“Your ex-lover is dead.”
As I lay on my bathroom floor the day Mr. B decided to sucker punch me in the heart – waiting for him to pack up his shit and slink away without so much as even a knock on the door to check on me – I grasped my iPhone and sent a manic text to my friend Ms. J. Once we had established that the douchebag had left the premises, she arrived with a bottle of wine (my friends know me well) and her puppy, Gus, in tow.
During those initial hours, I was in shock. I cried. I drank a glass (or four) of wine. I watched her eyes widen as I replayed the last days’ events for her. She shook her head. She insulted him at all the appropriate points of my stories. She did everything a good friend does for you when your whole world gets pulled out from under you.
Now, I have never played the role of the overly sentimental girlfriend. I have had the appropriate amount of long-term relationships expected from a well-adjusted 20-something-year old, but this was the first time I let myself free fall. I made him care packages. Sent him funny cards. My favourite books. Love letters. Pictures. Random thoughts and scribbles.
I believed with every fiber of my being that this man would lovingly spoon feed me grape Jell-O when all that was left of me was a mass of wrinkles, and I smelled faintly of mothballs and gin.
I made a box of memories. I stored everything Mr. B sent me, down to the wedding invitation from the night we met, thinking this would be something to share with our grandchildren (I gagged a bit writing this part). That very night, Ms. J and I took everything – including the shitty perfume and box of airport chocolates he so thoughtfully gifted me with for Christmas – and dumped it down the garbage chute. My chest untightened a little, as I heard it clatter down the 30-story journey to its final destination – the dumpster.
Today, looking through my phone for a friend’s number, I came upon an text from Mr. B from an old number of his I had forgotten about. As I scanned the words unknowingly, the sickeningly sweet sentiments on the screen threw me into another fit of rage, followed by an hour of sobbing. I promptly deleted the text.
When there is no hope of reconciliation, in my humble opinion, the best thing you can do is just throw the memories out.
Current Status: being spoon fed oatmeal / running out of Friends episodes / destroying my parents’ internet bandwidth