I Look in the Mirror and See My Lines.
I wanted him to go away, out of my life, forever. So I broke up. Good move, right? No more lying, cheating, making up after breaking up.
Do not even ask if we went to therapy. Seriously? There’s no need when the writing is on the wall. Read it. Read the writing and save your money. It only puts off the inevitable. No, I don’t think much of therapy.
I just wanted out. There was enough evidence to portend this decision. Eyewitness accounts and massive unhappiness at every family meet-and-greet. Gatherings that made everyone a little sicker at every turn. So I left, finally.
Now here I am, at the post office, at my new abode. Solo. Minus the ex. The ex had been axed. Then I see it. His handwriting, on a massive envelope, addressed to me. In another life, he passed as an English major, with a fancy Ivy League degree.
Personally, I put more value in emotional intelligence, though I must admit, the fact I hung out with him as long as I did pointed to my own desperate lack of emotional maturity. But I managed to crawl out of that once very deep, very dark hole.
Now here it is — yet another communique staring at me. It’s always the same: passive aggressive jabs written on a piece of paper from a recycle bin or his stack of notebooks swiped from hotel nightstands.
This time I notice something different. His personal address, neatly embossed, on top. This is a not-so-subtle way to let me know where he’s currently residing. In case I’m in the mood to hook up.
The notes never start with a Hey, how are you? Hope you’re well. Just random scribbles, short and curt, anger palpable through the lines — lines which direct me to take a look in the mirror.
So I do, I look in the mirror and see the lines — my lines, the bad relationship lines, the crisis-after-crisis lines, where I was so emotionally fraught I gained pound after pound and derailed my mental health.
After I had to sell the house, after the bad economy and the bad relationship I stayed in too long, I moved to my little cabin in the woods. Now he’s stalking me in a pathetic, passive aggressive way. I gave up hoping he’d leave me alone. I blocked him from my phone, from my email, but the internet is public property, and clearly not sacred.
He stalked me via the internet and figured out I moved back to my cabin in the woods, and that’s why I’m standing in the post office, looking at the envelope with the no-greeting note.
I consider writing Return to sender, but that seems to be sinking to his level. Then I wonder if he’s sending anything I should worry about. So I open it and then it goes bounding in the trash. He doesn’t care about me, he simply wants to hurt me, but I’m past that. My own personal idiot days are hopefully over.
That’s the plan anyway. After spending years ignoring every intuitive road map tossed my way, instead of choosing wisely, I raced along a treacherous highway full of speed bumps and searing nights of the soul. Sigh.
It’s okay. That relationship didn’t kill me. Almost, but not quite. Those days are over, done, finito, no mas.
How do I know?
Paulina Graziose is an entrepreneur, a free spirit, and a truth-teller. You could contact her via her website.