There was a very clear break up protocol. I really don't know how it could have gone so wrong, to be honest- I'd even put it in bullet points, and how hard is it to follow a plan in bullet points? First on the list was to unfollow you on facebook and switch off your chat- facebook hadn't gotten the message, you see, that you were no longer allowed to be central to my life, that I was no longer allowed to care what fleeting thought you'd decided to share that day, that you no longer topped my list of people I could chat with. Facebook didn't understand how a few words could change everything.
But a few clicks sorted out the problem of your overbearing presence in my virtual life, and then it was on to step number two: changing your contact name. Of all the things associated with you - perfectly mundane words and food and places and ideas that you really had no right to exert such enormous influence over, distracted and Nutella and Sunderbans and travelling - your name was the very worst. I simply couldn't handle it, you see, it accidentally popping up when I was looking for someone else, reminding me of your existence when I had tried so hard to forget. And so it had to go; you had to become The Ex. Funny, a constant reminder of our changed situation, and trivializing an intense Matter of the Heart, it seemed like the perfect solution, until of course, it wasn't. Because I could change your name, but I couldn't change you, could I?
Next on the list was to clear our chat history and cut you off until I could deal with your existence like it hadn't once been entwined with mine. Ambitious as it was, I thought I was doing okay with this one too, I honestly did. I was immersing myself in my life instead of in our old chats, even if I hadn't yet been able to delete them, or the pictures from my birthday. (Do you remember that, sweetheart, do you remember how you took out precisely enough time, and made it just magical enough to give me hope, to make me think that the problems were only in my head, before wrenching yourself away again? I know you have a terrible memory, but I hope you remember what you did to me, those last months.) I was, I thought, resisting admirably the urge to share with you the details of my journey on this arduous path of Moving On, odd as it seemed not to talk to you about something so significant in my life. Because of course, I was moving on from you, and it would be counterproductive to tell you how I was doing, and ask you how you were doing, no matter how natural it seemed to share this with you like I had shared everything else, from my CCD visits to my family fiascoes.
No, I truly was on my way to doing okay- although, even then, it was hard, sometimes, when I saw something funny, to remember that I could laugh without you, that I could love without loving you. And you, sensing this like some strange predator of the heart, pounced. You decided, as is your wont, to do what was easiest and best for you- you decided to text me, without caring that perhaps you had taken away your right to reach out to me for emotional assistance; that perhaps you could restrain yourself, instead of waiting for me to tell you to leave. That I would never be able to ask you to leave, so long as there was a part of you I could love.
So yes, I had convinced myself I was well on the way to becoming whole, painstakingly pieced myself together over hours and days and weeks- and then you sent me one mundane message and there I was, shattered again. It is really quite unfair, you know, how much power some people can have over you. People should really only be allowed to break you once; their ghosts certainly shouldn't be allowed to come back and haunt you long after they had ended everything. A month and a week really should have been enough; I should have been whole.
But I wasn't, and you wriggled in, and made a place for yourself again. Slowly, steadily, methodically, you undid every piece of progress I had made. You made me forget every reason I had not to kiss you, you made me think perhaps it was possible to be friends. You made me forget that I was terrified of keeping you in my life, of keeping the feelings alive, because one of us would inevitably move on first, and that would hurt, that would hurt so fucking much, the guilt if I did, the sheer simple heartbreak if you did- as you have.
But that didn't matter to you, did it? You put yourself first, as you always have; I let you, as I always did. Old habits die hard - you'd know, with that death stick still in your hand. And so I fell again, to no one's surprise. I convinced myself to kiss you, to talk to you, to hold your hand and help you though this grief you had caused us both, even if that meant I was holding myself back, entangling myself when I should have been disengaging. I hadn't wanted us to end, but now that we had, I hoped we could somehow find a way to end right, so that I could someday look back with a smile and not a grimace.
And somewhere in the middle of all these romantic notions, in the middle of all that kindness and empathy that I thought I owed you for the good times, I forgot one important thing- if we were both looking out for you, who was looking out for me?
The last point on the protocol was to never, under any circumstances, listen to Ed Sheeran. But if I've come this far, I suppose I might as well break one last rule. And so I'll end this little diatribe by listening to the words of the song I'd scribbled over and over again to myself way back before the beginning, back when I'd kissed that other boy and thought it was the worst sin in the world to have done that to you; when I put my heart on a platter and you considered it for hours before you decided to pick it up, back when the feeling of my chest caving in on itself wasn't familiar territory yet: "And if you hurt me, well that's okay baby, only words bleed..."
