Grey was the center of my universe for a year and a half.
2 weeks ago parted on less than cordial terms–to be kind–there may
or may not have been a 2,000 word email sent from my an angry finance guy that laid out my faults and told me (with a surprising amount of eloquence–that’s ivy league education for you) that I was a waste of time–always good to hear–and though I did desperately try to avoid the ugliness that eventually ensued, I did handle the actual break-up itself very poorly, and he was not inclined to let me walk away without making sure that I was damaged.
And the truth is. I’m not okay. I’m not saying breaking up was a mistake or that I want him back –but I’m not okay.
He’s been all over my dreams lately. Various scenes, variations of himself, appearing in many in one night. I came to my internship today in an irked-out haze because he was in so many different scenes of my cluttered subconscious. I know that I don’t miss the actual relationship, the actual man himself. I remember, with bitter clarity, the things he did that angered and upset me, caused me to constantly complain, feel desperately unhappy and, eventually, fall out of love with him. But I miss the soft little things that come with a relationship. The hand holding, someone to squeeze you close in the middle of the night and kiss you softly, and tell you that they love you. Knowing you always have a lifeline. I just wish he would get out of my dreams. I’m sick of feeling like a dried out coconut husk, like the ones we used to collect in our backyard in Hawaii when I was little.
It’s ok to grieve even if you’re the one who ended it. I have to keep telling myself that. I have loved and I have lost. And it’s okay to feel that loss, to feel that pain. Just because I knew it wasn’t right, that this wasn’t it, it’s still acceptable to feel lost, to feel lonely.
The day after we broke up, sitting alone in my messy, poorly lit apartment, still cluttered with empty bottles from that Friday night’s party, in complete silence with a glass of wine in my hand, I felt truly alone for the first time. I had no one to call, no one who was thinking about me–of course, that was one of my main concerns, wasn’t it? That I was never loved enough. And in that moment I cried. I really cried.
And then in the days that followed—and still even now after a few weeks– I would be walking the crowded streets of Midtown or Chelsea and suddenly recognize a place we had been together and my heart would stop and I would feel raw and sick in the pit of stomach.
It would happen on my way to work or walking home to my apartment on the Upper West Side and I’d suddenly recall a corner where we were holding hands and laughing about something serious, something, trivial? and I would feel those pangs of regret.
At PW’s advice I spent the next few days, the very last of sandal weather, in high heels and cute dresses and bb cream. He said it was important to look radiant even if I didn’t feel at all radiant. I felt like scum.
I still find myself walking past his apartment building (always an avenue west) out of sick masochistic enjoyment. –and then feel empty again.
I’m not going to lie. I am not okay.
There are good days and bad days. Some days I feel strong and some days I feel lost. Today is not a particularly good day– he was haunting my dreams last night like an ominous ghost, drifting in and out of different scenes—holding me and wanting me while I pushed away and held on—knowing it was wrong but wanting to be wanted. He was like a palpable fog running over me, thick and cold. Something familiar that I didn’t want to let go of, but wanted to pull off my skin.
I know that it’s okay to not be okay. Especially 2 weeks after a break up but I am really not okay. Not yet.
Those questions are on my mind again. Did I make a mistake? Did I let a truly wonderful man leave my life? Am I ever going to find someone? My heart is aching like I didn’t know it could anymore.
I know there were reasons; I wasn’t truly in love with him anymore, which means that the break-up had to happen. I forced his hand, I made him call me and he made me do it.
I keep hearing his broken voice in the back of my head, a kind of desperation and surprise that I’d never heard before. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach churn when I think about that phone call.
I am not okay.
I am still carrying the pictures we took together in that photo booth, wearing silly costume hats, the first day he officially became my boyfriend. It’s torn in half, the summation of a wine-infused moment of rage the day of that phone call. It’s still in my wallet. I see it sometimes when I look for my green card at Hale and Hearty on my lunch break. I’ll take it out soon, but not today.
It doesn’t matter how many gay husbands or girls that I talk to about it or how many times my brother and best friend tell me that I made the right decision and that this will all be okay in time, I am not okay yet. Sitting at my desk with the early morning sun peeling through the windows signaling a new day, a time of day I am so very familiar with–the time of day when my thoughts are weary and my heart aches most– I am not okay.