Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Or, trying to.
Trying to get over someone is a right pain in the arse.
There's no other way of putting it: when you no longer want to wallow in a pit of despair, when you're ready to face the day again; when you know they're an idiot, you've stopped crying and just want to bloody get on with it, you can guarantee there'll be a little heart pang ready to hold you back.
At every turn, there's the pang. That little flutter of memory somewhere between your ribs that reminds you of what you lost while he went off and found, and how bloody scared you are of bumping into it. Or worse, them.
Like when you're asked to flat sit for a family friend who has always enlisted your services in the past. Instead of immediately replying "yes, of course", the pang reminds you that it's a thing you always did with him. That staying in the London flat had always been your mutual escape; a chance to play house and pretend this is how things would be when you got your own place. This time, it's just you. You and some cats.
Or when a recruitment consultant calls up about a job. It's all good until he mentions the location, at which point you feel that horrible bloody pang. Because that's where his office is. Imagine bumping into him on the way to work? Pang. Imagine bumping into him and her in Pret. PANG. London's a big place, but EC1 isn't. And lunchtime's even smaller.
Of all the annoying things about a breakup, the worst is the knowledge that you're better off without someone - yet they still hang around your mind and tell you otherwise.
At what point does the pang sod off and just let you get on with things?