Saturday, December 22, 2007

Alright, Breathe, Survive

The past day or so haven't been so bad. I've cried, but not those wracking sobs that pile up into your diaphragm, a train wreck of crumpled cars off the track, each new one shoving the first one in harder. No, it's been the slow-leak variety of crying, where I think hey, I'm not doing too bad, and then I feel that pressure behind my eyes and there's suddenly a shiny slug trail down my cheeks.

Doesn't matter where I am, there's no stopping it. It's embarrassing, but then I'm also mad to be embarrassed. It is crazy to live in a society where it's an embarrassment to feel shitty. Why the fuck shouldn't I cry on the bus? Really, it's like a gift: you people should be grateful you're not this fucking sad.

Merry Christmas. I know, I know, I really shouldn't have.

You might be able to judge from this post that I am bouncing around in my stages of grief: despondency to anger. My lizard brain has identified Eric as the source of the pain and has developed a pre-historic hate-on for him. The rest of my brain is thanking the reptile for doing its best, shaking hate by the hand and then showing it the door. So I am not going to unleash the few choice words my lizard brain is whispering; they are my pain reflex; I do not mean them.

I loved him well, I love him still, and he is well worth loving. The truth of that makes me want to poke his eyes out for not getting it, any of it, all of it.

Alright. That'll pass. Okay? Yes. Breathe.

2 comments:

zoom said...

I love how you write when you're mad.

Small consolation, I know.

Hang in there Megan. There's something even better ahead.

madkevin said...

Hey, chick:

I only know you virtually, through my familial relationship with a Babycakes-er, so hopefully you'll forgive the intrusion.

I haven't been bloggin' lately (although I'm going to correct that - I just moved Sloth to Wordpress in the theory that a new look will make me write more) so I only today saw that you're going through a break-up. That sucks hard, and believe me I speak of one who knows. I could tell you horror stories of mistreatment at the hands of the fairer sex that would make your girl parts curl. Remember that great story Robert Shaw says in Jaws about all the sailors getting eaten alive? Like that, except with girls instead of sharks. Also, I'm not a sailor, although I am looking more grizzled every day.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is: there are only four true words in any language - "This, too, shall pass." It takes time (and, in my case, a lake full of booze) to mend a broken heart, but it will of course mend. And then some other lanky boy or girl with good taste in music will break it all over again. Ain't life grand?

- Sloth