By Veronica Orozco @verozco
Translated by Juliana Achury (Craftisan Translations LLC) firstname.lastname@example.org
When you are suffering from post breakup blues, you feel that there’s no cure for it and that what’s left to do is just to learn how to live with it. It is a sentimental cancer that, same as any terminal disease, ends with your life and the lives of people around you. That’s why there’s nothing better than facing it, than living each one of the stages that, even though seem like metastasis, are just part of the “treatment” needed for healing. You don’t have to experience them in any specific order and it is possible to come back to any of the phases many times (if you are thinking about the rage stage, then you are me).
“Nope, nope, this is not happening to us.”
He left. There aren’t traces of him in the house. There aren’t masculine outfits in the closet or shaving cream in the bathroom. However, our mind –apparently a hateful bitch – makes us believe that the noise we just heard is he hanging his keys near the door, or forces us to look for his cold feet in bed in the middle of the night. “This is not more than a fight, I know it, we have gone through this several times.”
“I hate you, you selfish-unhappy-cheesy-miserable-impotent-fat-ass-stupid bastard.”
Ego vs. Ex. A fight that the poor guy has no way of winning. He doesn’t even know know he’s fighting it. A list of defects (real and invented) come up in conversations with people, even strangers: “So I mark the X here? Is just that my useless ex-husband couldn’t tell me where it goes,” we tell the bank clerk while she smiles, visibly uncomfortable. I hope he finds himself a fat, dumb, frigid mean girl. I hope he is very, very unhappy.
“Should we have a coffee? I’ll bring you some of the things you left and we can chat for a while.”
P.S: “I’m missing you a lot…”
As if by magic, everything that made you leave his side disappears. You forget the bad times and the bland details and you are left, in capital and bold letters, with just the best memories. There are no defects, annoying habits or unbearable situations that refrain you from thinking about him in a way different than “I want you back.” He is, in your head, the wonderful guy you fell in love with. A DeLorean has never been so necessary. Give me this chance; let’s get back together.
“The hole in my soul won’t allow me to get up from bed.”
Anxiety. Insomnia. A fight with your reflection on the mirror. Tasteless food. Crying. The damn crying about everything. The lack of a smile in your face, the apparition of everlasting bags under your eyes. Anguish, the one you feel gently stabbing your chest, like a heart attack, a grief that only goes away in the morning when you open your eyes and think of it as a bad dream. At this point, not even Friends make you laugh, and you are able to depress the undepressable: a golden retriever.
“I like myself and I won’t pity myself.”
So any given morning, you open your eyes and there’s no more pain. The unbearable and tortuous part of our mind has been jailed and gagged; no more tormenting voices. The air feels nice in your lungs when breathing in. Food is tasty again. You go back to singing. When you think about him your chest doesn’t shrug. You let him go. And it is right there when we understand: it’s over. It’s over but it doesn’t matter anymore. And the will to live comes back, the will to fill up your head with new memories, the will to love yourself. Of starting over again. Of being happy again.