Reunited (And It Feels So Good)

I had a bad break-up a few months ago. I was hurting, a bit lost really. And I was reminded again that letting go, or being let go is its own form of death. The obvious difference is that both parties know the other still exists and is out in the world continuing to put one foot in front of the other, living their life. The stark commonality, however, is a searing absence. 

 

 For weeks afterward, I shuffled uncertainly forward. My strategy was simple - keep busy, maintain a steady thrum of background noise to the soundtrack of my life. So, dutifully, I crammed my calendar full of events and activities both trivial and distracting. Fortunately, the holiday season was approaching and diversions (both required and elective) would present themselves almost daily.

I've lived enough years to know that the biggest obstacle to making a break-up permanent is idealizing the former relationship. One or both parties is experiencing an excruciating loss, almost as if an amputation had been performed  and "phantom pains" lingered. During this phase, someone puts on the rose-colored glasses and begins to tell themselves "it wasn't so bad" - or worse - asks the dubious question, "why did we break up in the first place?"

And the Backslide begins . . .

Like many other weak-spirited men, I insisted there would be no backslide. When friends asked how I was doing, I confidently replied that I was doing well, sleeping through the night and was never happier. In hindsight, I'm sure I had even fooled myself. But the one constant time of day I couldn't hide from the emptiness was the quiet stillness of each morning.

The thoughts that flood our newly-conscious mind each dawn can't be ignored or tamped down. They rush in before we can suppress them, and expose our carefully constructed walls for what they really are, nothing more than a flimsy facade of tissue paper and lies.  And so it was with me for two full months until a lonely Saturday morning when the phantom grew flesh and found me, willing and weak.

Am I ashamed of myself? Of course I am. Do I know that I am only making the inevitable end that much harder? Of course I do. I'm pathetic, not stupid.

But for now, I don't care. I am not going to engage that part of my brain that is screaming out, "What do you think you are doing?!" For now and for as long as the feeling lasts, I am going to let my hippocampus run the show. Frontal Lobe? Schmontal Lobe.

So, for the past four weeks I have been drunk with anticipation first, and then fulfillment. Each morning I am greeted, warmed, fortified. The sweetness is omni-present, never bitter. The texture is creamy, smooth. After all, she has always known how I like her, want her.

And yes, I can sense your judgment and your pity. You think me a poor wretch who is setting himself up for a monstrous heartache all over again. Fine, whatever. I don't care, and I don't need your self-righteousness. Besides, you're just jealous, aren't you? You wish you had something this good, this satisfying. Either way, it's none of your damned business.  If I want to live my life on pure adrenaline, with no thought of the consequences, why shouldn't I? What's wrong with that? Why not squeeze every ounce of feeling out of this torturous relationship I have with coffee until even a light breeze topples it, scattering its petrified, flaking remains?

Oh God, I need help . . .

You can follow this pathetic saga in Part 1 and Part 2. Sad, really.