This past week has been a bit different to the others, and at first I thought it was a good thing.
I started out strong and determined to get on with my life. I thought about the prospect of new possibilities and focused firmly on never having to listen to him snore again. I lifted my chin and stood up straight, ready to face the world. I channelled all my energy into regaining some control on my life and embracing a different – and maybe even exciting – future. But then this positive outlook somehow faltered.
On Tuesday evening my chest felt like it wanted to explode. I was missing him so badly I could barely breathe. I didn't understand. How was this possible? Just two days before I felt everything would be alright, like my world hadn't crumbled around me. A mere 48 hours later I felt worse than ever. Suddenly, the tears I had held at bay for a while came flooding back, with a vengeance. But these tears were different. These tears weren't the pathetic kind – they had an edge to them. These tears signalled the start of what my friends had warned me about: The Angry Phase.
By Wednesday night I was in full flight. I called him up. Yes, we all know it's a stupid thing to do, but I did it nonetheless. What we want to hear in these situations – the reason we call – is that he's realised what a terrible mistake he made letting us go. We want to hear that he's suffering and he desperately wants to come back to us. But, no, this isn't what we hear. Well, it certainly wasn't what I heard.
What I heard was quite to the contrary. Of course he was so sorry he had hurt me; he never meant to (do they ever?). He was sorry I was struggling with the breakup and 'really' sorry he was the cause of my unhappiness. But what he wasn't sorry for was ending it. He was even surer it was the right thing to do and he had, in fact, already met someone he thought was intriguing.
And, so, I got angry.
It started small – a sarcastic comment. (He didn't respond well to that.) And then I felt myself give in to the words that came pouring out my mouth. The frustration and the hurt and the confusion and the resentment all manifested into words and spilt over into the telephone receiver. I said things I really, really meant but never thought I would say out loud. I said things that were true and honest and not remotely mitigated by a need to please or hold back. I said exactly what I thought and I was incredibly, ridiculously and unashamedly angry – and so I said so.
Ultimately the anger led to tears. The frustrated kind, the kind that exhausts you and leaves you feeling spent. Even now, a couple of days later, I feel raw and fragile – and not altogether myself. It's almost as if I still have more in me that needs to surface. When it has, only then will I be freshly reborn, and I will start to learn how to live my new life.
And so, this fourth weekend of the breakup, I have a plan. I am going to watch the last four episodes of
Grey's Anatomy back to back. It's going to make me cry and wail and beat my fists on the arm of the sofa. But that's the point, because when it's done I hope I will be a little closer to the new me.
So far my plans have not been terribly successful – hopefully this one changes the pattern.
Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 5: Happy birthday to me
Week 6: More than 21 days