Traumatic Experience of the Day

Depending on how long you’ve been following this blog at its previous location (, you may or may not know that back in the winter I had a boyfriend who broke up with me in March because I tried too hard to love him. It’s more complicated than that, and neither of us are completely to blame, but that’s the easiest way to say it.

Anyway, the way I process things is in pieces. Things will hit me for a couple days and I’ll be knocked out over it. Then I’ll put them away and go function like a normal person for a few days. Sometimes it’s longer than a few days at a time. Then they’ll come back, I’ll obsess over them for a few more days, and then put them away again. The cycle continues until they don’t really come back anymore, or when they do it’s barely noticeable. That’s how I deal with things.

Today was one of the days where he was hanging out in my head sticking his tongue out at my brain. Not literally, of course. If he were actually capable of that I’d have started an effort to cause his death and simultaneously give the pitchfork industry the best economic boost it’s had since I don’t know when. Considering that this stunt isn’t in his repertoire, I’ll continue to keep the pitchfork effort a rainy-day fantasy. But today was one of those days.

At four o’clock I left my house and drove out to my piano teacher’s for the second-to-last lesson I’ll ever take from her. Sad stuff. And when I got there the student who was before me was already there, and his mother was sitting in the only chair in the room, so my teacher motions me towards a door I thought was a closet and says, “You can sit on the couch in there.”

So I go in, and it’s a little cubbyhole of a room where her husband keeps all his Steelers memorabilia. (Side note: Pittsburgh is evil. The G-Men are where it’s at.) And you know how smell is the sense most closely tied to memory? It smelled like my ex-boyfriend’s house in there and I thought I might die.

Now granted, it was a three-month relationship and I can probably count the number of times I was at his house on both hands. But it hit me hard, especially considering the emotional climate prior to that event.

So that’s the kind of thing this blog talks about. I’m only half kidding. Sometimes what I have to say is of more significance than “oh I had a bad flashback about an ex-boyfriend today.”

And sometimes it isn’t.


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