C.Ara Esther,
It’s always me: I wrote to you a few months ago, I had broken up with my boyfriend on the phone and I was desperate. Look, we got back together (after a request from him to become friends again because he could not cancel me from his life, obviously declined) and between various compromises we also went on vacation.
I found myself on vacation with a strangerwith a person bothered by every little thing and no more passion and intimacy. A few more useless quarrels on the way back, a quarrel that opens an immense fracture for a very trivial reason and then at the dawn of his transfer, he tells me that it is better to stop here, that probably the feelings have diminished and for this he did not give me anything more.
And so, after months of waiting for this transfer (which is stupid to believe that distance would settle a latent passion even on vacation, at 20 then …) it’s over.
It’s the right thing, I know and yet it makes me so weird. I feel lost. I lost years of my life in an instant, I lost my point of reference, my mutual things and friends and the only person I can now imagine as a boyfriend.
My life seems so strange to me without hearing it every day, without telling him everything, without planning things to do together …
It seems absurd to me to feel happy alone but it seems even more absurd to be able to start over with someone else, as if to say, they all make me a bit disgusting (and then nail crushes nail after less than a week it doesn’t work).
Between a cry, a study page, a tear-jerking movie and another cry, I’m moving on.
What do you do when it doesn’t even look real?
R.
Ester Viola’s reply
Dear R.,
Weak or strong, the course is the same: bitter blood, chest tightness, difficulty sleeping, difficulty waking up and sometimes breathing. Clouded mental functions, mild anxiety-depressive syndrome, a sense of weight at the height of the sternum, exhaustion. Enthusiasm for anything is unobtainable, will to live and who remembers it, great confusion between convalescence and worsening of the disease. You seem to be better, half a day later, the abyss.
He suffers from the absence of a date (“stay at rest, it’s just a tear in the heart, it takes six months of bad mood and then on March 16 you will fall in love again, don’t worry miss”).
We already said that the end cannot be seen because the end cannot be seen: that’s what the lover suffers from. If you have been able to adapt to pain with the sole resource of hoping that it passes, you have already done everything you can ask of someone with a human card, even more, because resignation to waiting is the divine effort.
But know nothing of the duration? This punishment, did we deserve it?
Meanwhile, here is the list of things that can be done while suffering like a dog.
Frenzied exits.
Utility: from poor to just sufficient.
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Coming home only to collapse face down on the bed. Getting tired, doing everything: shopping, dance classes, gym, theater, dating apps. Hoping to meet someone or get distracted. An excellent remedy for not realizing that you are always at square one, the illusion of perceived progress breaks with the first sad song that plays on the radio.
Swampy isolation.
Utility: from poor to just sufficient.
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Desist. Shut up at home for a while to at least recover your calm, with large binges of books – or if there is even a lack of attention to reading – of TV series. The protagonist of the TV series usually fares much worse than us, but remains smart and pursues a useful career away from home. The underlying moral is always the same: people happen to suffer, but in the meantime they don’t throw the rest away, on the contrary.
Books.
Utility: moderate.
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The writer is one who twists in his thoughts. One very present to himself and very folded on himself. So he’s supposed to have sensitivity as exasperated as yours, only he knows how to tell you methodically. Orderly pain. He finds the words you didn’t have, your identical mange explained in detail. Yes, a diagnosis is not a cure but it is better than nothing.
Some books, on the other hand, make an effort and manage to illustrate the whole procedure to the patient: hating and loving something, staying under it, and you don’t know where to always find the determination to get back on your feet.
Let’s be clear: reading and identifying yourself does not solve anything, but that little taste of hope remains in your mouth. In short, “get up” can be done.
Call him / her back to clarify.
€
Utility: none.
The relief is only momentary. On the other hand they may not respond (endless mourning) or respond politely with pity because they see you reduced to a wreck (when they worry about you, that’s where you know they don’t care anymore).
European and world capitals.
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Utility: scarce.
Wonderful remedy for the rich. You must have independent income from work and ample freedom not to show up at the office. Then there is the problem of the company, the others are not always available and not everyone is cut out to wander alone in the capitals. And about arrivals at the airport, no one waiting for you on your way back, say it is raining in a taxi and you have an empty fridge at home – in short, you may not be wasting your money.
Santiago’s walk.
€€
Utility: low to moderate.
As every extreme physical effort, it disconnects the turbine of bad thoughts. On the other hand, it wears out the cartilage and kills your back. Is it worth it for him / her?
Ovid in Remedia Amoris argues that despair is more a matter of free time. It is not you who are dying, it is that you have to find something to do.
Slowly dies whoever writes too many love poems.
Dear R., I am against that it is also a bit offensive to hear “you have nothing” if you are lying on the floor at the moment. And I know that there is no hierarchy when it comes to “feeling bad”, a threshold under which it is forbidden by law to crawl into bed and cry every night for weeks.
But if the disaster is only sentimental, then at least we give up respect for pain. Treat it like a hungry puppy, tell it, make it last. If you don’t pay attention to it, you can spend a lifetime treating sadness with velvet gloves.
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