Breaking up is hard to do. I am not sure at what point the average person comes to learn this, I am only sure that by adulthood, the majority of us do. And hard as it is, we know that in all likelihood, there will come a time that we will do it again, making love always a bit bittersweet. My time is now. Even though I have done this so many times before that it feels too high to count, I am ready to do it again. Beneath the sadness there is the slight tug of exhilaration; with every ending there is a perceived beginning, and I am anticipating the start even as I mourn the end.
I am not alone; newspapers are full of hopeful people and their abbreviated criteria for a future that is significantly different than the past. Though every age, color and creed is represented in the personals section, the language of search is universal. SWF ISO . . . . “single white female in search of . . . .” anything or anyone could fill in that blank.
But I will not be placing an ad after this break up. I am not in search of a new mate, having found one I would like to keep. Where is the break then? I am breaking up with me. I am separating from the me who is a saboteur, the person who quietly stabs me in the back just as I reach for the prize. I am packing up the belongings of the person who does not respect my tomorrows, and squanders the promise of future dreams for today’s gratification. I am forwarding the mail for the person who turns to food as a drug, instead of coping with problems, leaving me weighted down and stuck. I am leaving the me I have been for a very long time now. I am hoping that I will not miss her for long.