When I was nineteen I had my heart crushed under the wheels of an 18 wheeler. I was an emotionally deranged bag of crazy when several years’ affection and love was ripped out from under my feet, and the daunting idea of being on my own was too much to bear. I couldn’t stand to sit by myself and deal with the fact I had no individual identity and conquer that issue right then and there, instead I did what many co dependant young ladies do and I ran into the arms of another man. A man I didn’t respect, or like (for that matter) but who allowed me to use him like a limp punching bag. Suddenly, I was this wretched bitchy nightmare that I didn’t even know anymore. I could have left the guy I didn’t actually like in a rational way, but instead I threw something directly at his face and screamed from my room for him to get the hell out of my house.
I really can’t believe what a terrible person I was at that scary little chapter in my life.
I bought myself a plane ticket and jetted back off to Montreal, hoping to get a fix on my heart breaker. He was like a bad addiction I couldn’t kick. I went with intention, not just to get my fix but to seek out some juvenile sense of revenge (?) prove I was hot to trot and play some idiotic game right in front of him trying to demonstrate I could get down with the best of them. I had many long catch up sessions with guys I knew back home who would want to court me about town and give me a sense of being wanted. I stacked my day timer full of dates and numbers, thinking I was one clever devil.
The more I write the more I cringe at this confession.
I came to Montreal, and it was a disaster. My ex called me out on my blatant attempts to make him jealous and the level of patheticocity in my foolish acts was pointed out time and time again. Most of the guys I wanted to hang out with (and really regret that I didn’t looking back at it) I cancelled on, some because I knew it would have been strictly sexual and that’s never been my calling card, and one was cancelled because the idea of sitting alone with him made me so nervous in a good way that I couldn’t muster up the courage to do it. However, I did wind up spending time with one guy over my week away and my sick wounded heart took the bait, line and sinker.
It was one of my best friend’s older brothers.
Without going into abysmal details about how, when, where or why… we spent time together while I was in Montreal and shortly after I got home he planned to come out to see me on the west coast. He bought a one way plane ticket and before I knew it I was living with someone again. I was in a relationship again. It happened so fast my head was still spinning by the time his plane landed. It hadn’t been planned that way, it probably was a bad idea, but I ran with it. I ran with it for nearly 2 years. There was a bucket full of really nice times that barely stayed afloat in a sea of awful times and the most over the edge dramatic nonsense ever to be encountered (and hopefully I never have to go through that again). It came to a spectacular finale when it was over, it was like the perfect storm.
Some break ups are bad, this one was out of this world messy.
It has been two years since we broke up, almost to the day. I can remember because we finally had “that talk” on APRIL TWENTIETH (4*20) and we had been at the Vancouver Art Gallery with my friend Dale and his roommate Corey celebrating the greenest day of them all. I figured it was the perfect opportunity to say what I had been feeling for a while, and the chances for a big freak out were minimized after the mass amount of marijuana I had seen escaping his lungs only moments earlier. So there we were at BURGER KING, his eyes were blood shot and up turned, and I spilled the beans and we talked over Whoppers and fries. He moved out of our little attic living space we had been renting and things gradually got worse and worse.
Things were said, looks that struck like daggers were exchanged, and by the end of the summer we hated each other.
It’s been two years.
He moved mere blocks away from where I am living now, and he would still be in Montreal if it had not been for that pleasant week when I visited and we first hung out on our own. When we pass one another, with a few exceptions, we avoid eye contact and all we can seemingly muster is a soft “hi” that is so soaked in bitter undertones it hardly seems like a greeting, but surprisingly we rarely cross paths. It amazes me and makes me feel pitiful that you could spend so much time with another person, reveal so much of yourself to another person, live with another person and have to face facts that it’s never going to be okay, we’re never going to be friends, it’s never going to get any better. We’re never going to grow the fuck up.
With every relationship I’ve had afterwards I am continually clawing at this vague idea of “closure” , I got my closure with my first boyfriend on my last trip to Montreal, but I have given up on having some clean little version of closure and comfort between my second real EX and I. There is so much bad blood and bad memories that it doesn’t seem like a possibility anymore.
He works as a waiter at a classy little restaurant that has this AWESOME dish (chicken breast with this mad awesome sauce smothered in mushrooms on a bed of angel hair pesto OMFG) that I think about all the time, but I have to suppress the cravings because the idea of walking into his work space comes off so awkward and prickly. This week has been a rough one for me, and besides my own personal travesties, I am very concerned about one of my closest friends. I decided I should go and express my thoughts to my girlfriend Elise over dinner, and we both wanted the PORTOBELLO CHICKEN so we just said “whatevs” and made a dash to the restaurant I so dread. The dish is SERIOUSLY that great.
We walked in and he was the first person I saw. I figure we’re both grown ups, he is in his mid twenties for sobbing out loud. If we don’t want to exchange a pseudo-friendly hello through fake smiles then so be it. We were seated and we had an AWESOME dinner which was fully satisfying, and delightful conversation about all the exciting things we have planned for the upcoming months. The ex would swoosh by our table frequently, always sure not to look directly at me but walking by quick enough to make himself seen and known. It was slightly awkward but by the end, when I was done my mojito and he had not come over to make small talk it seemed clear it was just never going to be any better. We grabbed our bags, paid our bills and got out of there. That was that.
I had left my cell at home for the dinner, and when I got home I had a few text message to catch up on. Pleasant little quips from the regular text message friends, and then one from none other than the EX.
“Your tits looked great tonight”
What the hell. What the hell, man. You can’t say hi, you can’t make small talk, we can’t be friends, we can’t even look at each other but you can compliment me on my RACK? I mean, it is awesome, but what do you MAKE of something like that?
