Are you alright?

Okay. I admit it. I’m not fine. Far from it. Let’s dissect my wounds and pour alcohol on it. See, I have to go through this.

The first few days since the last time we talked to each other, I couldn’t bear to sleep in my own bed. That double-sized airbed held too many memories. That little piece of inflatable thing bore the sweat and stains of too many nights of carnal pleasure, those nights when I exercised all my sexual know-hows just to make him happy, those nights when I have outdone myself to give him the best pleasure that I could possibly give. For him, I gave the best performance of my life, as cliché as that shitty line may sound. That bed and the four walls of my bedroom served as eyes and ears to my ecstatic cries and deepest sighs, those times when I practically screamed out his name everytime I feel him deep inside me, dissolving my sanity with every thrust he makes.

I turned to sleeping in my living room, on that extra mattress that I’ve unceremoniously dragged from the dusty shelves to the bare floors. There, I would cry to the point of exhaustion, and sleep would finally come over me when I was already too tired to stay awake.

I eventually moved back into my bedroom. For another few days, I slept crosswise in my bed in order to avoid remembering the spot which he usually occupies. A couple more after that, I resumed to sleeping in my natural position.

Okay, I thought. With my sleeping issues solved, maybe I’m on the road to recovery, even though it was kinda fast. You know, like those times when you have a wound and you think it’s time to take the Band-Aid off. I thought that it was just a matter of time before I can say “Hey, I’m motherfucking fine, it’s just a scratch” without lying through my teeth.

So I tried to own up to it. I stopped listening to my playlist of agonizingly senti songs and tormented my ears with hip-hop and metal instead. I committed myself to several freelance projects, thinking that I am already emotionally fit to work myself to the bone.

I even tried to get intimate with another guy. Not to the point of having sex, but just plain kissing and stuff. It was going really well, or so I’ve thought. The damnedest thing happened when Mr. Hot and Smart Guy took me home and he was saying goodnight. He put his hand on my shoulder lightly. I felt myself automatically recoiling from his touch. Still, I let him kiss me.

Bad idea. It was the worst kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life and not because he was not a good kisser. It was just totally devoid of pleasure for my part, so bland, so horribly tasteless. It actually disgusted me, like I’ve just kissed my own brother. It was as erotic as wiping the dust off my laptop.

Needless to say, I did not invite him to stay for the night. If I can’t even kiss a man right, I surely could not fuck him properly. I may be heartbroken, but I still care about my reputation in bed.

I should have listened to the warning bells that sounded off inside my head after that awful moment, as I was chugging a bottle of Red Horse to calm my nerves. I should have realized how serious the situation was, given the fact that I couldn’t even bear to have sex, something that I truly love doing. I couldn’t bear to let another man touch me, period.

But I didn’t. I still carried on with my stupid charade and continued my Miss America bit, smiling so hard until my jaw practically dislocated. I traded dirty jokes with the boys even though I enjoyed it as much as I enjoy scrubbing my damn toilet.

And so the other night, I subjected myself to another test. I decided to do the one thing that I’ve been dreading to do ever since the day the shit hit the fan.

With all the emotional strength that I could muster, I opened my front door around 12 am, the time that he would usually come to my apartment. With a cigarette in hand and my music player on, I stood within the door and stayed there for as long as I could. Suddenly the pain came raining down on me in heavy and relentless torrents as I remembered those times when he would be standing on this exact spot, waiting for me to let him in. The pain increased tenfold when I remembered those times that we would part right there, when I would turn my face to his so that he can kiss me goodnight, or good morning, since it was already dawn.

After several minutes, a heavy lump started forming in my throat. My eyes started to well up and my breath was coming in short gasps. I tried to stifle the cry that was threatening to explode any minute then. Fuck, I told myself. I have to learn how to stand outside the door of my own house without having to battle the urge to sob my poor battered heart out. Shit, I HAVE TO.

But it was too, too much for me to take. After a few more minutes, I broke down in heart-wrenching sobs, right in front of my door, not giving a fuck about my sleeping neighbors. I dissolved into a sorry mess of endless tears and utter hopelessness. Those days of trying and pretending to be okay did me in.

Inside the house, my laptop speakers came on cue:

I guess it’s just no use

When every part of me is still a part of you…

And I still got your face

Painted on my heart

Scrawled upon my soul

Etched upon my memory, baby

I’ve got your kiss still burning on my lips

The touch of your fingertips

This love so deep inside of me, baby

No, I am definitely not alright. I’m tired of being the most pathetic liar in the universe.

To My Dearest Neighbor…

You will be ecstatic to know that I will be pretty much in solitary confinement for the next few weeks or months. First of all, you will not be disturbed by my animal screaming and moaning in the midst of your restful slumber for quite a long time. See, the man whose name you kept hearing over and over again in the middle of the night will be not be coming to my domicile anymore. I am gonna spare you the painful details but all I can tell you is that it’s not pretty. Let me get over it first. Mentioning it is painful enough already. The thing is, I’m not in the mood for any kind of intimacy right now and I certainly don’t feel like inviting men over to my house. At least, not for the next few months. Friends are allowed to visit, but only if they come bearing useful gifts, like a humongous bottle of Red Horse. You will be seeing more of me because I intend to ask my boss for a few days or a week off. In this agitated state, I don’t trust my writing capabilities. I am mentally and emotionally unfit to work.

The second one, well, you won’t be so glad to hear about this, but you will be hearing lots of heartbreak songs coming from my apartment within this period of time. I know, I know. I’ve already terrorized you with nonstop George Michael and Jeff Buckley ever since I moved in here, but this is the least you can do for a neighbor with a shattered heart. To get you more prepared for the oncoming auditory onslaught, here are some of the songs that you would be having a mighty LSS with. In no particular order:

• I Can’t Make You Love Me by George Michael
• Forget Her by Jeff Buckley
• Kissing a Fool by George Michael
• Making Love (Out of Nothing at All) by Air Supply
• Reason for Breathing by Babyface
• You Oughta Know by Alanis Morisette
• Foolish Games by Jewel

Yes, I know some of the songs in here are uh, quite questionable, especially item number four. Let me clarify that I do not listen to Air Supply under normal circumstances but see, when someone just made mincemeat out of your heart and poured acid on your remains without any sign of remorse, you tend to do things without the supervision of your brain and personal tastes. Go ahead, cringe. Throw a few tomatoes at my front door if you must. I promise you this will only last for a few months. Pray that I get over it easily, or it will be eternal damnation for your eardrums. Last time I checked, listening to Air Supply is not a valid excuse for eviction. Yet.

Third, ignore the sounds of crying and sobbing that will surely pierce through your walls for the first few weeks. Understand that every corner of my house reminds me of him and that I dread going home to this unit every night. Understand how I must feel everytime I go to my room and lay in the same bed that he and I used to have sex. Understand that everytime I open my door reminds me of his late night visits. Understand that every motherfucking square inch of my house brings memories so painful I feel like dying many times over each time I remember them. Understand that the person responsible does not give a fuck about my feelings, not one goddamn bit. Why would he? He’s with somebody else already. I am of no use to him anymore.

That’s it for now, neighbor. I have to go out and buy some more tissues. We will have a little chat, you and I, when I’m feeling a lot better. Oh, and please return the broom that is usually hanging by the side of my door. I’m not so devastated enough to forget that it’s MY broom and I do have to clean, heartbroken or not.