Laughing At Myself Is Progress, Right?

Everything is a process, right? I decided to keep track of my days for one week to see if I’d be able to make any progress. I wasn’t going to write about any more than that. I’ve already shown how pathetic I can be—no need to hammer it home, right? So I started writing out my First Day:

Day 1 (or “The Day After” or “A-”):
Cried immediately upon waking up, knowing today was the first day I wasn’t going to send him a good morning text. I did that as much for me as for him, because he was always my first thought of the day, and I enjoyed being able to do it.
Dealt with the fallout of my previous blog. Some people were horrified and probably more than a little embarrassed for me that I would put my feelings out there like that. As usual, I fought the urge to explain myself. And as usual, didn’t do too well.
Checked. Head still up ass.
Made plans with some friends for later in the week. Lucky to have them. Should remind myself of that a little more.
Spent a good portion of the day with the same thoughts anyone post-breakup would have: Does he think of me at all? Does he miss me even a little? Does he care? Along with the usual, random thought-scenarios revolving around any future contact. Torture. As if I don’t beat myself up enough.
Reminded myself rather harshly that there would be no ‘grand gesture’ to turn things around when they looked their bleakest. Remembered that there are many differences between ‘reel life’ and ‘real life’ and maybe I shouldn’t watch so many movies.
Despite that, watched “The Holiday” again. Tried not to be too cynical. Did not watch the end of “Never Been Kissed.” Stayed away from “Bridget Jones’ Diary” lest I took a cue and began lip-syncing bleeding-heart songs while drunk (while creating the opportunity for more stupidity). I have alcohol in my house now…sigh. It could happen.
Thought about changing my moon (he turned it around). Realized I couldn’t. (Keeping that one small item to myself)
Cried. Wished things could have been different (repeated as necessary. That number will remain private).
Tried to work. Succeeded a little. Prompted more by the fact that I knew I was out of milk and work brings me milk—no milk means no coffee. As if THAT wouldn’t pour salt into a wound.
Cried knowing I wasn’t going to hear from him today. Followed by the small feeling of relief that at least I wasn’t going to have to wait to hear from him. Knowing is always better than waiting, even if what you know sucks….aaaaand back to sad. I have no patience.
RAN to the phone at every notification and ring…just in case. Kicked myself each time.
Reread old messages—only the good ones. Achieved the expected results. Added masochism to list of self-qualities.
Checked. Still pathetic.
Awareness is good.
After reviewing only one day’s (un)productiveness, I had a few thoughts:
  •  Writing something down will not make change happen, no matter how desperately I write or how hard I press down with the pen. Fuck.
  • Great. A black-and-white blueprint that is going to show me that this could take a long time. Fuck.
  •  Methinks this may not be a good idea. Fuck.
  •  Me also thinks I have to work on patience some more. Fuck.
  • I do not have any kind of superpowers that can make this go away, or whisk me into a future where I am less pathetic. Fuck. I thought I had superpowers.
  • FUCK.

I’m sensing a pattern here.

There will not be any more writing about this. At least not directly. You’ve all seen enough (and it can’t be unseen). Tomorrow, I will put my game face on, pull up my big-girl panties and repeat, “Suck it up, Cupcake!” and get through another day. And I will. And I will do that the next day, too. And the next. And I will be fine, because I have everything I need.

N.B. to the Universe: This patience thing could take a while. Just sayin’.


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