Everyone keeps saying how proud they are of me. I hear that a lot lately. I’m quitting smoking you see. And the lifestyle. And I’m quitting a toxic relationship. I’m really proud of you they say. I know what they mean. I should feel good about myself for taking on addictions and bad habits, and deleterious interpersonal entanglements, and for fighting and making an effort and trying to change. People love it when other people are trying to change. But I don’t feel good. Because I’m cheating. I don’t need nicotine anymore, even though I miss it constantly like an amputated limb. I don’t need to make the party anymore FOMO having receded. But I can’t quit her.
Let’s mix metaphors.
I’m gliding towards a train wreck while in a dumpster that’s on fire while holding a bag full of angry, wet, cats.
That sounds like a party, or at least a distraction but actually there are quiet moments. I feel the wind, see the stars, and the evening looks so pleasant as I hurl towards certain disaster. In those moments of calm, I’m so, so sad.
I’m leaving. I’m moving on. She’s not mine. Will never be. I remind myself every night. Every day I look at my phone and do what it tells me when her name appears. Answer her call, respond to her text. Take another hit of her and inhale deeply.
I still want you to be proud of me though.