I Had No Idea Focusing On Me Would Be So Much Worse Than Focusing on Us

Don’t get me wrong, working on us was the absolute worst. You’re kind of a dick, you hate most things I love, and I’m still not convinced you fully understand what empathy means. That being said, I would jump at the opportunity to keep working on us if it meant not having to think about me for even one more minute. I’m exhausted.

 

I realize this break was totally my idea, but what does “focus” even mean? This whole adventure in “me time” is much less Eat Pray Love and more like “Gradual eating away at my soul while I try to remember what love feels like and praying for some kind of meaning in my life.” Where’s my happy ending? Now I’m just confusing Julia Roberts movies again, aren’t I? See, you used to help me with that. I guess I do need you after all.

 

Trust me, I am trying. I’ve taken our time apart to “put more energy into my career,” “discover who I am without you” and “take care of my body,” but you know what it got me? Memorizing every word of The Secret and still not knowing what the secret is while I pass out to the gentle cadence of Oprah’s voice on a cold cookie sheet of frozen bagel bites because you took the microwave and I think the oven is broken? All alone. Not even with the cat. Because you also took the cat. Because you’re a dick. And also I’m allergic. You were so thoughtful like that.

 

 

Look! See how right there I tried to focus on telling you how I can’t focus on me and I lost focus? Maybe I have ADD, but what even is ADD? Doesn’t everyone have that? You definitely did. Even you couldn’t focus on me. Nope. You had to zoom-lens focus on that hot woman in a crop top behind me at the bar. And that new girl at your office. Or our couples spinning teacher, Courtney, who was in our bed when I came home early that time I had cramps. Yeah, maybe that transcendental meditation did give me some clairvoyance. Or maybe I read your phone. Who cares? At least you could focus on something. I miss you.

 

Oh! I figured out how to open the oven. Why is it full of Shrinky Dinks?

 

I don’t even care anymore. All I’m saying is that if there’s any part of you that’s interested in focusing on us again, I’m game. I’d much rather change for you than for me, because then when I ruin my life I’ll have someone else to blame. Hint: You’re the one I’ll blame. Because you’re a dick.

 

I want the cat back.

 

(I also want you back, though.)

 

(Is that the Secret?)

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