In this first month of being single again, I catch myself still leaning into the habits of when I was part of a couple, when I processed so much of every day with a certain someone in my heart and on my mind, even when an international border separated us. In a way, the distance kept him closer. Contact and communication didn’t just happen, a ho-hum, taken-for-granted, “You again.”
Sometimes our times together felt a tad too razzle dazzle, the equivalent to a kid’s weekend stay with the non-custodial parent. We hiked and biked and ate out aplenty. I’d like to think we’d have done these things just as much if everything had played out in a shared city but time can feel less special when the effort to see each other is only a half hour drive across town or double that in rush hour. Was it “un-real” in that regard? I don’t believe so. We may have cherished shared time more, but the dynamic also came with added pressure. It was more jarring when something might be off. With time so precious, a conflict could require tinkering with the itinerary. As well, a retreat to one’s own home to regroup was more than a short drive and, if chosen, exponentially more dramatic.
Our hikes and road trips were great fun, but much of our best clicking came with the two of us sharing a sofa or sitting up in bed with morning coffee in either of our abodes, an easy stream of chatter going on and on and on.
Alas, my sofa is now for me alone. I never have coffee in bed. I scroll social media quickly, rotely. There is no one to lean into to show my screen and to share an anecdote triggered by a post. It’s all now literally unremarkable. This is but one example of the emptiness I now feel in something small that meant more because, for two years, it was shared. So often during every single day, it’s tiny things that prick me. It’s over. I wasn’t The One, after all.
These are some of the things that continue to require a mind shift:
· I don’t need to mentally file away anything that happens in my day. There is no one to share it with on a FaceTime call before turning in.
· A building is just a building again. I try to blot out Art Deco from my vision, much like that mechanism on newer phone cameras that allows you to make a garbage can or a photobombing crow disappear.
· I don’t need to note the location of Mexican restaurants wherever I happen to be. I’m not stopping in. There’s bottled salsa at home—not as good as at most taco spots, but it’s just me again and, really, I’m not that picky.
· I don’t wear the coat he bought me. I can’t. Not yet. I loved it. He loved me wearing it. It feels like being cloaked in him. When he was my boyfriend, that was comforting. As my ex, it’s not helpful.
· I listen to my boppy pop music whenever I want. I’ll still dance and lip sync along to the songs in my crazy way. There just isn’t a bemused witness. It makes me feel good; just not as good.
· I write or read in silence. I sometimes wish NPR were still rambling on and on in every room. Quick moments. They pass. Things are quieter as well on account of the lack of text messages. Ping! Ping! Ping-ping! My ex would fire off unedited texts in rapid succession. Used to make me smile but stressed me out, too. What is all that? Do I have to stop everything and respond? My friends rarely text. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve lost my number.
· It took two weeks but I’ve stopped bracing for an instant blast from the overhead spout when I step in the shower. This is now at the top of my Good Things about Breaking Up list. It’s a sad list.
· I can push back any urgency in getting an extra chair for my living room. He wanted one and I still see the hole in my design layout, but I don’t need it. I’ve been unsubscribing to those weekly furniture emails. I may even like the open space.
· When I pull out my phone and take a blendie (a selfie with the background matching what I’m wearing), I feel even sillier than usual. What’s it for? Who’s it for?
· I don’t have to put gel in my hair after a late afternoon workout. I’m not going anywhere for the evening and FaceTime is no longer a nightly custom. Some version of bedhead now begins to take shape hours before I ever get near the bed.
· I don’t have to give plant updates. The fact my Christmas cactus went through a bonus blooming period in recent weeks doesn’t matter to anyone other than the person who rejuvenated it. He’d say he “saved” it. (It’s true. Thanks!) I didn’t take a pic to send. We’re not texters anymore, even if my phone still has his contact at the top of the queue, ignoring alphabetical order so I see it every time I go there. I don’t know how to get rid of that once-handy feature. I did, however, figure out how to delete his photo.
· I need to stop glancing at visitors’ parking for my building. His car isn’t there. It’s never going to be there again. I also don’t need to check for empty spaces. I’m not expecting any other visitors.
· When I see the same color and model of his car, my heart still skips. The plates say British Columbia, not Washington. That’s supposed to calm me, but I’m left concerned about that skipping heart. He dumped you. Hasn’t that sunk in? Good god, play some f#*king Alanis Morissette! Take a boxing class. Shred old manuscripts (by hand). Summon your righteous rage!
· This morning I got a text from the library. A book I’d put a hold request on is ready for pickup. It’s a picture book about tacos. (No, not the super popular one. A knockoff, most likely.) I don’t remember requesting it. How long ago was that? Obviously, I did it for him. I’d show him. I’d read it aloud. None of that now. I canceled the hold.
· There’s no rest even when I sleep. I keep dreaming about his furniture and endless trinkets. I’m supposed to know where they go, how to arrange them. This connects directly with our breakup. I didn’t help him pack. I blurted a petty “no” when he first asked and then, after apologizing, he refused to let me help. Used against me, it felt punitive, a response uncharacteristic of my ex. Why did he shut me down? It still haunts me, literally day and night. I force myself to step away from the dilemma with a blink of my eyes. A moment awakened. The next night, the dream cycle resets.
The list will shrink. Give it time. In another week or two months from now, Me Days won’t feel so lacking. I like my own company. It says something about how much I loved my ex that I allowed him to crowd in with Me, Myself and I. This transition was not my choice but, as with global warming, the discontinuation of Häagen-Dazs Bananas Foster ice cream and the constant threat of no more music from Selena Gomez (I do like my ditties), adapting is the only option.
The process takes time. I can’t pay a higher fee and make it a RUSH order. Yes…time. I seem to have so much of that now.
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