All The Things I Want To Say After Heartbreak

The words I’ll never say.

When will this breakup pain end? I want a date. I want someone to say it’ll be six weeks, six months, six years, anything.

I’m worried the pain from the breakup will last longer than the relationship. It sounds so stupid to wallow over a nine-month relationship.

But it was nine months of amazingness. Every moment felt amazing. I looked forward to seeing Jeremy. I was giddy when I left seeing him. My heart wanted to burst with each interaction.

It’s 3 am and I’m on Day 3 of No Contact. I wanted to stop crying and here I am, three hours in, crying when I should be sleeping.

My attempt at No Contact last week failed when Jeremy called me on Day 6. The first day I stopped crying during that No Contact Go-Round. It was two and a half hours, most of which I’d forgotten.

I remember him peppering the conversation with flattery. In a state of delusion, Jeremy tried asking me to stay friends. Yeah, not gonna happen. I pointed out that there’s no planet where he’d want to give me advice on outfits before my dates.

“Whoever you date better treat you…” Jeremy begins the cliched spiel. He doesn’t get a say on how anyone should treat me when he didn’t treat me the way I deserved.

And yet, I keep thinking about the kind of woman he deserves. I keep thinking about all the words I can’t say. I’m past the point of wanting to rip him a new one. My 12-step phase has taken me to the point of feeling a soft, romantic love for him.

I’m watching the rest of Firefly Lane, which is an emotional clusterfuck for anyone with a troubled childhood. One of the main characters has breast cancer, which is bringing up memories of my friend Nikki’s death last year.

A harsh reality of divorce is you no longer have someone to take you to doctor’s appointments. No one to pick you up from surgery because doctors won’t let you use Uber. No one to be there when a severe medical diagnosis pops up.

A major medical illness like cancer isn’t a few appointments. For my friend, it was years of nonstop treatment. The hair loss, the endless runaround from doctors, nausea, the dry skin, the body temperature issues after treatments, the extreme diets, the compromised immune system, the weird bloating that made her look permanently pregnant…while I’m grateful for the extra years, the whole ordeal was miserable for Nikki.

When divorcing, my ex-husband Joseph panicked that no one would take care of him if he got cancer. I promised him that I’d handle it because, after all, he’s the father of my kids and he’s still family. Fast-forward two years and he’s in a committed relationship; she’s got the role.

It’s been on my mind since Nikki died. I need to schedule a colonoscopy. Which one of my friends gets inconvenienced? If I get cancer, who takes me to my appointments when I’m too weak to drive myself?

My brain wanders back to Jeremy.

I want to tell him that whoever he ends up with, please let it be someone who will drive him to all those appointments if he gets cancer. Let it be someone who will still adore him when his glorious head of hair falls out. Someone who will rub his back when he’s throwing up after radiation. (Chemo? Fuck, you’d think I’d know the difference.) Someone who’ll make him whatever tea eases his nausea when he’s barely coherent, like Nikki’s husband did for her during my final visit.

I want to tell him not to settle down with anyone he won’t give his patented forehead kiss to, the one that is so disgustingly sweet but I never told him.

I want to tell him never to settle down with someone who won’t protect him, even if it’s only to treat his heart like a glass rose or defend his manly honor.

I want to tell him that I’m weird and wanted to get him a Father’s Day gift. Wives are the ones who plan family photos. Jeremy’s ex-wife takes formal photos with his kids. I was going to hire my photographer to do a small session for him and his kids, so he’d have fancy-schmancy pictures to include with the photos he has from years ago when his kids were little.

I want to tell him that I still don’t remember where he was born or all the cities he grew up in because every time I asked, I never listened to the answer. Jeremy talking about his childhood captivated me and I’d stare at him in amazement. It hit a point where I couldn’t ask again without looking like a douchebag.

I want to tell him that I’m not okay. But not in a “wahh wahh my life is incomplete without you wahh” kind of way. It’s in a “why am I gutted as if I’ve lost something that’s been in me my whole life?” kind of way.

Okay, that sounds just as psychotic. I don’t want to tell him that. I can’t articulate it.

When a marriage ends, it’s a death. With Jeremy, it’s a loss…the loss of hope. I didn’t have expectations of him. Things could have stayed status quo for as long as he needed. But even the excitement of knowing I’d see him a few days ahead filled me with a weird type of hope. Divorce life is rough. Not seeing my kids every day is rough. Going down to one income is rough. But feeling hope even on a small scale meant the world to me.

That’s the only way I can articulate it.

It’s 4:30 am. I haven’t gone to sleep yet. I know he’d make fun of me for my horrific sleep habits. This is in full rambling mode.

I hate feeling forgettable.

I hate feeling replaceable.

I hate feeling like I was just a benchwarmer.

I hate feeling like I thought the world of him and he actively wanted to find someone better.

I hate that I let him make me feel worthless, all while serving me a charming smile.

I hate that I’ll never tell him this. I hate that I’ll let him think I’m fine because him knowing any of this won’t make him fix what he did.

I hate that every guy I’ve whored myself with during the past two years has always come back and the only one that I cared for turned me into a post-it, a piece of paper with a fancy dessert name inscribed on it. The kind you leave on an empty platter when planning a party, waiting for a guest to bring that dish and the post-it is tossed because the real thing arrived.

I hate that I still want Jeremy to be happy. I hate that deep down, I have to accept that it’s not me. But I still imagine him being happy. I don’t want him to feel this misery. I don’t.

I once did. I wanted him to feel miserable the way I did. The way I still do. But then I think of his mega-watt smile (despite that fucker never having braces) and I don’t want him to not have it. He makes everyone around him happy.

I hate that I’m all like, generous with my feelings and shit. I don’t want to want him happy. I wish I could curse him for a life of misery on a top-tier level of pettiness.

It was nine months. And a tenth month of pain.

Something that short couldn’t possibly be worth all this crying and heartache. Right?