the last time we fucked, i did not finish. the act was stubborn– head without reciprocation (our usual protocol). nothing worked. i moaned. i even did that thing with my glasses, arching as far as possible until my spine divorced itself.
mental note:
i'm not a perfect girl.
the actual last time we fucked was post-break up, a form of necromancy. i was not afraid when their hot-wheels collection resembled corpses or when their dirty dishes appeared caked in blood. i paid no mind to the caution tape around my indecency; i like to commune with the dead. i think my ex might have been crying. there is something uniquely silly about crying in doggy style.
a thought burrowed out of my throat, and i felt a laugh brewing. deep in my belly, there was a sun made of bile: indifference. embarrassment. guilt. i was not there.
i can recount my experiences with falling-out-love, but if you’re hoping to read an essay about how to engage with her gracefully, i will not deliver.
falling-out-of-love reeks of morning breath. she smacks while eating. she slurps. she burps. she hides in the margins of resentment. she gets off on 6 hour arguments. she makes a home in your ex’s left-over impression and won't go away, no matter how much you fluff the pillow. she runs mascara and breaks funny bones. she gives you covid. she bleeds– a playground scrape. ugly. persistent. relentless. i am a big fan.
first: write down your uncomfortable feelings as they happen.
i’ve found that my body will do anything to fight the fall, even if my relationship is a parasite. cohabitation is our pre-evolutionary state. my running theory is that our bodies deliver a counterproductive amnesia when we come to unfortunate realizations about our loved ones. for me, writing negative emotions down makes this process transparent– at least, when i finally am ready to look.
i, and many others, begin this fucked up scavenger hunt in the notes app:
i even searched google drive (i should have known shit was bleak when i resorted to google drive):
digitizing my pain constructed a timeline for my suffering. through the doubt, loneliness, and slow torture, my past-self laid a framework for my future-self’s exit. i had successfully excavated our moments to see truth through the rubble.
always: pinpoint your “knowing”– that reality of stone.
if i pass a certain threshold, i know when a relationship is doomed to fail. this time, my “knowing” was valentine's day. horrific timing.
i began the morning with a *riveting* conversation about chairs (my boss really likes furniture). at noon, my partner finally texted me, inviting me to lunch. they arrived with a bouquet that looked like they spent 30 seconds in the floral aisle, but it was sweet nonetheless. we ate avocado toast in silence, aside from my tears.
“i can feel the end coming. i’m not ready to stop choosing you.”
by 8pm, they had chastised me for turning on my air conditioner. i was supposed to wait until after they got under the covers. it did not matter that i had done so every night before. “my toes are cold.”
we finished the night with a sexy activity: arguing over a game of ‘we are not really strangers.’
i learned about true love when i was 20, falling for one of my straight friends. i chose to keep quiet about my feelings, placing her emotional safety— her happiness— over my passing infatuation. we are still friends today. my answer rattled my ex.
“you have so many rules for me, but you’re allowed to be friends with her? hypocrite.”
i didn’t know how to explain the difference between me maintaining a relationship with someone i loved, and them incessantly masturbating to my friend’s photos. however, regardless of our differing worldviews, reality crashed down on me— on us. i loathed their indignation— their smirk— their “gotcha.”
i did not care for their happiness. i did not even care for mine.
beware: it might be precarious– it might be obvious. whatever “it” is– apology, flowers, etc– do not let anything sway what you already know.
for me, “it” was a post-it note the day after valentine’s.
i do not have a collection of letters to burn from my ex. i could probably count on one hand how many love notes they wrote me, so scarcity dubbed this post-it holy— a divine message in highlighter-yellow. the post-it whispered “i love you” on my nose, just like they had. the post-it reminded me of a time when they comforted rather than caused my anxiety attacks. plus, it came with pipi kaula and a cherry soda. how could i resist?
a sad fact of life is that a note and some soda cannot undo the nights of crying myself to sleep. a string of words cannot un-throw me to the ground. an “i choose you” will not absolve our sins. love is not enough. this is the death rattle.
when you’re ready: let them decay in your arms.
much like the other codependents of the world, we avoided our end by saying goodbye more than once. the activities in these goodbye’s ranged from sub-par sex to shooting coke cans with their new bb gun (they told me that shooting something is one of the only ways they can quiet their pain– red flag #23123469). but, out of all these memories, i have a sick favorite.
we met up for our second “closure” conversation and my ex couldn’t manage to stay awake. with every attempt to raise them from their slumber, they made sure to hurl at least three swear-words. clarity tickled the back of my eyelids, an itch to which i was accustomed. i knew that our break-up could only happen amicably while they were unconscious–
while they weren’t being mean.
that night blends together, now: the house creaking, the rain screaming, their curly hair, the ache. i watched my once-lover sleep and, in that sleep, i built our funeral. i offered myself to the wood of the home. i bled on lilac sheets. the moths that congregate at their ceiling fan flew down to our bodies, lighting small candles for the wake. geckos sang– a lullaby, a prayer. i laid myself bare to the cockroaches gathering on the stones outside. the walls wept. something was dying in that room. anyone could have smelt the rotting stench.
the rain stopped. i had grieved us into something beautiful– something sweet. i don’t remember the drive home.
when it’s all said and done: savor the changes.
since our ending, i am left with one question:
there’s this thing i am experiencing. it’s called “post-traumatic growth". here is the definition from psychology today:
in mere months, i have abandoned everything i was when i loved them.
most believe we fall out of love during a relationship, but i’ve felt her most as i rewrite my story. i am here, now, where the memories between my ex and i curdle. i am learning to wade through our spoiled milk and, through the stink, i can accept when some of our moments stay fond. i’ve even grown to welcome the nights where i’m unable to sleep. they are few and far between, but when they come, i pray at my bedside.
**dear god/gods/whoever is up there, please make my ex miss my cat as much as i miss their step-dad.**
with every piece of us i let go, i dissociate from them, dislocate from a self that was abused by them, and identify my capacity to cause harm in return. shaming someone’s behavior in hopes that they will change feels valiant in the moment, but it only digs an embarrassing hole. it is for these reasons that i detach from my control, my desperation to be someone’s catharsis, and my desire to be a savior. i allow myself the space to enjoy sleeping alone, or to listen to my cat purring. through this peace, i find some forgiveness for their emotional sadism. i can even forgive my masochistic decision to let us drag on beyond our expiration date.
ultimately, i think i’ve had it easy. i’m sure that experiencing a break up with someone normal is infinitely worse than leaving a pathological liar. but, if it is any consolation, i am 190 days clean from self harm, i’ve slept with someone else without perishing, and my recurring nightmare is no longer my ex cheating on me– it’s the dreams where we are still together.
there is a possibility, for me, for all of us, that we might feel love for someone wonderfully kind or wonderfully mean and we might fall out of it like the tide.
however, if i've learned anything from falling out of love, it is that if she pays me a visit– whether she saves me or breaks me or much like this time: both— i will let her come. i will fix her a bed baked in the finest of tencel sheets. i will tell her about my pain and my ecstasy. i will tuck her hair behind her ears, count her freckles, and kiss her everywhere but her mouth. i will welcome her without screaming. i will not hurt her.
do you like how i fetishize my sadness??
