Crime scenes

Since the breakup, I’ve trained my mind to avoid certain territory. Music that he and I listened to together? Don’t even try singing those songs in the shower, let alone play them on the stereo. In fact almost any kind of evocative music—which is, by the way, my favorite sort of music—is out of the question. A news article about something he’d be interested in? Scroll right past it; pay no attention. Places that we visited together? Stay away from the entire neighborhood, if possible; it’s safest that way. General thoughts about romance, desire, love, connection, partnership? Sorry. Those are some of the finest things in life, but they are not to be touched right now. Extremely dangerous. Anything in the world that reminds me of the happiness we had? Pretend it doesn’t exist or, if you can’t do that, strip it of all associations with him.

These parts of my life, my psyche, my history, my hometown, are as menacing and inaccessible as crime scenes cordoned off with yellow tape. Part of me wants to go in, to revisit and reclaim these areas that are so deeply embedded within me, but I fear that if I did I would collapse in anguish. So I keep moving forward, staring right ahead, living in a partitioned sort of way to avoid scenes of emotional devastation.

I feel just as violated as if I’d been robbed.  But no investigators, no cleaning crew, are going to come along. It’s up to me to start tearing away that yellow tape. To ignore the injustice of it all, to accept what has happened, and to step gingerly across that property line into piles of broken glass. Someday. Not yet.

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