The Art of the Last Hurrah

Screenshot 2015-09-19 at 4.07.57 PM

I am, innately and unabashedly, a writer. I have a huge journal that I’ve been hacking away at for years, along with my blog, social media accounts, and bits and pieces on paper in pockets, shoved in notebooks, and in my phone’s reminders section. These tidbits are all leads, ideas, and inspirations for stories yet to come. I use writing to express myself in every event of my life. Only in recent years have I come to incorporate photos into this expression.

So when I go through something mentally and emotionally traumatizing (ie: a breakup), writing is my first method of defense as well as my primary source of healing. I look through my entries of good times, write about the bad times, and start to use that as a way to make it through the haze.

A lot of times at the end of a relationship (especially a long one), I feel this need to share my final thoughts on the subject. I don’t do it because I am trying to rekindle a love lost or to prove a point or make the other person feel guilty. (It’s really a combination of the three.) Honestly though, I just want to feel a sense of closure and until that person has all of the facts and feelings in the raw and in front of them, I don’t feel like I can really move on. So I tend to have a habit of writing down said thoughts, good and bad, and handing them over to the latest chapter in my history book.

I’ll tell him about that time we went to eat and he was truly the most attractive man in the world for three whole minutes. I’ll tell him how his cupcakes are actually heinous and should be considered cruel and unusual torture. How I loved his dad, how I hated his cat, how I don’t actually like hardboiled eggs. I’ll tell him how insecure I felt next to him at times. How much I appreciated him being there for that honors banquet. I’ll tell him all the little things I probably should have told him along the way.

Then I feel like I’m off the hook. I was able to say everything I wanted without confrontation or tears or eye contact. I can be like an anonymous kidney donor who just drops a bomb on you that enlightens the whole world like BOOM! Kidney. Only mine is BOOM! You’ve got mail. (Donors, you are amazing.) What I mean is, I want that letter to change the receiver’s life, much in the way an organ donation can. I want it to make him question everything. I want him to doubt himself, learn something, and relive the whole experience through my eyes, even for just half a second. Because then maybe he would get it.

I have come to call these letters my last hurrahs. That’s how I see them. They are my last stage of mourning, my first stage of healing, and the first step in a new direction. They mean that I have come to a place where “our song” is a normal song again, I can eat at “our place” and not be miserable, and I have turned my sights toward a new future.

I sometimes wonder how these last hurrahs are met. If the receiver bursts into tears, laughs it off, shreds it and never even reads it. It really doesn’t matter. My hurrahs are just that: mine. The receivers are only a part of my process.

Good luck out there, heart throbs. You’ll get ’em next time.

-BGB

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