There’s a nice little story I tell about where I went, and what inspired me to go. What I got out of the trip… But it’s all a load of shit. Well, mostly. The truth is, I’d just had my heart broken and needed to get as far away from my life as possible.
I thought that if I ran away, far, far away, that maybe it would hurt less and heal faster.
It didn’t work.
Not even a little bit. Or maybe it did. Maybe it would have been worse if I’d stayed at home? Who knows.
The thing is, that’s pretty much always my instinct with breakups. To run. To get some distance in between me and the guy in question. To make it really hard for us to communicate. And absolutely impossible to see each other. Over is over.
But it’s more than that. I tend to isolate myself. To go off on my own. Someplace isolated or isolating. So that I won’t sit around all day and moan about the guy in question. Because I want that part to be over, too. The regret and the anger and the self-recriminations. All of it.
Thinking back, now (you’ll have to forgive me, I’m in a thinking back kind of mood this month) I’m starting to wonder if by running away I made things worse. I just put off the inevitable. Dealing with crap that needed to be dealt with.
Whatever. It was a freakin awesome trip.
Tags: alone, breakups, exes, guy