I’m recovering from an emotionally awful weekend.
I don’t know how it started, but for whatever reason, I thought of my ex all weekend. And I teared up. And I was mad at myself. And I lost sleep, because, for what feels like the millionth time, he was in my nightmares.
And you know what? I know everyone is sick of it. My parents are. Gizzy is. You are. And frankly, so am I. After 7 months of not seeing the bastard, and 2 months of no communication, I’m still clearly struggling. And I don’t know why.
Going to therapy has helped me, tremendously. In fact, I can’t tell you how pumped I am to cry to Lopez tonight over it. Because I still need help. Clearly.
However, I still struggle with lots of things. I still think that he’s off having this amazing life, while I’m still hating mine. He’s smiling, while I’m crying. He’s drinking while I’m in therapy.
I hate that I still have baggage. I hate that I’ve only been on one date in the last year and he turned out to be an ass. I hate that the last person I slept with couldn’t get it up. I hate that my ex was trying to fuck me while he had a girlfriend.
All I am banking on is time. I hope, and am close to actually praying to God, that in time, this will get better. Because we’re approaching year five, folks. And I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.
After all, I’ve thrown out everything that reminds me of him. Sold his gifts on ebay. I’ve moved apartments because my old one reminded me of him. I’ve changed my route to work as to not drive by his street. I’ve deleted his number and blocked him from my chat list. I quit watching Sex and the City because the thought of sleeping with someone makes me sick.
But my mind, my memory, my nightmares…all things that I just can’t wipe clean, are torturing me.
To top it off, I drug myself out of bed Sunday afternoon to go to the writer’s meeting. I showed up obviously pissed at the new editor. Upon arrival I found out she gave the cover to another story, after she said she would consider mine. The story that won? Oh, one that hadn’t even be turned in yet. Typical.
I wanted to clear the air, so I asked her when deadline was. At first, she said Monday, then Sunday, then she said Saturday, then Friday…and then said turn it in whenever. Of course, I snapped and said “Look, I need a day and a time so I can get my shit in.”
Saturday at 5 pm is deadline.
If I don’t post on Wednesday, it’s because I’ve checked myself into a padded room, complete with straight jacket and bars over the windows.