I’ve never been good at breakups. I’m better now than I used to be, but it’s not easier. Maybe I’m just quieter about them now. No point in whinging about the hurt knowing full well the risks you’ve willingly assumed, right?

I’m emotive in a way, but I hate for people to know about it. It’s a pride thing. So I usually just bludgeon paper with my favourite pen for ages or smash at these keys until little by little I bury my feelings down far enough where I can’t feel them all the time. That, or keep myself insanely busy so that I barely have time to breathe, let alone think about my life and the important pieces missing from it. The latter is far less sustainable.

My stuffed panda who spends each night with me has caught more tears than I’d like to admit. He’s also been flung across the room into a wall more times than I’m proud of.

I’d like to think I’m decently pragmatic about these types of things. On the outside at least. Usually on the inside I’m walking a very thin line between a full blown panic attack and going on a homicidal rampage and wanting to punch life in it’s provebrial face. I’ve met this situation with far more apathy and grace than previously. However, it still keeps me up into the late hours of the night/morning, so I must not be as ambivalent about it as I like to tell myself I am.