Holed up in the drab bedroom of my tiny Chinatown walkup, I scrolled through Instagram, inundated with stories of exes who reunited after years apart because of the global pandemic. The disorienting chaos has forced people to yearn for the comfort of past loves. At 34, I’d spent the last two years working hard on forgetting mine, though I still hoped to hear from him.
Navel-gazing has become a national pastime overnight. Now, I’ve become preoccupied with people who didn’t mind losing me when times were good. As the death toll rises daily, I’m a prisoner of my own neuroses. Peering into the lives of successful influencers, my moods have become vinegary. Without work or yoga class, my mind’s latched onto the past.
In an email he sent, he wrote that we would someday “reconnect under less emotional and healthier circumstances.” I held onto this sentence for months, starved of his affection. I watched Craig Kenneth’s YouTube videos about avoidant personality types, trying to psychoanalyze the whys of Matthew’s sudden departure. I even paid $400 for a Skype consultation with a “Love Doctor,” a licensed counselor from Orlando who explained there was a “chance” I could reunite with Matthew.
As I sit indoors and reminisce about my old love, I’m now reminded of the extreme effort I made to try and keep him. Although time has healed the sting of rejection, when I recall my desperation, it still packs a wallop. Back then, I felt small with little agency over the narrative of my own heartbreak. There was no chance to come to an understanding, and I was made to feel like a hysteric for caring.
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