Going cold turkey is never easy. The first couple of days I am buoyed by hurt and anger, steadfast in my decision, confident I deserve better.
By day four, my resolve starts to weaken. I find myself thinking of you in the shower, in the car, watching TV, eating breakfast. I start to check my phone at too frequent intervals even though my notifications will alert me to a message from you.
The word vomit rises in my throat, desperate mutterings that need to be spoken if only so I get some little relief from their toxicity.
“I miss you.”
“Fuck, I miss you. I want to hate you.”
Your name is the rhythm my heart beats to and I feel it as an anxious fluttering in my chest. You are haunting my happy place and I panic and thrill as every surfer emerges from the water and pads up the soft sand. What will I do if I see you? What if you’re not alone? What if you don’t even recognise me out of the context of limbs and lips and tongues and skin and sweaty sheets?
I want to scream at you and I rarely yell. I can’t remember the last time I raised my voice in anger but at you I want to pound ineffectual fists at your chest to what? Make you understand? Make you see?
It’s day four and I am utterly hopeless. I know it will get easier. I cling to that knowledge learnt from before, and the time before that.
Going cold turkey is hard but loving you is harder.