Aaaaand she’s back!

I was in love with him for a month, I wept for him and pulled at my eyebrows for a week, and it’s gone.

The crazy conviction he was IT, he was the person, the thing, the external must have to make my life complete, it’s gone.

I still would love to stroke his hair and feel him slip inside me one more time or maybe twice or well…

I miss the sex, I miss the constant discovery and the acting better than myself because I’m under observation.

I’m not heartless, I’m just a bit unhinged….

I’m over the rough, I’m left with the sweet memories and the glad you came into my life and shared it with me for an Irish summer.

It lived fast, it burned bright, it died young and it left a corpse hotter than River Phoenix.

The ashes of last week are cool now, and there’s a motherfucking phoenix hatching out, at least I hope that’s what I’ll be, and I’m back, I’m back, I’m back.

I feel a bit embarassed about my juvenile dementia that swept everyone up into worry and commiseration, but it was honest and it was real, I’m just moving on.

Maybe it takes a quarter of the length of the relationship to get over someone, maybe that’s throwaway bullshit.

Yesterday before it had died down entirely and I was still crying helplessly, I posted a song on facebook, Sitting on the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding, a song I always shared with my best friend and a song I introduced him to, and he loved. I posted it and tagged my best friend in it, and oh yeah I was hoping he saw it, but it wasn’t aimed at him, it’s MY song, there was no feeling of it being OUR song or anything.

This morning I woke up to his “like” on the facebook post. Thought it was a bit odd… really odd.. because he hasn’t replied to my messages, but I guess it’s a kind of “we’re cool” or an “I can’t handle talking to you about all the emotional stuff you wrote because I’m in a different headspace and I’ll get in touch when the dust has settled” or some mixture of the two or something else, but I don’t even care why he liked it, I have faith that he meant everything he said when he said it, just like I did, but just as my head’s now free of the mind-altering effects of love or lust or whatever, maybe his is too… or was a bit sooner… So it’s ok, no hard feelings…

I won’t be ashamed of the romantic intensity I threw at him the evening after he left, because I am actually pretty impressed I didn’t go crazier, go more intense, and I didn’t declare I WILL MOVE TO FRANCE FOR YOU, so I think I did pretty well.

It was great to meet you, my French lover. You came when I needed you, you left before I had my fill, and you ignored me long enough for me to snap out of it and go back to being me.

I’m not fickle, I don’t think… if he had kept the fire burning it would have kept burning, I’m sure.

But hooray! I’m a person again, I can stand my own company once more, I can even relish it… My apartment is my home again, not our love nest. I cooked today for the first time since I made him dinner, and I made cheesy potatoes and they were carbtastic and I didn’t eat too many either because I enjoy being slim and I’m going to stick to it but not in an insane depressed way like last week.

Tomorrow I’m going to see the Stone Roses with my best buddy and a lot of other cool people, and I’m going to look wonderful and I’m going to have a great time….

And I’ve put you through so much misery and you have been fabulous and thank you, lovely people for sticking with me through those 7 days… so here’s a NON-HIM related anecdote for you. I wish it was flowers, but I don’t have flowers. Just my words! Hahaha… Thanks for being such awesome internet friends, you guys…

Actually anyway it does start with him,

So I have this bruise on my arm that is basically his thumb and a finger from when we were having particularly emotional goodbye sex and he must have turned me over or something. So on Thursday night I went out with my work friends to watch the match and get very drunk, we decided to hit the bar like gentlemen and have civilised rounds of whiskey with beer chasers… So we somehow made it out of that bar and into a club where I proceeded to tell these guys who were buying me drinks and trying to hit on me all about my boyfriend who moved to France… Somewhere in there I wound up dancing with my girlfriend from work, and this woman comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder and says “Your arm! are you ok?” so I presume she means my bruise, and I just turn to her and breezily declare, “it’s fine, it’s just from sex, you know?”

She gazes at me in horror, she’s like “BUT THE BLOOD!”

So I don’t know what she’s talking about, I guess bruises are just blood under the skin, so I just shrug, I’m like “yeah it was pretty emotional, he was leaving the country.”

She walks away, shocked.

Then I realise it’s my other arm, there’s a cut on my other arm and it’s bleeding quite heavily, although it’s not a very deep cut. I don’t know where I got it, I was far too drunk to notice anything, I must have brushed past a door with a bit of metal sticking out of it or something. So who knows what that woman imagined I was so breezily admitting to getting up to in the bedroom. My lover passionately jabbing me in the arm with jagged metal…

Then today I was in work and the cut had healed but the bruise was bright, poisonous yellow. I had my jumper on but it got hot in the office so I took it off, unwittingly revealing my arms. Later I went to ask someone down the other end of the room where I never go so I never talk to them, if anyone had a phone charger I could borrow. One of the real witty guys I don’t know very well says “Abby, what happened to your arm, did you forget the safe word?”

And I just looked down and saw my dirty sex bruise that is so not a door or a fall or anything but big man hands, and I blushed and was like… errr… and I missed the moment where I could think of any other reason why I had a bruise on the inside of my arm or come up with a “ha ha no, it was just muffled through the ball gag” or anything to defuse the reality but instead everyone just stared at me non-verbally admit it was actually a sexual wound. The guy who made the quip looked at his shoes, I was handed a charger and I scuttled off to my usual corner of the office with my posse.

And I’m back to my usual awkward self. Huzzah!


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