It’s midnight on Sunday night. Well, Monday morning now. I couldn’t sleep, so I started watching 500 Days of Summer. Why? Because Google told me to. I did some research into how to get over your ex-boyfriend, because honestly, at this point, I’m up for trying anything. Absolutely anything. I’m trying everything that everyone tells me to try: date new people, pick up new hobbies, hang out with your friends, get fit, get a haircut, get your nails done, etc. None of it’s working, though. I’m no closer to being over Big Love than I was eight months ago.
So, breakup movie time it is.
HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO GET OVER SOMEONE?
With nothing to do but trawl the internet and read useless articles from crappy websites about how to get your ex back/get over the ex/blah, I figured I’d try and self-help my way through my sadness. A few websites said the same kind of thing: it takes half the time you were with someone, to get over them. Big Love and I were together for two years. Maybe a bit more than that, but the last few months of togetherness weren’t really togetherness. Very on and off. More off than on. Let’s go with a ballpark of about two years. That means it will take a whole year to get over him properly. I’m eight months in, so I have four more months to go.
Fuck. I don’t think I can keep feeling sad like this for another four months. How depressing.
The only good thing to come from our breakup was that I needed to move to the other side of the world to go back home. I literally put an ocean and half a planet between us and cut all communication. It was the only way. With the exception of a few polite messages here and there, we haven’t really communicated at all. Thankfully, I never had to go through the agonising mess of texting, meeting up, bumping into mutual friends, etc. I don’t think I could cope with that as well. My heart still really hurts. I go about my day feeling fine and thinking I’m coping perfectly well without him, but then something happens to make all of my positivity go away.
First, I couldn’t stop thinking about his dick. About how much of a perfect penis it was.
Then, I found a letter that he wrote to me once, back when we were still in the war zone together. A letter that said: “I will love you forever.” I wish I’d known at the time that “forever” actually meant “until I get bored”.
I never got the chance to say goodbye to him properly before I left, I think that’s why it all feels so unfinished. It had been over for a while to him, I think. He’d dated other women. I’d even dated other men. We tried and failed, tried and failed, tried and failed … but it kept going wrong. So, I booked a flight and I packed my bags and I sent my belongings home in box after box, hoping it would get there before I got back. I told him when my flight was. I’m pretty sure I left him a note on the kitchen counter letting him know when I’d be leaving. By that point, we were like ships in the night. We slept in separate rooms, had separate lives, did our own separate things. We barely spoke, not face to face. Occasional notes when we had something to say, but that’s what it.
The night I actually left, I went to stay with my best gal pal over there. I couldn’t stay at home, it would have broken my heart. I wouldn’t have spent the night in my bed – our bed, I’d have spent the night either on the couch or in the spare room. It wasn’t the last night on the other side of the world that I wanted to remember.
I had an amazing last night filled with tears and sadness, but also filled with laughter and love too. My gal pal and I hugged and ate snacks and drank tea and got all of our tears out, watching cheesy movies like The Holiday and daydreaming about our perfect happy-ever-afters. I’m glad I did that night the way I did, but I’m forever filled with sadness over never saying goodbye to him. I didn’t get to see if he cried or had any feelings of sadness over our parting of ways. I didn’t get to see the look in his eyes, to see if he really meant what he said to me. I didn’t get the chance to see if he felt sorry, or regretful. I just left an empty house one evening, looking just as it always did but minus a few of my belongings. He knew when I was leaving and what my plans were, and he deliberately stayed away. Why? Because he couldn’t bear to see me leave? Or because he genuinely didn’t care anymore? I’ll never know the answer to that question.
I will never, ever forget the feeling that rushed through my body as I carried my last bag to my gal pal’s car. It felt as if I’d been engulfed by an ocean of sadness as I shut the door behind me for the very last time, raising the handle and sliding my key in the lock. The tears starting escaping as I checked the door was locked before pushing my keys into the mailbox as he’d instructed me to do in his last note to me. I started to panic. I was scared. Excited, yes, but so scared. And so sad. I kept expecting him to call my name from somewhere, to stop me from leaving. As I walked to the car one last time, I kept checking around, listening, waiting. He’d have to run after me at some point, right? He had to. We were meant to be together.
At 5 am the next morning, I woke up, had a shower, got dressed, and drank a cup of tea in silence. So did my gal pal. We couldn’t find the words. There was no need for them. The sadness hung over us like a black cloud. I checked my phone, hopeful that he’d sent me a last-minute message. Nothing.
My gal pal drove me to the airport and I checked my phone every five seconds on the way there. Still nothing.
I got on the first flight. Still nothing.
And then I got on the second flight. Still nothing.
And by the time I got on the third flight and still hadn’t heard from him, I realised it was over. We were really, truly over.
It was until two days after I got home that he finally got in touch: “Glad you got home OK.”
And that was it.
Eight and a half months later, I still haven’t had that surprise knock on the door from him that I kept expecting. He still hasn’t called me or text me to tell me that he’d made a mistake. I’ve spent the entire time stalking him online, willing him to want me back, crying too many thoughts and writing too many pathetic blog posts. I’m ridiculous. Pathetic.
On the plus side though, I’ve lost a bit of weight and found my sense of style again. I’ve got a little bit of my confidence back, and maybe even a little bit of happiness too. I’m just waiting for that day to come when he doesn’t occupy my thoughts all the time. And when my heart doesn’t feel like it’s bruised and heavy and still bearing the scars of being trampled on. I’m getting better. Stronger. And I’ve had some help from friends, family, and booty calls. But we’re not there yet.
So for now, I’m going to watch sad, breakup movies and cry and write more pathetic blog posts. Here’s hoping the next four months of my breakup mourning passes quickly!
I can’t wait to close this chapter of my life once and for all.