I’ve been battling the crazy. And I haven’t been able to write about it because I think Cautionary Lover is reading, and I don’t want him to know how crazy I, in fact, am. And just when I thought the crazy was finally subsiding to the point where I could write about it, I became so crazy that I thought maybe I wouldn’t update my blog ever again, and maybe then he would worry about me some. I’m not sure where down the line causing worry became a goal, but I think it has something to do with BEING CRAZY.
I decided just to blog about the crazy, because it’s a win-win. I’m exercising the very weak, atrophied muscles of not letting what others may think about me prevent me from writing, and I have the added bonus of probably causing him to worry about me anyway. Because, obviously, I am crazy. So, I guess, the only loser here is me. Crazy old loser blogging crazy me.
About a month ago, I was all, I’m moving on. I’m letting go. And then when the initial redemptive shock of it passed, it got harder, but I was still moving on. I was still letting go. Just a little more slowly, is all. It’s harder than I thought, okay? And then my parking spot got moved, and I was all, this will help me move on. This will help me let go. But when that connection was lost, something in my mind became unhinged. And I began obsessing. Pretty much non-stop. A daily 30-minute jaunt down memory lane was traded in for a full-on 24-hour-a-day sprint through the obsessive annals of Cautionary Girl’s mind. It never rested. I never rested.
I officially began to lose it. And then I began to worry that I’ve become the crazy ex-mistress. You know the kind. In film and literature. They start out all normal, just kind of tragically beautiful and maybe unintentionally seductive, and then they become An Other Woman, and then they get obsessive and sad and desperate, and then they threaten the cheating man’s lying secret way of life, and then the cheating man’s only solution for getting out of the mess is to kill his ex-mistress. Or sometimes she gets pregnant with his child before she goes crazy, and then he kills both of them. And then continues on calmly with his life, never really having lost or learned anything. Just mildly relieved that it’s finally over.
So I guess what I’m saying is that it’s not over because I’m not dead yet.
A good friend of mine told me that it took her a year to get over her broken heart. She was broken up with in the May of our sophomore year of college, and by the spring of our junior year, she told me, she felt as though she were coming back to life, blooming along with all the other plants, turning her face to the sun and letting it shine on her and nourish her.
I spent most of the winter hoping that it could happen that way for me too. For a time, it seemed possible. I was moving in a good direction. But this Friday marks one year from the date the affair became a true, honest-to-god, can’t-call-it-by-any-other-name affair. And I’m watching the trees bursting into green, the redbuds exploding into pink, and I’m not bursting into green or exploding into pink along with them. I’m still huddled here in the dark cold, thinking that this is how they must’ve looked last year.