I broke up with my boyfriend the day before yesterday. He insists I’m the love of his life and we need to talk about it more. He thinks he can convince me to try, yet again, for the millionth time.
He probably could, if he was better at communication. I’ve convinced myself to try again countless times since it happened.
So I wrote him a wonderfully heartbreaking email. (To be clear, I broke up with him in person. This was just the email stating that I would not be responding to his incessant calls/texts and explaining why.) Sometimes when I feel myself wanting to just answer the phone or text him back, I reread the email. It works as a letter to myself too. And I’m convinced anew that the breakup is best. (Until five minutes later, when I convince myself to try again. Ad nauseam.)
Today I read through some of my old writing, from the days when I made time to pursue that hobby. They’re all unfinished, and they all end abruptly in the middle of scenes that make me want to cry. All of my main characters show clear signs of depression. I’ve attempted fiction only once since moving to Abu Dhabi, about a year ago. There’s less emo, to be fair, but the main character is still clearly unhappy with the fictional life I gave her.
The main characters are all also categorically awful at relationships with men. They’re blunt and unloving and cold. They direct all their unhappiness at the men who just want to love them. It’s heartbreaking and prophetic.
A friend recently told me that relationships work when people figure out what they want in life. I replied, “People figure that out?”
So I tried to figure it out. The one thing that I could think of that would make me happier was “wealth.” I feel that if I was wealthier, I would be able to do more things that make me happy. Perhaps for my next boyfriend I will date someone wealthy. I once wrote a story about a girl who marries for money. She’s my most content protagonist. (Until a boy she had actually loved reappears in her life and makes her question everything. Dun, dun, dun.)
Just kidding, I’m not going to get a rich boyfriend. I think I’m going to avoid men and attempt to write my own version of Eat, Pray, Love. The version that is possible for those of us lacking in publishing house/divorce money to fund our self-discovery… it’s probably going to be quite mundane. “As she dressed, she wondered how anyone could ever love an adult person whose entire wardrobe was hand-me-downs. She felt herself beginning to get sad. So she repeated her mantra: “Do you believe in life after love, after love, after love…” And she took a deep breath and headed out the door.”