Little Acts of Destruction

The day after SCL (from this point forward now standing for “Sorry-Ass Communicationally-Stunted Loser” ) broke things off, I had this singular moment of rage in which I couldn’t control my tongue and out of this dark, incredibly hurt place inside came this “FUCK YOU!”

Immediately I felt like an idiot for saying something so infantile and not particularly creative, and even though I was really feeling like shit because SCL had been an asshole to me, I called him later to say “Sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Well, I’m here to tell you that today I’m taking back that taking back of the F-U because, damn it, I really mean it now! I wish I could yell it a million times to his face, post it on his facebook page (I actually did type the words and got dangerously close to hitting post, but luckily was able to reign it in), take a Sharpie and write it all over his fucking designer t-shirts that I bought him for Christmas.

FUCK YOU, SCL! FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKER!

Why should I feel bad for feeling angry? He has done the absolute cruelest thing to me, broke his promise to never leave me, to work things out together, and damn it, I have every reason to be fired up and pissed off about it when I need to be. Before today I don’t think I’d ever screamed into a pillow before, but now I get why people do it. I spent an hour this morning screaming into one of my throw pillows, these shtrill sounds coming from the pit of my stomach that I didn’t even recognize as my own voice. I didn’t even know I could make those kinds of noises.

I thought I’d been angry before, really felt it deep down, but I think I was mistaken. Before I’d been able to contain it, soothe it, cool down, but today I couldn't hold back. I yelled and sobbed and screamed until I thought I was going to pass out because I was hyperventilating so much. Frankly, I was sort of scared shitless. How was I going to calm down from this? Fortunately the body can only take so much before there’s a natural stillness that gradually takes over. More like a paralysis actually.

After a few minutes the paralysis lifted gradually and suddenly I began plotting what I would call little acts of destruction and this time actually carrying them out. I am so fed up with being in the apartment that we shared together with his damn shit everywhere. I had to do something to get some power back, some ownership of the space back. So, I went in search of things I’d given him—starting with little things: a Lego pen, a stack of Post-its, a mug with his initial on it. I figured I paid for them, so I should be able to destroy them, right? And then I went to town. I broke the lego pen into itty bitty pieces, taking pleasure as they snapped. I tore up the first few post-its and then the whole stack. Each little tear, little snap, little break, I felt relieved and empowered. This was fun.

And then I moved on to other parts of the apartment. I went into the bathroom, found the expensive body spray I’d bought him and dumped the entire contents down the sink. Mmmhmmm…loving that…so why not his beloved cognac? I only poured a little (I’m not that mean), but it was a great feeling watching it go down the sink. This was getting fun. What next?

Then psycho reared her ugly head. I knew what I had to find and destroy next--pictures of his obsession. I needed to take a torch to at least one. So, get this, isn’t it sick that he has DOZENS of pictures of her in his photo albums but not a SINGLE ONE OF ME?? What does that say about how he felt about me, huh? I found two just of her and went to town with a lighter, some sharpies, and scissors. Destroyed, done, finito. And at that point, it was enough. I knew I needed to stop before I got carried away. Time to release, relax, breathe.

Now that time has passed, I’m trying hard not to judge myself for committing these little acts of destruction. First, I was reasonable. I didn’t destroy anything valuable—computers, expensive clothes (that I bought him)—or truly sentimental things that are important to him—his grad school tassel, his diploma, his family photos, etc. Believe me, though, I thought about all of it. I'm proud to say that I think I found a good balance of getting out the rage and maintaining my dignity.

The thing is, no matter what I destroy, no matter how much I try to rip up his shit, it’s never going to compare to the amount of hurt and pain he’s caused me. That's the reality. And that fucking sucks.