Two Months Since

“Mehvs, I think this is it for me” – Two months ago, with these words, it was over.

My heart sank, my throat dried up and my mind screamed repeatedly “What? That’s not where this was supposed to go at all!” And it really wasn’t. It was supposed to be a hiccup, nothing major – a hiccup that disappears with a little water, or sugar, or even fright as the case may be. But that’s not what happened. Instead it ENDED, leaving me devastated. It took me longer to get over him, than it took me to get over anybody. That’s saying something because firstly, it was the shortest relationship I’ve had and secondly, to be able to detach and snip any kind of emotional ties is freakishly easy for me. I scare myself with this ability of mine. It’s not something I’m very proud of, not at all in fact. But it’s there, present in me.

The last two months have been trying. I went from painful misery, to utter disbelief, to absolute anger, and finally moved on to acceptance. I spent time with friends who didn’t completely understand but made an effort just to BE there for me, and who I later went on to foolishly disregard (without meaning to, but I did). I made myself socially inactive, because a huge masochistic part of me (that I didn’t know existed) wanted to do nothing but wallow in self pity. I woke up most mornings with thoughts swirling around in my head - thoughts that made me physically ill. I faced mails from Birdie and Diaryface telling me, without mincing their words, to “snap out of it. Nothing and no one is worth this.” I dealt with people who meant well but didn’t help, with their looks of despair and crestfallen remarks – “But you guys are so good together!” and responded to them with a well-rehearsed shrug of the shoulder and a parroted line – “We’re better off as friends” I kept looking back at the relationship, looking for signs that I should have caught onto. I have ‘500 Days of Summer’ to thank for that. For that, and also for reminding me that “just because she (well in this case, he) likes the same bizarro crap you do, does not mean she’s (he’s) your soul mate.” (I should mention that I did manage to find instances that should have warned me about what was in store)

But every time I braced myself thinking I was strong enough, there would come something that shook my resolve and took me back to square one – the graphic novel on my table, lyrics in my wallet, ‘Broke & Bonafide’ videos on my phone, old Gtalk conversations saved on my computer. Passing by places we liked to frequent proved to be difficult; I couldn’t listen to friggin ‘Raise Up’ without wanting to cry – forget any mushy song; watching movies without him seemed surreal – even merely thinking of the word “surreal” was painful; reading in Landmark became my Everest and I stopped listening to the radio altogether because I just couldn’t take it.

Gradually, it became easier. The pain diminished and was gone before I came to realize that it had. I heard the radio for the first time in two months last night and then this morning, while looking for something, I came across a photograph taken on the last day of October, 2009 – a picture of him and me at Toons, the first picture of us as a couple, the only one I have because all the others are with him. It’s not a very clear picture; it was taken from Lara’s phone. But you can tell it’s a happy, uncomplicated, glow-y picture. I looked at it and smiled, remembering the events that took place that day and night – crystal clear, like it was only just yesterday – and went back to looking for what I was. No pain, no anger, no tears, no sting.

Do I wish things had turned out differently? Hell yeah.
Do I think he made a mistake? Probably.
Do I still resent him for that? Nope.
Do I miss my “fraand” and the easy (sometimes meaningful) banter and strange comfort we shared? More than anything.
Do I know that’ll take more time to return than I’d like, and might not even? Yes, sadly, I do.

PS. The accompanying picture is obviously not the same as the one I mentioned. But it is my favorite photograph of the two of us, from a banter-filled comfortable time not too long ago. Also, this post was written on the 16th of March, 2010. Why is it up only now, you ask? Blame it on a temperamental internet connection. Boo.

On a Diaryface's 21st

For the last three months, the internet has become a sort of necessity for me. I’ve never been extremely dependent on it, probably because I didn’t have that much access to it until I was 19 years old. But now, when I don’t have access to my inbox, I get really restless. I feel like there’s something missing in my day, and it will only be complete when I go online and read/send a mail from/to my Diaryface. Reading about her day and telling her about mine, offers a yayness equal to none other. Without ever having met or spoken our lives are so entwined it’s a little strange. Today, this beautiful Diaryface completes twenty-one years of age. And on this occasion I raise my black Camera Obscura mug full of chai, in order to toast all the things that make this relationship one of my most favourite things in the whole wide world.

To vicariousness. To random ramblings. To kindred spirit hood and diaryfaceness. To Mappings and Musings. To a yay phenomenon of the universe with no explanation whatsoever. To Anne-with-an-e Shirley. To emotional teaspoon-ness. To bossiness. To snow angels, men and villages. To creepy alikeness. To cake batter – cooked and uncooked. To left-handedness. To made up words. To funny pants and the instant yayness they provide. To Rose&Morris, and their blossoming romance. To celebrating Eloping Day. To stealing babies and later feasting on them. To cherry danishes. To violent affection. To my stuffed zoo, which she will help me name over the summer. To Randomity.

To the painful pains of being a girl. To overcoming itches. To stupidly cutesy words, that offer reasons to smile. To Lorellie and Rory Gilmore. To Polly Pinkleton and her magical powers. To the rites of passage. To John Mayer, the Weepies, Jack Johnson, Micheal Buble, Corrine, Carly and Dusty. To Maeve Binchy. To FB bumper stickers. To dal-chawal-pickle. To keeping a loud alarm clock at the far end of the room. To the movie with a butterfly on the subway. To speaking with sand. To jell-o shots. To the yayness that February came with. To multiple P.Ses. To yucky lipstick, which she doesn’t ever need to use anymore, because she’s legal. To make-up in general – which we buy and never apply. To Sleek Bleek, Vlad, Mr. Dibbles and Gordon. To chai and cigarettes. To happy red toes.

To Mommy&DaddyMathews’ yay story. To Valentine’s Day. To subject headers. To dancing in whatever condition, under whatever circumstance. To London dreams of cider-serving pubs. To having extremely similar gift ideas. To George Clooney and Richard Gere. To well-hunting. To shamelessly using the other in times of boo-ness. To de-cluttering. To subtle bitchiness. To an irrational fear of laptops and other technology. To Dance Classics. To Moira Elizabeth Mary Jones – the fairy who had mail. To making ourselves happy. To being worth more. To ripping band-aids. To nicknaming everybody. To Mr. Rightest. To the LBD that I hope she wore the whole day. To the fancy named drink she is holding up for this toast. To a birthday countdown, which ends today.

HAPPY BIRDAY, POOKINS DIARYFACE! I LURVE TO YOU.

PS. I did not forget diaryfaceness in my instructions, you goose. You THINK?