It’s been two months since I broke up with Mr. P, to give him a pseudonym. And yet, I feel like it’s been ages since then. To be honest, the time that I spent in England seems an age away and I don’t even feel as if any of it was even real anymore. In my mind, I feel as if there never was a break up. I find myself still referring to him as the boyfriend and not the ex.
Lately though, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mr. P. Well, not so much thinking, more like involuntary memories keep flashing back to me. I get angered over something, because I’m reminded by how culturally insensitive he was. I read about France deporting the Roma gypsies and inwardly I shout at him in retort, Look! Your country has its faults, too! I glance at the scar on my shin, from when he drunkenly pushed me into a lawn sign. I’m pissed off at the marring of my otherwise attractive legs and he doesn’t even remember how it happened. It bothers me, how I keep being reminded of him. Did I really care for him? WHY do I still think about him?
I counted the months that went by since we broke up. Thought about what’s happened since then.
My master’s thesis was failed at the beginning of July. My world was literally shaken. I couldn’t eat, my head spun every so often and the floor would tilt up at me. We broke up one week later. The break up was civil, his mother forgetting my face was not as painless. I never wanted to see him again but that night he called me out saying he wanted to see me one last time. Drunk as hell, he caressed me, held my hand, gazed at my eyes. He left with his friends and I cried, upset and hurt in front of the club. In four hours I left to fly home home, a world away, unsure what awaited for me there. I filled my time with trying to appeal the decision to fail my thesis. Tried to cope with living with my parents again. Up until two weeks before my PhD program was supposed to start, I was still unsure whether my program would still let me enroll. Arriving in Illinois was another issue in itself. Adjusting to the environment, to the workload, to being alone and having to start all over again, it’s been difficult.
It hasn’t been an easy two months. Since we broke up, I’ve packed up and moved twice. Living alone and not having close friends makes me think of what it would be like to have someone beside me. It reminds me of him, whether good or bad.
I wanted to take away only good memories, but all I can think about was how I should have left when I knew we would never be able to make it. I should have screamed out all the things that I kept inside, instead of holding onto all the frustration. But I can’t forget, I needed you, I needed someone to lean on, because I couldn’t handle it on my own. So who used who?
I wish I could erase the scar on my shin. I wonder if you’ll ever understand how hurtful you were that last week in England.
