I feel like a butter-flied pork chop. Split open. On display. That’s what going through a break-up feels like. Just how long is it appropriate to say: “I’m going through a break-up”? On one hand, the actual break-up doesn’t technically take very long. Ultimately there’s one final conversation from which that conclusion is drawn. A specific moment from whence you agree to no longer call yourself boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, health-care plan partner, whatever. Perhaps “going through a break-up” more accurately describes the time leading up to the culmination of things. The mounting events– the unraveling of dishonesties, disagreeable indiscretions, irreconcilable conflict, contentious truths– those are the things break-ups are made of. Though somehow, “going through a break-up” is more frequently used for what might better be described as the wreckage. The aftermath. That categorical soul shredding, gut-wrenching pain produced only by the process of separation. Mourning. Anger. Remorse. Doubt. Then comes the aching for that fantasy with the ending you wanted. Until the rude reminder that it was the death of that very fantasy that got you here in the first place. This of course leads to freedom, the kind born of accepting reality, and the grace and dignity that comes from letting someone be exactly who they are. Empowerment. Peace. Hope. And then, no joke– You’ve Got to Hide Your Love begins to fall from the ceiling, filling your entire being, spinning your insides up and out. And you think, “Fuck freedom and grace. I want the fantasy back.” The Beatles won’t relent. And through a radiant veil of snot and hot tears, you look Leon the barista dead in the eye, and without apology, order a grande soy chai tea misto with two teabags– and extra soy, please. Open. Splayed. Guts out in all their glory. A butter-flied pork chop I tell you.
