I dislike my ex.

Everyday I find a way to dislike him more.

I ruminate over our conversations, our interactions, and our overall downfall; I find myself consistently mourning the loss of this toxic man who fed my soul GMO-like love.

I am indeed a masochist.

I must be.

Everyday I think about him and I want to claw my brain out of my skull or use a memory extraction spell similar to those used in the Harry Potter films.

I’m angry.

Time after time, he expressed those three words that would make a lover swoon, but months after our breakup, he took them back.

“I started to [love you], but then you started tripping ..”

Those words pierced through my flesh like shards of hand sanitizer-soaked glass.

Two years of ‘I love yous’.

A man (of interest) attempted to touch me and I flinched. I thought of you as he smiled at me with adoring eyes. His lips pressed against mine and I could only think of our last kiss where I sensed the hesitation in your body language. You actually gave me an excuse why you couldn’t kiss me. Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced a scowl to emerge.

This is bullshit.

I cried in my alone time as I thought of you. I was hurting. I wanted you to know. I impulsively sent texts – paragraphs of my grief in hopes that you would feel pain and blame.

I wanted you to hurt; I also wanted to appear as if I was in bliss because of the extraction of you from my life.

I never wanted to feel or look weak or disheveled. I continue to gaze in mirrors at a former shell of myself. I don’t know how to piece her back together. I don’t know how to be okay right now. I am still mourning the loss of his presence in my life – whether it was bad or good.

My apartment is laced with remnants of our past. I don’t know how to function in it without being triggered daily with anger or sadness.

I began packing yesterday and the memories continued to disperse. I want to submerge it all in gasoline and reenact Bernadine’s Waiting to Exhale scene. It would be ideal, if it wasn’t, you know, an apartment.

I’ve been praying to God for healing. Maybe I’m just not listening to the feedback. My involvement with him put a strain on my relationship with God.

Weird.

I try not to deny the fact that I’m hurting, but I feel like accepting causes me to dwell more. It’s almost like a crutch. I’m making it a habit. I’m allowing pain to become commonplace.

I don’t forgive him. Not yet. I’ve said to myself that I did, but recognized the lie while laying in my bed after midnight, staring at the ceiling. For the first time ever, forgiveness feels like I’m exonerating him for all of the bullshit that he did. Forgiveness almost feels like it takes away from what I am feeling; although, I know that forgiveness is a healer and it will help to take away what I’m feeling.

I feel like I just coughed up a bit of the toxicity and splattered it onto this post.

Blah. I have no flowy conclusion that summarizes the moral of this.
 

I’m just going to let it be.

- Mari

Mari is from the midwest and is drawn to the arts. She describes herself as an overloving, hopeless romantic who is currently in mourning. A master of nothing, but a student of empiricism. 

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