the aftermath.

as i sit here and attempt to pick apart the inner workings of my mind and what the hell i'm doing with my life, i happened to look up and notice a writing piece i had cut out of a magazine god knows how long ago and posted on my bulletin board. i think i posted it because i liked the writing, and when i was into the whole "creative nonfiction" thing myself i enjoyed looking at things that inspired me. however, looking at it now, after so many months, years, what have you, i find it to be positive advice for the greater good of breakups, and thought i'd share it with ye blog-readers. if bored, plow forward.

Getting Over Her
[by Steve Friedman]

Some of the things I did:

Explained to her why her pathological need for a father figure had doomed our relationship.

Bad-mouthed her.

Defended her against friends who bad-mouthed her.

Watched college football with the mute button turned on while she screamed at me over the phone.

Explained to her that I would always love her, that I wished her well, but that it would probably be better if we didn’t see each other or talk for a while.

Remembered the way she’d cry when she laughed, the delicacy of her wrist, her lustrous hair.

Called her and hung up.

Suggested that now that the expectations and ambiguity and fears and all the other irritating accoutrements that go with love, much as nausea goes with oceangoing voyages, had vanished, we could perhaps see a movie and share a pizza and simply enjoy each other’s company, because after all, we’d always been good friends and it would be a shame to throw away that connection.

Admitted I was still attracted to her.

Had sex with her.

Listened to her cry the next day and tell me I was manipulative and narcissistic.

Apologized, and then, when the apology wasn’t received with the appropriate amount of gratitude, accused.

Proposed.

Listened as she told me, over hamburgers and fries, that she had a new boyfriend, “and it’s so wonderful to finally be in a mature, healthy relationsip.”

Accused her of expressing hostility.

Asked her if she would mind if I asked out one of her friends.

Maintained a bemused smile as she said, “I think she’s had just about enough of emotionally stunted, selfish men.”

Asked her if she was mad.

Ducked when she said, clutching a heavy piece of Pyrex, “I really want to break this pie plate on your head.”

Received a naked picture of her over the Internet labeled “one last thought.”

Admired her vengeful pluck.

Admired the picture.

Watched too much television.

Ate too much.

Solicited advice.

“Have sex with as many different women as possible,” said one friend.

“Don’t date for a while,” said another.

“Do nothing,” said a third.

“Nothing?” I’d been contemplating returning every gift she’d ever given me, but torn, shredded, defaced, or otherwise ruined.

“You think that by hurting her,” he said, “you’ll feel better, but you won’t.”

“Oh yes I will.”

“Okay, you will for a second. But then you’ll feel bad about that. More importantly, the rage and despair are both just shades of grief. You’ll be sad, and then you’ll think you’re over it, and then you’ll be angry and you’ll want to tell her how she hurt you, and then you’ll feel better and you’ll want to see her. My advice is to do nothing, to simply grieve. Then it’ll be over.”

So now I try to do nothing.

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question: when contemplating reentering a relationship, should one push forward, ignoring the obvious risks and inevitable consequences, or simply refuse to let the head have any part of it, pushing forward only with the heart, albeit a torn and bleeding one?