First off, my new medication is working very well. I’m glad I got through the first couple of days without quitting. I feel better than I’ve felt in more than a year. My energy levels are up and I don’t cry all the time. While most of the nasty side-effects seem to have faded, I am still having bizarre, wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-a-pool-of-sweat dreams. They are quite unlike the unpleasant dreams I experienced on Celexa, which had extremely clear plot lines and recognizable characters. The Viibryd dreams are more like Salvador Dali paintings. I don’t know who the hell anyone is, for the most part, and everything sort off oozes together with no clear plot. It’s so frustrating. I’m a writer and an avid reader; I need credible characters and a good plot, dammit.
Now, onto the main reason for my post. When I was in the partial psychiatric hospitalization program (i.e., the loony bin, LB for short), I learned about the steps of grief after loss: shock, sorrow, denial, anger, guilt, depression and acceptance. One doesn’t necessarily cycle through them in that order nor does a person only experience each step once. An individual who has suffered a loss might revisit one, some or all of the steps, or skip a step entirely. Everyone deals with grief differently; there is no formula or cure.
I’ve probably been through most of these steps post-break-up. I mean, I had trouble even categorizing the break-up as a loss. At the very least, I felt that it didn’t belong in the same stratosphere of job loss, death, disabling injury, divorce, even home foreclosure. Does my loss really rank up there with what I deemed “real” losses? And my conclusion, finally, is yes. I lost someone I loved. And may still continue to love, deep down in my currently broken heart.
Anyway, back to the steps. One of the steps I had yet to visit was anger. And I was pissed off that I couldn’t get mad. My friends and family told me what an awful thing he did to me and I should hate the SOB, get mad and throw plates at the wall. But I couldn’t until now, nearly three months later. The anger hit me like a semi-truck yesterday. And it’s fueling this post — and the subsequent letter-to-my-ex-that-I’ll-never-send directly below — because that’s much more productive and less destructive than hurling plates.
Dear Mr. Ex-boyfriend,