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Building Myself a Bridge and Getting the Fuck over It

April 2, 2013

I’ve been composing hate letters. Not as in actually sitting down and writing them out, because then I’d be tempted to fire them off in an email or, worse, post them on here for all the internet to read. It’d be sure to bring me Interwebz fame, all right–grab some popcorn and pull up the chair, folks, she’s going off the deep end without a life jacket!

Sorry to say, you can put the chair away and dispense of the snack food later. I don’t have any intention of actually posting the hate-frenzy I sometimes manage to work myself into for no apparent reason whatsoever. While I’ve given up on letting go of the grudge enough to consider being more than icily polite acquaintances with my ex, I know that enumerating my reasons why the breakup was such a great idea that I can’t believe I didn’t think of it a year before it happened would only make me seem like (even more of a?) psycho bitch.

Instead, every time I get a bile flare-up, I pretend like I’m a character on any series of Star Trek: “Captain’s personal log, Stardate…ah, fuck that noise, I can’t even remember what day it is in real life. Dear Jackass…” froth at the mouth for a few minutes, then finish with, “Computer: Erase entry.”

As stupid as it sounds, it’s actually quite helpful as a therapeutic method. There’s some counterintuitive closure in pretending to be Captain Zebulon of the starship Absaroka (if nothing else pans out in my writing career, I can always write self-insertion fanfic. Maybe I can be like E.L. James, only with actual writing skills!): my ex was the one who got me into Trek into the first place. Even if our breakup almost certainly didn’t kill his love for the series, I get to feel like I won one of the more worthwhile elements of our relationship in the settlement. The fact that it was a shared passion which I’m now enjoying quite well on my own is a clear indication that I’m doing just fine, fuck you very much.

Perhaps more importantly, I’m getting my frustrations off my chest, and even if the cat and any neighbors who happen to overhear me have likely concluded that I’d be better off in a mental institution if only so they didn’t have to hear my yammering, it’s a hell of a lot better than the alternative of recording my venom in a manner that would tempt me to share it. And as long as there was some written version somewhere in the  world, the temptation would wear on me until I could no longer keep the nasty missive buried safely in my hard drive.

Of course, it’s hard even for someone as dismissive of modern mental health therapies as I am to ignore the underlying issue here. No, I don’t know why I occasionally work myself into a rage over my ex’s perceived faults; as my father pointed out, I could have come out of the breakup with more losses than my sense of privacy and a few books that eventually found their way home. In fact, I’m perceptibly happier and healthier than I was while we were together, a fact that the aforementioned parent observed while he was visiting town last week for Passover.

Which might be the problem. My ex’s and my relationship was on the rocks for months before I dumped him. And as the passage of another birthday reminded me, I’m neither going to be young nor live forever. Better make the time count. Those months in relationship purgatory (and not the Southern Colorado ski resort, either) while I tried to figure out if it could work or not were obviously not quality time.

Just as obviously, this is my problem, not his. And yet, like most human beings, I don’t care to accept blame. So it’s much easier to pretend the relationship’s deterioration and demise were entirely one-sided. Even if I did have a classically Jewish mother, anger is still a much simpler emotion to live with than guilt.

And so my collection of vehemently “recorded” and hastily “deleted” personal log entries will likely continue to grow for an indefinite period of time. If for no other reason than I’m sure I can redirect some of this frustration into songwriting, and Captain Zebulon and the Starship Absaroka sounds like an awesome album title.

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5 Comments
  1. Your blog is a gem! I’m laughing so hard I spilled my coffee. (OK, spilling the coffee I did on my own, but you get the point.) I’ve done a few of my own hate letters this week…

    • Thank you! It’s therapeutic, isn’t it? Not the coffee spilling, of course, although I’ve managed PLENTY of that on my own time, too.

  2. Staying away from social media is so vital because sometimes one may be tempted to vent all the juicy details on there, thereby making the situation worst. Talking to yourself may seem insane to some but in my experience I did that than facebook all that stuff.

    • That’s the really nice thing about living by myself. I can talk out loud all I want without worrying about getting funny looks from neighbors. If any of what I say goes up on Facebook, though, I’ll get worse than funny looks, considering my ex and I have a lot of friends in common. Not necessary at all.

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