ago, a year ago. He
told me he saw it coming, and he knew what had to happen, but he didn’t want to
lose me, and he thought we could make it work. We couldn’t make it work.
I have slowly been coming around to the idea that maybe I
really do deserve to be happy. Maybe I’m allowed to do the difficult things
that make me feel dramatic and miserable, that make me want to tell you I’m
dying by inches, and everything hurts, and it feels like nothing is every going
to be okay. Maybe I’m allowed to wallow, for awhile, and be ridiculous, comparing the guilt to
army ants under my skin. Maybe I’m allowed to sit and wait through this and
maybe I’m allowed to think that this was the right decision–it was the right decision, I know it
was–and that I’m going to be okay, and he’s going to be okay, and that I will
find what I need, and what I had always been looking for.