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Dear Me: This Is Your First Heartbreak

by Madi Scruggs 6 months ago in Dating
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It's over.

Dear Me: This Is Your First Heartbreak
Photo by M. on Unsplash

Dear Me,

It's over. He told you on a sunny sidewalk on your way to lunch in the middle of the workday. You wanted answers, you got 'em. Now, you have to live with them.

As he explained his reasoning, you knew he'd wanted to do this for a while. He'd been waiting for the right moment, and when you finally confronted him about ignoring you for four days, and he had his chance. He took it. You're single now.

It feels awful. This feels worse than any stupid half-assed crush whose attentions were elsewhere. This feels worse than any broken bone or paper cut or fever you've ever had.

This is a bad idea, writing a letter to yourself when you're feeling this raw. You thought you were doing okay, and then he made a joke about Kanye West and you realized...Wow. He's not upset, is he?

You thought you were okay, and then he laughed with his friends over getting an early work beer. He discussed out loud how excited he was to play video games with coworkers. He turned to you and smiled, and you hoped to god he didn't notice your red, blotchy skin and mascara trails down your cheek.

He's doing okay.

You're a mess.

Your friends tell you that you'll meet someone else. Someone who will care if you're gone for four days. Someone who will cry over you if you cry over them. Someone who will love you, completely. Someone who will give you an orgasm.

But right now, the thought of sleeping with someone else makes you ache inside. Right now, the thought of him sleeping with someone else makes your knees weak. You want to bury yourself in the dirt. You want to go home, but it doesn't feel like home. The only place you want to go to is his house, with his banjo that he promised to play for you someday and the tomatoes in his backyard that you'd planned to plant together when summer rolled around.

For some reason, all you can think about are doors. The door to his house. The one you'd stare at and wait patiently until he finally opened it up and stood there in front of you, waiting for the night to begin. The door had so much positivity, so much raw, wonderful power. The power to begin a memory.

There was that one day, the one where his door wasn't happy or wonderful. It was the day he didn't answer it, do you remember that? The day after the four days of silence; the day you'd planned to confront him. The day you went up to his door and knocked. The day he was there, but ignored you. Do you remember that day?

It doesn't make any sense to think about that right now, does it? You can't think about anything.

Your chest hurts. Your arms hurt. Your head, your hips, your back-- everything hurts. What are you supposed to do with all this hurt? Are you supposed to live with it forever? Do I live with it forever, future me? When will I start to feel okay again? When will I wake up in the middle of the night and not feel the urge to cry?

Just go home. And cry. And if 20 years goes by and this letter makes you laugh someday because you found someone else, good. Because right now it just makes you sad. Right now, it just makes you weak.

And that's okay.


About the author

Madi Scruggs

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