Yesterd*ck

At some point during the high Spears era – somewhere between “I’m A Slave 4 U” and it’s Britney, bitch – a former good Judy introduced a term to my vernacular that I use to this very day.

I had been in the throes of a pretty bad breakup or more honestly, accepting the truth of a one-sided situation-ship that I had given too much energy to. I had entered the phase where I was able to fool almost everyone that I was finally past the sweet nothings he whispered to me while I was on my knees.

During a casual hangout with this Judy, I cautiously let it slip that I had recently bumped into my former dude out of the blue (that was a lie: I went out of my way to bump into him as often as I could), and brought up the idea of possibly giving him a call for “closure,” sans clothes.

“I do miss it,” I told her. “And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind giving me a little somethin’.”

Of course, my friend saw right through me.

“Jon,” she responded, “you need to move on and leave him in your yesterdick folder.”

Of course, the act of getting under your ex to get over them is nothing new, nor does it ever actually work. Even icon-in-the-making Dula Peep knows better.

I suppose I blame it on my stubborn head – well, both heads, really – as well as the occasionally annoying diehard romantic that somehow survives within this human shell.

“Oh, but what if I was wrong? What if I gave up on us too soon? What if he just got overwhelmed and didn’t know how to handle my love?”

Spoiler alert, folks: You weren’t wrong, it takes two to tango and end the dance, and someone who is meant to be your “one” won't ghost you for being loved on too much.

Unfortunately, as I touched on just a few sentences ago, I am far too hard-headed when it comes to love or something like it. Songstress K. Michelle said it best: “I keep learning the same lessons while I’m missing out on blessings.”

A few weeks before Momma passed, I made the emotionally broken decision to send a text to my not-so-sweet L.A. ex; the very same ex who threw me out of his house as I began coming down from massive paranoia brought on by several days of imbibing high-potency marijuana wax, and minutes before another wave took over and eventually had me rambling to strangers on the streets of the O.C.

It was all too easy to coerce him into a conversation.

“Hey. I found some old pictures we took together. Brought back some nice memories. Hope you’re well.”

To be fair, my intention in reaching out to him was somewhat pure. Sure, I was seeking deep distraction to temporarily dull the constant dread of waiting for that phone call from the hospital, but I also wanted to rectify how we met our end into something a bit more pleasant.

I had attempted to do so once before (did I mention I’m hard-headed?), just weeks after our initial breakup. That try got truly fucked before it could even begin due to him confirming that I was nothing more than an emotional shuttle bus to a loving relationship with his best friend – the same friend he swore that he had no romantic interest in, despite an FWB situation between the two that I'm unsure ever ended.

Anyway, a bit of small talk here and a bit of flirting there led to us right back into bed with one another, albeit digitally. And yes, the interaction was pretty hot. That man could always get me going.

Alas, his intimacy often involved a double-edged sword of sorts, and this moment was no different. Not even a few seconds into the electronic afterglow, he unloaded all over me via a follow-up text.

“I don’t know if you put some kind of spell on me, but if you did, I deserve it. These last few months have been hell. Most days, I just want to end it all, but that’s not your problem.”

And what exactly had he gone through over those “last few months”?

• his health, which was already in bad shape before our introduction, had deteriorated greatly.
• his partner’s (the best friend) health had taken a severe nosedive as well.
• his partner suffered a stroke after undergoing several surgeries related to his health issues (sadly, none of them helped matters).
• his partner ultimately died as a result of his health issues.
• oh, and his mother also died only months after his partner – and quite terribly, I might add.

As I lay there, half-nude and fucked in more ways than the obvious, I finally started to comprehend a truth that I had done everything in my power to ignore.

The concept of closure is complete bullshit.

All of the years I had tried to rewrite our ending had marvelously and rightfully blown up in my face, just moments after we had blown all over ourselves. I couldn’t leave well enough alone and now, I felt more lost than ever before. How could someone who claimed to once love me turn around and find a way to blame me for multiple misfortunes they experienced, including the deaths of two of their loved ones? Even if some kind of great energy or magick was bestowed on me, I could never harm another nor would I want to.

“An' it harm none, do what ye will.”

At that moment, I could help but think of Momma, who, with her infinite wisdom, would often say, “you don’t believe shit stinks until you smell it. And then, you’d still need to rub your nose all up in it.”

And man, had I gotten a heavy whiff and then some.

There often is no real need for closure. Sometimes, you just need to leave some doors closed and dead-bolted.

The very next morning, I deleted his text thread and blocked his number.

Lesson learned, Dula.