Breakups suck.

Even kind, empathetic, I-only-wish-you-the-best breakups suck. Actually, I think the nice ones suck even more than the hostile kind; at least with the hostile ones you get sympathy from all the mutual friends, you have good (enough) reasons to hunker down with a Law & Order marathon and a couple pints of Ben & Jerry’s, and you get the satisfaction of devising horrible, untimely ends for your recent ex (I’m thinking here of my ex the RockGuy, who–while he’s now one of my best friends–12 years ago actually broke up with me on Valentine’s Day, providing me with the Worst Breakup Story Ever for years).

With the Wrangler, there’s just been a couple days of no contact followed by a long, tearful phone conversation. Rinse and repeat.

I know. It takes time. We both need space, differently and at different times. We’ll come through this and be friends again. I won’t always feel this incredibly guilty for the way the past three years have gone.


I know. Ain’t no way around it. Poly relationships offer some cushioning against the pain–can’t imagine this situation without GB right now–but every relationship is separate.

I need to keep reminding myself that’s good.