~Sam
But a few clicks sorted out the problem of your overbearing presence in my virtual life, and then it was on to step number two: changing your contact name. Of all the things associated with you - perfectly mundane words and food and places and ideas that you really had no right to exert such enormous influence over, distracted and Nutella and Sunderbans and travelling - your name was the very worst. I simply couldn't handle it, you see, it accidentally popping up when I was looking for someone else, reminding me of your existence when I had tried so hard to forget. And so it had to go; you had to become The Ex. Funny, a constant reminder of our changed situation, and trivializing an intense Matter of the Heart, it seemed like the perfect solution, until of course, it wasn't. Because I could change your name, but I couldn't change you, could I?
Next on the list was to clear our chat history and cut you off until I could deal with your existence like it hadn't once been entwined with mine. Ambitious as it was, I thought I was doing okay with this one too, I honestly did. I was immersing myself in my life instead of in our old chats, even if I hadn't yet been able to delete them, or the pictures from my birthday. (Do you remember that, sweetheart, do you remember how you took out precisely enough time, and made it just magical enough to give me hope, to make me think that the problems were only in my head, before wrenching yourself away again? I know you have a terrible memory, but I hope you remember what you did to me, those last months.) I was, I thought, resisting admirably the urge to share with you the details of my journey on this arduous path of Moving On, odd as it seemed not to talk to you about something so significant in my life. Because of course, I was moving on from you, and it would be counterproductive to tell you how I was doing, and ask you how you were doing, no matter how natural it seemed to share this with you like I had shared everything else, from my CCD visits to my family fiascoes.
No, I truly was on my way to doing okay- although, even then, it was hard, sometimes, when I saw something funny, to remember that I could laugh without you, that I could love without loving you. And you, sensing this like some strange predator of the heart, pounced. You decided, as is your wont, to do what was easiest and best for you- you decided to text me, without caring that perhaps you had taken away your right to reach out to me for emotional assistance; that perhaps you could restrain yourself, instead of waiting for me to tell you to leave. That I would never be able to ask you to leave, so long as there was a part of you I could love.
So yes, I had convinced myself I was well on the way to becoming whole, painstakingly pieced myself together over hours and days and weeks- and then you sent me one mundane message and there I was, shattered again. It is really quite unfair, you know, how much power some people can have over you. People should really only be allowed to break you once; their ghosts certainly shouldn't be allowed to come back and haunt you long after they had ended everything. A month and a week really should have been enough; I should have been whole.
But I wasn't, and you wriggled in, and made a place for yourself again. Slowly, steadily, methodically, you undid every piece of progress I had made. You made me forget every reason I had not to kiss you, you made me think perhaps it was possible to be friends. You made me forget that I was terrified of keeping you in my life, of keeping the feelings alive, because one of us would inevitably move on first, and that would hurt, that would hurt so fucking much, the guilt if I did, the sheer simple heartbreak if you did- as you have.
But that didn't matter to you, did it? You put yourself first, as you always have; I let you, as I always did. Old habits die hard - you'd know, with that death stick still in your hand. And so I fell again, to no one's surprise. I convinced myself to kiss you, to talk to you, to hold your hand and help you though this grief you had caused us both, even if that meant I was holding myself back, entangling myself when I should have been disengaging. I hadn't wanted us to end, but now that we had, I hoped we could somehow find a way to end right, so that I could someday look back with a smile and not a grimace.
And somewhere in the middle of all these romantic notions, in the middle of all that kindness and empathy that I thought I owed you for the good times, I forgot one important thing- if we were both looking out for you, who was looking out for me?
The last point on the protocol was to never, under any circumstances, listen to Ed Sheeran. But if I've come this far, I suppose I might as well break one last rule. And so I'll end this little diatribe by listening to the words of the song I'd scribbled over and over again to myself way back before the beginning, back when I'd kissed that other boy and thought it was the worst sin in the world to have done that to you; when I put my heart on a platter and you considered it for hours before you decided to pick it up, back when the feeling of my chest caving in on itself wasn't familiar territory yet: "And if you hurt me, well that's okay baby, only words bleed..."
~Sam
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