I decided I hated love. Oh, the irony. This was not a statement that I would’ve said a year ago, a month ago or even a day ago. My anger had spread all the way to my fingertips as I relentlessly gripped the steering wheel, making my unpainted nails blanch to white. I took one deep, trembling breath. My face contorted in that uncontrollable way that usually signals us to cover it with our hands so that others aren’t able to see the hideous way in which our facial muscles manipulate the look of sadness. I was sitting in solitaire, removing the need to keep my gruesome visage out of view.
I let out a silent, shuddering exhale. The next few breaths were riddled with whimpers and barely intelligible questions of why. I continued to drive aimlessly. What I was doing was illogical, but I couldn’t care less. I didn’t want advice or emotional support, nor did I want expletives directed toward him. The very name that used to cause butterflies to flurry inside me was now eliciting a very different emotion. I stared at the monotonously lined highway lying before me without blinking, just letting each salty tear cascade down my cheeks. I wasn’t sure where my SUV was headed, and honestly, it didn’t matter.
It was unfortunate that my mood was that of agony and rage, and I was unable to enjoy this otherwise beautiful, southern California day. How I was feeling was more suiting for a dark clouded thunderstorm. The sun was bright and warm through my windshield, and I was sure that a slight crack in my window would reveal a cool, fresh breeze and a hint of invigorating oceany aroma. Part of me wished I was able to appreciate the splendor of the coast, but the other part of me needed to embrace my misery and focus on my erratic emotions.
The desire to keep images of him from entering my head were unsuccessful; his smile, his eyes, his laugh, his body eased their familiarity into my black-clouded mind.
Although not my customary behavior, I had yet to touch my cell phone, which stared at me from the passenger seat. I couldn’t call those who were presently on my speed dial to divulge what had happened. I was too overwhelmed and would’ve been unable to comprehend their astonishment and advice. I needed this driving time to feel. To wallow. To… fall apart, and hopefully partially glue myself together again, if only for aesthetic purposes. Isn’t it funny that the very girl who was known for her inability to keep her small daily crises to herself was now paralyzed by the magnitude of emotion spewing from every muscle, every expression, every word that she couldn’t tell a soul?
I hurt. There was a distinct sense of aching in my chest. Heartache. I used to be repulsed by the women who tossed this word into their relationship dialect so easily and without thought. The word sounded so cliché, but the perfection of those nine letters to this feeling was uncanny. I couldn’t think of a single other word to describe it.
I was not, however, prepared for the gut twisting nausea that would overcome me. Thoughts of the last few heartwrenching moments I spent with him twirled in my mind. I tried to fend it off with deep breaths, but it was only a matter of minutes before I was scrambling to get the lid off of a day old Starbucks cup so that I could give in to my watering mouth and erupting stomach. I managed to drive, semi-watch the road and not spill as I sat the cup back in my middle console and replaced the lid. My eyes were dripping with tears, this time caused by the forceful ejection of a day’s worth of half digested food. I didn’t feel better.
I refrained from flapping down the visor and viewing my sad looking portrait. Why did we always do that to ourselves? What was the point of scrutinizing our image right after an event that we knew caused an exorbitant amount of damage to the picture that we only display to others after a shower, makeup application and thoughtfully styled hair? There was a clear answer. We are gluttons for punishment. Just as I was right now.
I flipped on the CD player and was disgusted by the romantic ballad that blared from the speakers. I felt eerily like a high school girl as I thought how each word sounded just like us. I slapped the power knob, turning it off, ejected the CD and threw it into the windshield. The violence felt good. I picked the CD up that had bounced back onto the passenger seat and slammed it on the dashboard over and over until it was cracked into a handful of pieces.
My frenzy had sent my cell phone tumbling onto the floorboard. The tears forced their way from my eyes causing me to see a distorted, foreign image of what was normally familiar. I thought about pulling over as I noticed a strong sense of unruly emotions controlling my behaviors more than any amount of logic could restrain. I again clutched the wheel and yelled as loud as I could. It was so loud that the buzzing sound it created in my ears transformed my scream into a sort of techno remix.
There were just a handful of cars around me on this weekday afternoon, but I hadn’t bothered to make eye contact with any one of them. I could only imagine their fear, and then their conscious decision to put themselves six or seven car lengths away from the crazy woman in the silver Volvo. I wasn’t swerving, but I was driving quite fast. I needed to feel the pressure of the pedal under my foot and the force of the car surging as I pushed the gas. There was something oddly satisfying about having control over this one single thing in my life. Speed.
Reminiscence of the moment when I knew I loved him crept into my head. And now. Here we were. I began to cry again, this time, there wasn’t a single distraction or thought that could calm me. My body commenced to take on an almost seizure-like shuddering motion and as the thought of losing him set in. My mind started thinking funny things, like this was all a dream. I liked feeling this way, and I didn’t want it to leave. This dream-like state was making it hard to think.
I heard my phone beep from the incoming text message and realized that it was the first noise my phone had made since I left the house. Was he trying to talk to me already? He should know better. I, more so than most women, took some time to let the dust settle before objectively looking at any situation. Sometimes, the dust never settled, and the relationship would be gone forever. I let my cell phone sit on the floorboard, teasing me. I couldn’t resist my silver cased cell phone lying on the floormat, taunting me to pick it up like a smooth smelling glass of Jack Daniels does to a newly sober alcoholic. Hi, My name is Vivian, and I’m a Drew-aholic. I was addicted to him, and right now, I was withdrawing.
