The phone rings again. It’s the third time in the space of 5 minutes and we both know who it is.
‘Sooo. Not going to answer that, huh?’ I ask, doing a little head jerk to the direction of the buzz.
It’s probably for the best. The last time he did, the ‘conversation’ consisted of him listening to a full 20 minutes of wailing. Wailing and shouting and begging and pleading…
On the other side of the line was The Ex. Actually, between us we’d removed the caps and just referred to her as Crazy.
‘Heard from Crazy today?’ Ha ha ha.
But it’s easy to have a giggle at the crazy when you’re not in the middle of the break up that has inspired it – and you’re not the one who was dumped.
‘Not my circus, not my monkeys,’ you can say, patting your partner on the back as you leave the auditorium of tainted love, and promising to meet them for a drink after the drama with their ex has died down.
And crazy-ex drama can be high drama.
They stalk online, commenting on each post, leaving references to in-jokes that stopped being amusing months before the break-up; they stalk offline, following their lost loves around the country, pretending to ‘bump’ into them: ‘Oh haaai! I was just uh...buying…a fish head also…here in Paternoster!’
*blink*
I’ve heard of stories where some have even tried to sneak back into the house, either to take stuff – or take the children.
I have mates who have had to file restraining orders against exes who don’t know how to read stage directions: ‘Ex exits stage left, returns only ever in a boundaried, healthy manner to interact as co-parent or as possible good acquaintance some time in the future after much healing has been done and the hurt has passed.’
Wouldn’t life be grand if love – and the ending thereof – were that simple? But the fact is, as much as I laugh at crazy-ex stories, I’ve done my fair share of not reading those stage directions and totally losing the plot after a break-up.
I like to tell myself I’ve never gone full Crazy, but I have to admit to being mostly pretty nuts.
The endless calling, wailing, pleading? Done it. The ugly-cry-snotting-on-keyboards social media profile trawls? Done. What about driving to his house uninvited so ‘we can just have a chat’? Or epic emails trying to explain/understand/reconnect? Or hanging out in familiar places in case we bump into each other? Done, done and done.
What is it with denial about the end of a relationship that keeps us glued to hope? Like picking through a scratch patch expecting to find a diamond. Why that fog of desperation that keeps us from seeing the end of the line?
Maybe it’s the pain that yes, love can end and people can walk away. Or the shock that intimacy can turn to alienation. Maybe it’s the fear that there might never be a second (or a third or a fourth) chance. Maybe it’s trying to avoid the possible lifetime’s regret that s/he might be The One That Got Away.
Any one of these can drive even Potential Battiness to Full Crazy.
Of course, not everyone loses the plot after they’ve been dumped. But I’d be willing to bet that those not reacting in some way are practicing heroic levels of self-control.
I, for one, had to learn through trial, much error and even more therapy that when someone says goodbye you don’t throw a farewell party and tie them to the chair of honour. You wave them on their merry way.
I’ve learnt that clarity and clean cuts are better than a slow tear and that you can’t be friends with someone who’s broken your heart or recapture a dream that has become a Von Trier nightmare.
Also, I’ve come to understand that all those cray-cray emails don’t spontaneously autodestruct after I get my common sense back. So. That’s kak.
Respect yourself and know when to take those running shoes off and walk away. The one who wants to be with you will be with you. Need is not love and love does not have to be fought for.
When you feel the post-break-up crazy circus roll into town, repeat that like a mantra instead of feeding those monkeys the ‘but maybe if’ bananas.
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