The days are long but the years are short. Yet I’ve still somehow managed to fit as many possible cliches into that breadth.
I’ve been the Starbucks obsessed middle school basic white bitch.
I’ve been the drug addled teenager partying with people much too old to be around.
The daughter with daddy issues dating rich older men.
My mother’s therapist.
My sisters punching bag.
My brothers mother.
The academic with glasses and a copy of Poetics.
The sad girl obsessed with Lana.
The swimmer turned lifeguard.
The smut reader.
The list goes on and on.
Now I am heartbroken in Paris. My first love has ended. I almost wrote this on a napkin at the restaurant I’m at but the comforting New England rasp of the ladies two tables down and the jangling of their sterling silver Cape Cod bangles snapped me back to reality briefly.
So instead I’m writing it here.
Terribly cliche but I am terribly committed now.
I feel discarded. Which is odd. I mean he did break up with me. But I’ve never felt discarded. When my dad left I understood that as a sort of un encumbering of soul, an exorcism so to speak. We had to file a restraining order to make him leave after all! I suppose that’s how I’m used to men leaving then, ushered out by cops while he threatens an entire police force with the veins threatening to pop out of his forehead.
Now that was one dedicated, committed asshole. He really devoted his life to ensuring the misery of my mother and his own kin. Not saying I wish for that, just I’m not used to an ending without a fight.
Truthfully I have every reason to get over this fast. Ok, when my brother was having trouble regulating his emotions I taught him a trick. No matter how terrible a day or moment is, ask yourself if this was the best day, or experience, of my life. What would it look like? What would have to change?
Naturally in my case my first thought was immediately, I’d have left him months ago as I intended to but couldn’t follow through with. I’d have not put up with months of disrespect and belittling, erasure of needs and neglect, and eventually physical…impropriety. I’d have left him like it was my job!
So I applied then. In my head.
“Why this company, why us?”
After several rounds of interviews and chatting with members of your team, I find your company’s dedication to constant growth, evolvement, accountability, and above all learning, incredibly inspiring. Other organizations have a sort of problematic stagnation when it comes to these positions, their employees have to tolerate mistreatment and often internalize it. I really would value being a member of your team.
“Ok, well thanks for that insight! Now tell us some skills that make you stand out.”
Well honestly it may be a bit unorthodox but many struggle leaving the past behind. And while I do have one foot in my mind palace at all times, and while it is constructed of memories memorandum and fragments of fantasy, I have a special skill. I am unusually advantaged at quitting. I’ve been addicted to more substances than most adults. And I’ve quit each one successfully. I’ve brought it down to a sort of formula. And an attachment to another person is really no different. The initial days are the worst, as with all attachments the brain gets chemically hooked on. The dopamine the serotonin whatever you want to call it. The longer you don’t speak or see each other, the further this comfort gets from you. You want nothing more than to get a quick fix, a hit. Send a text peek at an old memory listen to a voicemail watch your sex tape maybe shoot them a message on LinkedIn since you’ve blocked them on every other platform. But this quick fix is nothing but a momentary plaster, fundamentally bad patterns tend to repeat. And even if you do intend to fix anything, faking a repair just to be comfortable again is tragic. Seriously. I did it already. Six months ago when I failed to get past stage one. I shit you not my mother picked up on my FaceTime, took one look at my tear stricken panicked face and said I knew you’d take him back, you never did quit anything on the first try.
Perhaps that’s what makes me so equipped at quitting. I know this process like the back of my hand. No rehabilitation. No mercy. Cold. Fucking. Turkey.
So you must grip with every fingernail as hard as you can and leave bloody claw marks on every memory as you physically extricate it from your brain. You rip that shit out you cut that shit out like Elon Musk himself has personally placed a chip in your neck. No scalpel no fucking nothing, if you got no nails use the pads of your fingers. Use your goddamn teeth if you have to. Be a coyote. Chew your fucking arm off.
You tell yourself you’ll see him tomorrow, and tomorrow you tell yourself the same thing. Rinse and repeat. I did it for nearly a year when I was quitting cocaine. I’m five years sober now. Trust me. A man’s got nothing on cocaine, I don’t have a single bad memory with coke except for having to quit. Cant say the same about him. Decidedly not.
And eventually the empty feeling fades. When I was quitting weed I sobbed for hours to my friends, being a stoner was my personality. I couldn’t do anything without being high. Like literally I would roll up while I was smoking and then do the same thing all day and night. And then I’d set alarms for three in the morning and smoke again so I didn’t miss a beat. Of what, God knows.
You find a new personality. You do every hobby you liked as a child before any of this bullshit then you do them all again until you realize wow my 22 year old knees are not as elastic. You eat things you never ate with him, watch shows you’d never watch with him.
You get two jobs, tough ones. One of them must have a hardass boss who treats your “hours a week” as a suggestion and expects you ON at all times. I swear it works. The other one has to have so much editing and writing that your eyes bleed when you clock out. You apply for every masters program at every school you ever dreamed about. You email all your professors. You take five classes, you sign up for every hot yoga and Pilates course you can find. You sprint suicides in an Olympic pool and when you feel like you’re about to pass out you go under water and you FUCKING SCREAM.
Infrared sauna, cold plunge. New hairstyles.
You sleep with the TV on, ASMR hair braiding and back scratching videos. Fuck shame bro I swear. This is where shame goes to die. Actually shame died when I begged him to stay with me. God forsaken addictive personality brain of mine. Oh although I do love her so. So basically nothing can top that. Yeah I’m turning this ASMR all the way the fuck up sorry hotel floor 6, your girl is on a mission.
Watch stupid hockey romance shows and throw things at the screen to celebrate when he beats up her rapist in the stadium in the middle of the game. watch House MD on repeat and reeeaaaalllyyyy feel it every time he pops a Vicodin. I’m talking close your eyes and feel those meds hid your blood stream baby. Then open them and deal with your fucking shit. watch that one motel scene in the vampire diaries and then when you need a good cry watch the one where Damon goes to purgatory and says bye to Elena. Now that’s a real man.
Feed your soul. Choose physical sensations. If you are addicted to something else, nicotine or codeine, par example, now is the time to quit. Make your skin crawl about that instead. Carry around a dollar store pack of birthday candles and light one every five minutes or when you get the slightest sensation of missing anything. Make a wish and the only rule is it can’t mention him or be about a man. Blow it out and keep walking. Repeat on the next block. I’ve gone through three packs. I feel like fucking Debbie Ryan. I know yall remember that movie.
Anyway where were we?
“Interesting set of skills there. So why you? Any drug addict can theoretically bring this to the table…”
Yes good question I’m glad you brought it up. I’m destined for greatness in fact. I’m meant for more. I bring greatness everywhere because I can’t help it. I radiate I shine. I light up every room. I’m a pleasure to work with. I’m a delight to have in the classroom. I’m the best friend. I’m a top notch daughter and sister. I’m a class act. I’m a hot mess. I get put next to the bad kids who misbehave, we ace the group project and then party that same night. I’m the coolest girl around. I’m well travelled. I’m cultured. I’m the coolest girl up or down. You’d be lucky to have me. I’m lucky to have me. I’m very lucky.