I didn’t have to respond (You don’t have to respond; just look at it.) Just look at it. What in the world could he want to say to me right now? I reached over to grab the phone off the floorboard when I heard a shrill noise that I couldn’t place for a moment, until I lifted my head just above the dashboard and looked out my front windshield.
I let out a silent, shuddering exhale. The next few breaths were riddled with whimpers and barely intelligible questions of why. I continued to drive aimlessly. What I was doing was illogical, but I couldn’t care less. I didn’t want advice or emotional support, nor did I want expletives directed toward him. The very name that used to cause butterflies to flurry inside me was now eliciting a very different emotion. I stared at the monotonously lined highway lying before me without blinking, just letting each salty tear cascade down my cheeks. I wasn’t sure where my SUV was headed, and honestly, it didn’t matter.
It was unfortunate that my mood was that of agony and rage, and I was unable to enjoy this otherwise beautiful, southern California day. How I was feeling was more suiting for a dark clouded thunderstorm. The sun was bright and warm through my windshield, and I was sure that a slight crack in my window would reveal a cool, fresh breeze and a hint of invigorating oceany aroma. Part of me wished I was able to appreciate the splendor of the coast, but the other part of me needed to embrace my misery and focus on my erratic emotions.
The desire to keep images of him from entering my head were unsuccessful; his smile, his eyes, his laugh, his body eased their familiarity into my black-clouded mind.
Although not my customary behavior, I had yet to touch my cell phone, which stared at me from the passenger seat. I couldn’t call those who were presently on my speed dial to divulge what had happened. I was too overwhelmed and would’ve been unable to comprehend their astonishment and advice. I needed this driving time to feel. To wallow. To… fall apart, and hopefully partially glue myself together again, if only for aesthetic purposes. Isn’t it funny that the very girl who was known for her inability to keep her small daily crises to herself was now paralyzed by the magnitude of emotion spewing from every muscle, every expression, every word that she couldn’t tell a soul?
I hurt. There was a distinct sense of aching in my chest. Heartache. I used to be repulsed by the women who tossed this word into their relationship dialect so easily and without thought. The word sounded so cliché, but the perfection of those nine letters to this feeling was uncanny. I couldn’t think of a single other word to describe it.
I was not, however, prepared for the gut twisting nausea that would overcome me. Thoughts of the last few heartwrenching moments I spent with him twirled in my mind. I tried to fend it off with deep breaths, but it was only a matter of minutes before I was scrambling to get the lid off of a day old Starbucks cup so that I could give in to my watering mouth and erupting stomach. I managed to drive, semi-watch the road and not spill as I sat the cup back in my middle console and replaced the lid. My eyes were dripping with tears, this time caused by the forceful ejection of a day’s worth of half digested food. I didn’t feel better.
I refrained from flapping down the visor and viewing my sad looking portrait. Why did we always do that to ourselves? What was the point of scrutinizing our image right after an event that we knew caused an exorbitant amount of damage to the picture that we only display to others after a shower, makeup application and thoughtfully styled hair? There was a clear answer. We are gluttons for punishment. Just as I was right now.
I flipped on the CD player and was disgusted by the romantic ballad that blared from the speakers. I felt eerily like a high school girl as I thought how each word sounded just like us. I slapped the power knob, turning it off, ejected the CD and threw it into the windshield. The violence felt good. I picked the CD up that had bounced back onto the passenger seat and slammed it on the dashboard over and over until it was cracked into a handful of pieces.
My frenzy had sent my cell phone tumbling onto the floorboard. The tears forced their way from my eyes causing me to see a distorted, foreign image of what was normally familiar. I thought about pulling over as I noticed a strong sense of unruly emotions controlling my behaviors more than any amount of logic could restrain. I again clutched the wheel and yelled as loud as I could. It was so loud that the buzzing sound it created in my ears transformed my scream into a sort of techno remix.
There were just a handful of cars around me on this weekday afternoon, but I hadn’t bothered to make eye contact with any one of them. I could only imagine their fear, and then their conscious decision to put themselves six or seven car lengths away from the crazy woman in the silver Volvo. I wasn’t swerving, but I was driving quite fast. I needed to feel the pressure of the pedal under my foot and the force of the car surging as I pushed the gas. There was something oddly satisfying about having control over this one single thing in my life. Speed.
Reminiscence of the moment when I knew I loved him crept into my head. And now. Here we were. I began to cry again, this time, there wasn’t a single distraction or thought that could calm me. My body commenced to take on an almost seizure-like shuddering motion and as the thought of losing him set in. My mind started thinking funny things, like this was all a dream. I liked feeling this way, and I didn’t want it to leave. This dream-like state was making it hard to think.
I heard my phone beep from the incoming text message and realized that it was the first noise my phone had made since I left the house. Was he trying to talk to me already? He should know better. I, more so than most women, took some time to let the dust settle before objectively looking at any situation. Sometimes, the dust never settled, and the relationship would be gone forever. I let my cell phone sit on the floorboard, teasing me. I couldn’t resist my silver cased cell phone lying on the floormat, taunting me to pick it up like a smooth smelling glass of Jack Daniels does to a newly sober alcoholic. Hi, My name is Vivian, and I’m a Drew-aholic. I was addicted to him, and right now, I was withdrawing.
I didn’t have to respond (You don’t have to respond; just look at it.) Just look at it. What in the world could he want to say to me right now? I reached over to grab the phone off the floorboard when I heard a shrill noise that I couldn’t place for a moment, until I lifted my head just above the dashboard and looked out my front windshield.
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