It’s strange to write my way through a break up with a person that doesn’t want me to write about him. Again. Part of me wonders how much of this is a punishment. A final ‘fuck you’ that I shouldn’t indulge. Part of me thinks he doesn’t want to be important enough to me to be written about. Another part of me knows that he doesn’t want me to rip him to shreds on the Internet without his consent. Fair enough.
This is why it’s a break up. Because I’m doing it alone. All by myself. Without him. All of these emotions are mine. Everything that he did, every way that he hurt me, every inch of the knife in my back that feels like betrayal – that is gone. It is over. In the past. It is done with it. It happened, and now it is done happening to me. All I have left is myself.
So now what?
Now I write about not being able to write about my break up, and somehow that is supposed to make me feel better. It’s a gift in and of itself. Don’t fixate on what happened. Don’t splice it apart and inspect it. Don’t smear it across the Internet so everyone else can ogle at my version of how everything was horrible.
Just: move on. Keep walking forward. I don’t have to forget, but I don’t have to relive it. Think of something new to talk about. Go into the world and find something interesting to experience.
This blog is about me. Not him. Not us. Just me. I am the devil that I write about.