Is your ego as fragile as mine? If so, there’s a good chance that you’ll go through a breakup with great distress. But, maybe I can help you with that.
You see, we take it personally, like a staff to the sternum, when it really is «not us, but them». They don’t love you like you do. That’s all. Not a fun feeling, but shouldn’t be the end of your world.
In a past life, I had a split that got to the very core of my atoms and I went nuclear. I howled like a creature with a bullet to the flank, its leg shaking to each spasm. I mopped the floor with my tear soaked hair. The salty drops dripped through the slats, relentlessly, forming a calcium crust on the bath mat of my downstairs neighbor.
Thinking I’d never recover and would die of grief…. Thinking about slitting my wrists on the steps of the liberated one, just so he’d be pissed off having to clean the words « I hate you for not loving me» scrawled with clotted hemoglobin.
Oh, the unprecedented violence of a scorned woman! The pain of rejection that twists, writhes, rings the insides and leaves you begging the forces of evil. With glanders and snot running between the knees, conniving how to “get him back”. To top it off, having the girlfriends, heads to the side, hands on their chest, crapping turnkey sentences.
Mercy! Please stop quoting Paolo Coelho! Men either screw me for a while and dump me because I’m a basket case, or they kiss the ground I walk on, I find it highly suspicious and run away. There is no in between.
So, one evening, I was watching “The Bachelor” (if you could not judge me while I reveal myself, thank you) and I witnessed the embarrassing spectacle of chicks getting as unglued as their false lashes over being disposed of, and it hit me: Girls and their daddy issues. As obvious as a cigar in the mouth of Freud.
The zero injury. The one that made me compose with rejection as gracefully as Kanye West at the Grammys. I knew I had childhood wounds, I’m batshit crazy, not stupid. But suddenly, an epiphany: My ego boo boo! The abandonment of my father and the obsession that arose from it.
On the rocks, it’s not my heart that hurts, it’s my pride. What I’m really sensing is not as much the loss of the man of my dream, than the loss of my self esteem. Once I understood the distinction, I scolded myself “Well… simmer the crazy down, chill the freak out and do not ever do that again!” Then I switched from The Bachelor to Hockey Night in Canada.
In short, dear separation crippled friends, keep in mind that it is vital to reassure your inner toddler by whispering softly, “Get over it! It’s not about you, child!” This will keep your floor dry, your mind clear and your heart pumping blood through veins that will not be cut for anyone.