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Drinking, however, is relatively cheap. Plus, it’s probably more efficient this way, anyway. It would take me dozens of therapy sessions to get to this point, I reason.
“Closure,” I repeat. I’m pretty sure my voice is steady. No slur.Nice, Mira.
“You call me drunk in the middle of the night to demand closure a year after our divorce?”
“I’m not drunk,” I say with as much indignation as I can muster. There’s a bit of spit on my lips left over from when I speak, so that’s a clear lie on all parts.Probably really, really drunk, actually.
Tim’s voice, that had once whispered words of love to me, was harsh. “Whatever. You want to play the victim and blame me for everything? Go ahead. I don’t owe you anything. Move on with your life. We’re done. I’m done with this shit. I’ve been done with it for years.”
I can’t help it. I explode. “Play the victim? Dude, you cheated on me with my friend! Even before that, you kept pushing me away. Tearing me down. You criticized everything about me from the way I walk, the words I use, my body, and even clothes I wore. I was never enough for you.”
And now I’m a shell of the person I used to be.A salty splash of water touches my lips.When did I start crying?
I sigh and breathe into the phone. “It doesn’t matter. I just… don’t understand why you did what you did and how I didn’t see it coming.”
My life’s foundation was demolished. I lost my best friend, my plans for the future, and all the memories of our past were soured in a single day. And stupidly, I still tried to make it work.God. So much for making him rue the day he crossed me. I’m so fucking pathetic.
“Hello? Tim?”
I look at my phone to see the home screen, a picture of Bobble sleeping on his back with his tiny little paws framing his face. “Of course you hung up. Motherfucker”
My white-hot rage boils over as I scream until my throat hurts and hurl my phone across the room.
What is wrong with me? What grown woman acts like this?
I let Brenda run the gamut, telling me how pathetic and worthless I am, not even bothering to fight back. My inner voice is scathing tonight, but I let her run the show, and listen to every single biting insult she has. I pull my knees up on the couch, hugging them. The room spins as I drop my forehead onto my knees. My anger simmers into quiet tears while Bobble rubs against my arm.
Tim’s getting married.
To Hannah.
Does he treat Hannah the same way he treated me? Does he tear her down piece by piece until she’s exactly who he wants her to be? Part of me wants to warn her. She was my friend; she should know how he acts. I need to save her…
Unless he doesn’t do that.
My face scrunches up tight as an even more devastating option presents itself.
Maybe he changed for her. Maybe he could be good to her, but I wasn’t enough for him to be good to me.
But if that’s the case, doesn’t that mean it’s just a me thing? Am I just unloveable?
My tears slowly dry, turning to the muted sadness I’ve been carrying with me for years, like a silent weight attached to my hip. The questions swirl in my head as I get ready for bed, chugging a glass of water trying to will away the dizziness from the spinning room.
The next morning, before I even open my eyes, the pounding in my head rings in the new day. Cracking open an eye sends a jolt through my brain. Memories of the phone call last night cause an audible groan. I look around for my phone to check the time, when I remember the way it hit the wall last night.
“Damnnn it.”
I pull out my laptop and send a quick message to the team over Slack that I’ll be working from home today. I get lots of messages to hydrate and other anecdotal hangover cures.Great.
The steam of the shower combined with the throbbing in my head turns into intense nausea. Thoughts of Tim and self worth rattle through my brain. Stepping out of the shower, I examine my bare body in the mirror.
I don’t even want to step on the scale. Pale rolls and rounded edges, I look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. All I need is a sailor’s outfit. Maybe that’s what I’ll be for Halloween.
I curl up with Bobble on the couch, sinking into my self-pity. The prickling dread is heavy in my chest. I can’t believe I called Tim. He’s probably laughing at me, telling my former friends how pathetic I am without him.
I order a huge greasy breakfast for delivery, eager to stuff myself so full not even memories about last night will fit inside me anymore. Waiting for the food, I spend $129 on a leopard print bathrobe on a whim. Immediately I berate myself for stupidly wasting money, but I don’t cancel the order. I need the dopamine hit. I need a pick-me-up.
I need a distraction.
