I think, maybe, blogging is on hold for a while.
I have no desire to try to be funny or entertaining at the moment, but then that only leaves mournful posts about lost love that would make a country song sound upbeat.
A plane flew overhead the other day when I was lying on my bed. Just lying on my bed, looking at the ceiling. Trying to think of some reason for getting up off the bed and doing something, interacting with other human beings, that sort of thing; and instead, just lying there torturing myself by replaying arguments, wishing I hadn’t been so stupid, dwelling unhealthily on how happy he is without me and how quickly he forgot. You know, the usual.
And this plane flew overhead. Except it sounded wildly out of control, and as if it was coming straight at me. The roar of the engines got louder and louder, someone outside screamed, and I suddenly knew I was about to be killed. Now, I have since heard a rational expanation for the closeness and lowness and loudness of said plane, although I admit I’ve forgotten what that explanation was. But as I’d watched that 9/11 thing not so long ago, and also had never before heard a plane so obviously entering a nosedive right towards me, rational explanations temporarily escaped me. For a few brief seconds, I really, truly believed that I was going to be hit by a plane.
My heart began to race. But that’s all. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling as before. Perhaps clutching the edges of the bed a little more tightly. I didn’t move, didn’t jump up to look outside, didn’t cry out.
But it’s amazing just how much can take place inside your head in a few short seconds when you really believe you’re about to be killed.
My first thought was of the aftermath of terrorist attacks, war-stricken scenes, bomb-damaged rubble. Then I wondered who would notify the school in Korea about what had happened. A brief flash of the scene in Lost where the plane is in trouble and the suitcase falls out of the overhead locker and brains the police guard. Would The Ex be even slightly sad when he heard? I may have said his name under my breath. What if I survived but was horribly injured? What if I survived but none of my friends or family did? I don’t want that, I don’t want that.
Hence my final, concluding thought: Kill me quickly.
And then I closed my eyes and waited, heart thumping but otherwise calm. At which point the plane seemed to rise back up again and the tremendous roar faded away as suddenly as it had arrived.
So you see, someone who has that sort of reaction to imminent disaster is really in no frame of mind to be writing light-hearted blog posts. I apologise. The person writing this post is not really me, and no matter how badly I want “me” to come back, it seems to be taking a lot longer than I would’ve hoped.
You know, when a loved one dies, people grieve. It can take years to get over losing that person, if you ever get over it. But when you’re just “dumped”, you’re meant to just deal with it, get over it, move on. And you feel helpless and foolish and frustrated when you can’t. But not only are you dealing with the loss of the loved one (and grieving that), you’re also dealing with the fact that they chose to leave you. They didn’t die, leaving you against their will, still loving you. They simply walked away and merrily entered into a better life without you. Their choice. That part can feel worse than the actual loss.
Add to that the general sentiment that you should just stop moping, get over it, forget about them, be happy, yadda yadda yadda, and you find that you’ve also got a lot of guilt, annoyance and frustration with yourself, and a feeling of complete helplessness as you try to be a cheerful, together person in company, and fail to keep up the act when you’re alone. You’re a silly little schoolgirl for crying over it. Worse, for blogging about it. Don’t worry, I’m reading over this and rolling my eyes.
So that’s why I need to step away for a little while. I can’t be storing up any more posts like this as proof of my ridiculousness/ridiculocity/being ridiculous. I will write again when I have something to write about that isn’t just self-pitiful drivel; when I start my new job and have Actual Things to say; when I have filled my mind with other things out of necessity and no longer feel the need to hide in my room listening to Mad World; when I’m “me” again.
And at that point, I shall return, draw a line under this post, and start again, wiping the whole thing from my mind just like he has, and filling these pages with amusing tales of language barriers and accidental eating of live octopus.
It’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.