I’m going through a break up. This one is messier than usual, mostly because it coincided with my least favorite holiday: Christmas. I don’t really know what to say about it, except that there was a lot of fighting, mostly via text message, and I am, as usual, the bad guy here. That’s okay – I’m used to being the bad guy. It’s a role I play well. Perhaps too well, given the messiness of the break up. But, oh well, I’ll take what I can get.
I cried a lot. It’s easy for me to write about it now because I’m done crying, but when I was crying it felt like fucking hell. I hate that feeling, that insurmountable, surging pain that keeps coming in waves. If I think back on it, all I really wanted in the moment was for my now ex to put his phone down, drive over to my house, pound on the door (for fifteen to twenty minutes because I’m prissy like that), then look me in the eyes and tell me he loved me and that everything was going to be okay.
But he didn’t do that. Instead, he blew me off for two weeks and told me to “just get over it” (it being the impetus of our argument and an event I’d rather leave nameless for right now). So I did. I started the long, hard process of “getting over it.” Or, getting over him.
Getting over someone is never easy, but when it’s approached methodically it works just fine. The main ingredients to my recipe for “getting over it” are time and other people. When I was younger, the “other people” portion of the recipe involved lots of sex with strangers in bathroom stalls and other slightly obscured public locations. Now that I’m older, I have a bevy of “other people” that I can call who will do the more adult thing, namely, take me out and get me drunk while I moan about my ex and decide if I’m going to fuck them or just leave it at a cordial friendship.
The ingredient of time, however, is static. When going through a break up, all I have to do is remind myself: eventually this will hurt less. I take it day by day. Tomorrow always hurts less than today, and when I arrive at tomorrow I am always relieved when I find that is true.
Now that it’s been two weeks, I have to admit: I am quite proud of myself. Going through a break up a week before Christmas is not an easy task. In fact, it’s fucking brutal. This is the worst time of year to be alone. That’s okay because I wasn’t alone. I was just lonely. I still gave him half of his Christmas presents (but damn straight I am keeping that $60 bottle of whiskey because I can drink that on my own time, thank you). But, you know what I learned from going through a break up a week before Christmas? I don’t need him. In fact, I learned that I never needed him. If I can sit and be sick in my bed on Christmas without him to take care of me or tell me he loves me, then I can get through anything. I made it through this without him. I will have no trouble making it through the rest of my life without him.
When he texted me the other day to tell me he missed me, I don’t think he realized that I am strong. Usually, when I break up with him, I hang him out to dry for a matter of weeks or months, and then I come waltzing back into his life on a whim. He always takes me back. It’s called power. And also sometimes emotional intelligence.
He, on the other hand, has no idea what is going on here. I learned at a young age that trolling for pussy or dick on social media is *not* a classy move when you’re fresh out of a break up. (I learned that on MySpace. MySpace! I would say I’ve been in the game for a long time, but, really, I’m just old now.) Yeah, he did that, and I saw it on Instagram. I mean, boo-fucking-hoo, I’m a slut, he’s a slut, we’re all sluts, so it doesn’t matter in that sense. It’s just…ugh, it’s tacky. I can’t be dating tacky dudes. I own at least two genuine Louis Vuitton purses and some Miu Miu shoes. I am too good for tacky dudes.
Of course, I am still sad. This is pretty sad. We been fucking for six years now. Anyone who makes it past six months has a special place in my heart. Actually – anyone I fuck more than once is pretty cool. So six years is pretty impressive.
Anyways, dear Internet, this is just me checking in to tell you that I am fine. The hard part is over with. And now it’s 2018, so I know you’re wondering what my new year’s resolution is. It’s: no more poor boyfriends.