I knew I was okay when my scars became the stories I wanted to tell. But I didn’t know I’d have to write this one, and so soon. Yes, my ex is getting married and I received an invite. I don’t think I am the only one who has ever been in this soup (if that, coz hey, soup is ‘healthy’) but I, sure, am the absolute worst at handling it. I mean, it’s bad enough that I was drawing ink from my bleeding wounds to pen my tales of woe when my ex gets married and turns the healing scab inside out- so that the pain shoots back right through me, as good as new. And don’t get me wrong- there’s nothing romantic about this tale nor is this going to be some morphed version of My Best Friend’s Wedding – except I am unable to process this turn of events. I knew it would happen, someday but I hoped that the ‘someday’ would be a long way off.
Image source: Pixabay, under Creative Commons License
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I remember my body jarred from holding the invite, the pain searing through my skin and taking away every feeling of safety I had. In that single moment, I realized that there was nothing that’d snap our ties, nothing that’d take away from the connection we once had- the connection that will always be. Of course, there was no going back just as there was no step forward- but our memories were frozen in time, on pages I had poured them on- and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than for him to go back to our chapter and run his fingers over the words that captured his smile or my silly antics and smile. In that moment, my inked heartbeats stole his’ even if ‘twas for a split second- before he vowed to sync them with the rhythm of another’s forever. And yet, there was a part of me that knew better, a part that knew I didn’t really want that. All I wanted was to relapse into my former state of indifference- a world where I didn’t have to come to terms with losing him again. I couldn’t cry but I wanted to be free of him, even when I knew I really was.
Image source: Flickr
What do you do when your ex gets married? Because I don’t really know what people do when their ex gets married- maybe it doesn’t affect them, maybe they call up to congratulate the person, maybe they even show up at the wedding with a gift that’s just the right type of ‘caring,’ or maybe they spill venom or spread the word (with stories that validate they didn’t deserve them anyway) – but to me, this was a situation I had never wanted to be in.
Not only was my ex getting married, he was getting married to a woman I had once called ‘friend,’ a woman who was stealthily stealing him from me while listening to my tear-stained tales of how we were drifting apart! Call me a fool now- but I wear the jester’s hat with pride- because despite what they did to me, I want them to get married and be happy. But I cannot, for the life of me, forget anything. Forgiving hasn’t come easy either- but there’s only so long you can be mad at people who are hardly ‘present’ in your life. Because after a while, you realize it isn’t them, it’s you. It always was and will be.
Forgive the cliché, but it’s true. It was never him or her- but me. I had given them the ‘in,’ and despite their abandonment, never quite shown them the ‘out.’ I had given them the power to hurt me, to tear at my soul and leave me be. It’d have been better if he’d have told me he fell out of love or she’d have come clean- but the deception filled me with a sadness that I don’t think I can ever fully shake. Maybe that is why a part of him remains with me- in the form of memories, both good and bad. Maybe that is why I keep spilling a li’l of him on the page, by allowing my wounds to ooze whatever of us is inside. And maybe, just maybe that is why I will never fully be okay with this wedding- because something from those seething wounds is still burning inside me.
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So, the ex gets married – I should simply wring out the remaining flames and douse them, right? But I can’t. I do not know what the solution to this misery is. It’s a paradox really. If I do not go, it is proof that the idea of ‘them’ bothers me (when that isn’t true) and if I do, every move I make is subject. There shall be people waiting to wag their tongues and spit filth because how could they not ‘judge’ my presence, or even my absence. In being the bigger person and choosing to go, I only give people the chance to reduce me to a pint-size version of myself and in choosing to trash the invitation, I give them the ammo to blow me to pieces. But the real problem isn’t even what to do with the invite- because people’s opinions should remain where they belong (in the trash)- it is what this means for me. If my ex gets married even as my recovery is somewhat incomplete, I need to do something to heal.
And there is nothing I can do save take my time.
Image source: Google, copyright-free image under Creative Commons License
As I allow time to sew my wounds, I wish my ex a happy married life. A life that (I hope and pray) never crosses paths with mine. Because that’s where the stitches rip open- and the memories gush out- and never again do I want to be just ‘okay’ with my scars becoming the stories I want to tell. I want to be triumphant against whatever this feeling is.
Until then, time!
Featured image source: Pixabay, under Creative Commons License