The Sun and the Moon [Wattys 2015 winner]

Chapter 25: Silly Things

Bastard. Fucking bastard.

Words did not exist that were strong enough to express how I felt. As I continued down the street past that fucking bastard's house, I got on the freeway at the next entrance and headed back up to my house.

My heart seized up and I did not breathe.

My body seized up and I had no idea how I was going to drive.

My mind seized up and I could not think.

I could not deal.

Those fucking blonde bitches were right. The fucking looks I got, the fucking warning. They were all correct.

I should not have trusted.

It hurt too much to trust.

The thing was, as I drove, after a while, I realized that I was not in my deep, dark depression place. I was fucking mad. I was hurt. I was pissed. I was sad. And I was heartbroken.

But I was not numb.

And in this place of strange, unbelievable hurt, I felt a sense of pride that I was not shutting down. I had learned something, and I was recovering.

It fucking hurt, but I was strong, and I was getting stronger.

The feeling I felt was not one of closing in on myself. I was not looking for a railroad track. Instead, it was hot, horribleness coursing through me, racing around, pumping through my veins.

And while it hurt, as I drove, I realized, with the training that my therapist had given me, that I was still breathing. I was still alive and I was going to make it.

I felt like I deserved a trophy for getting the fuck out of depression.

But I needed to get these feelings out of my body. I needed to scream, to yell, to cry, and to expel these demons.

What I needed was a pity party. I hit "call" on my phone.

"Marie, I need a pity party. How soon can you be over?"

"About an hour or two."

"Okay, here's the deal. We're having vegan cake, champagne, and we're watching Bridget Jones's Diary. I need medicinal Colin Firth and Hugh Grant."

"What happened with Ryan."

"I'll thank you to never mention that low-down, no-good, dirty, rat bastard to me again. Fucking asshole."

"I'll be there in an half hour and help you frost the cake."

"Deal."

#

So here's the thing. I throw pity parties literally. It's a party. There's drinks. There's cake. There's a celebration. I wallow in my pity. And then I move on.

So, a half hour after I got home, the cake was in the oven, I had had a shot or three of tequila, and Marie knocked on the door. She barged in as I opened the door, and said, "smells good, though you smell like a bar. Give me some."

I poured her a shot of tequila and myself another one and we clinked shot glasses. No salt or lime this time. Too many memories with that one.

"To all of the assholes who have ever hurt us. May they go away and suffer pain like they've never felt," I toasted. I felt a twinge of guilt because Ryan had never been an asshole to me. Just a cheating bastard. Fucker.

"To the assholes," said Marie. And we downed our shots.

She handed me a CD. "Here's a present for you. Well, just put the songs on your phone and then give it back to me."