I’ve just come back from a hike. The death toll from the dark and treacherous country lanes was high:
My pride (I wore my fluorescent yellow jacket for the first time tonight, as it starts getting dark absurdly early now.)
I’d planned to use my walk to work out how I could better a poem I’m writing, but my brain was like, ‘Hell no. You’re not doing that. No. You’re going to think about the fact that it’s now two weeks since you left your boyfriend and almost walked out in front of a bus in downtown Reykjavik. Quite probably the bus you and he used to take together all the time. You’ll focus on that for at least forty-five minutes while you dodge sheep shit and scowl at any sign of human life.’
And I did that for probably more than forty-five minutes if I’m honest. Then I started composing a letter to my ex in my head. Part of it went like this:
Like seriously, though. Why? Why all the damn lies? What made you think it was acceptable to lie not once, not twice, but hundreds of times? What made you think it was OK to do the detestable things you did and then explain them away to me like I was born without a brain? Something that hurts most of all is that you treated me like an idiot. You expected me to believe those farfetched stories because you ‘didn’t want anyone else.’
Being told second-hand by people about the worst of your despicable actions was humiliating. You didn’t just break my heart, you beautiful bastard; you smashed it until there was nothing left to hold.
I know I’ll never get answers, and I’m getting used to this idea; really, I am. But I loved you, you fuckface. My family loved you. I can say with confidence that the family cat liked you. And would have probably grown to love you.
And yet, despite all this, despite knowing you’re acting like I never existed, I hope you’re OK. And it pisses me off that I want you to be OK because right now I don’t think you deserve to be OK. But that’s how it is.
I think this will be the last time I’ll write about this breakup. Who am I trying to kid? It won’t be the last time, but I need to focus my attention elsewhere; otherwise, it’ll just keep eating me up, regurgitating me, and eating me up all over again.
I turn 36 tomorrow and definitely don’t want to be bemoaning my broken heart when I could be bemoaning the reality that I’m almost 40 and bought myself a foam roller for my bad back as a birthday gift.