(note: I posted about this earlier in the day, but I took it down for the time being because I’m worried he might find it, and if he finds it, he finds this whole blog, and, well, I don’t want that.)
Or, I should say, I initiated breakup proceedings with the Surgeon. I have no illusions–this is going to be a process. Hopefully it will only take a week or two. I know how his mind works. He has to convince himself, somehow, that he is the one who left me. Fine, whatever. If I could encourage this fantasy without actually having to engage with him any further, I would be happy to do so. Whatever it takes. I am a lesbian! I’m moving to Boise, Idaho! I faked being a masochist all along!
I am being facetious, mostly. This is Miss Margo’s Honorable Breakup Protocol: Just say “I want out, effective immediately. That is all.” Do not blame him for anything, even if he deserves it. Do not fight or defend your decision. Receive all insults and blame with stoicism (but do not acknowledge or validate them, unless they are, indeed, accurate and truly egregious–then just say “You are right. I am truly sorry.”). Express appreciation for the good deeds and contributions he has made in your life, but don’t get sentimental or maudlin. Abandon whatever possessions you have left in his apartment unless they have profound monetary or sentimental value to you. Return, via insured mail, any expensive jewelry he has given to you that is less than six months old, or any of his family heirlooms. If he wants the sweater or DVD he left at your place, return it promptly and without comment, but always via post, never in person (you know he’s only bugging you about that copy of Black Hawk Down so that he can talk to you.) Unless he gave you HIV or slept with your sister or something equally heinous, do not speak ill of him to anyone might even remotely know him. Do not disclose his sexual peccadilloes or insecurities. Do not try to poach his friends.
And now, for your entertainment, Gentle Reader, I will break my own rule: years ago, I dated a poet (yeah yeah, laugh it up, buddy. Better than a disturbed surgeon, I’ll tell you that). The poet was an all-around good egg. He was probably the best boyfriend I ever had. Anyway, he took poetry very seriously, as poets are wont to do (I dig poetry myself, though I don’t write it). He would buy lovely cards for me and write sonnets in them, and give me poems attached to birthday gifts.
This is The Awful Truth: I thought his poetry was dreadful. Horrible. Cringe-inducing. A full-on assault on my sense of aesthetics.
Nevertheless, wild horses could not have dragged this disloyalty from me. I raved over it all, and kept every card. I still have most of them. I mean, it’s really sweet, isn’t it? When’s the last time a fellow composed a sonnet just for you? That’s truly romantic!
Am I a hypocrite for telling you this? I think it’s safe because he will never, ever know. There is no way he could find this blog. He lives on the other side of the universe.
I am joking around because I am scared and anxious. The Surgeon is going to be really really….not good.
I will be a healthier, happier person when he’s finally gone, though.
Wish me luck. I feel kinda sick to my stomach.