They say that breaking up is hard to do…even more so for the terminally awkward amongst us. Usually, I have the relieving courtesy of being broken up with, so in that regard, the end of a relationship is pretty painless, except for y’know, the crippling self doubt, and neuroses that pop up after said conversation.

Until a year ago, I had settled into my role as distraught dumpee. I had Live Through This closer to me than I did bandages, or say, even some asprin–and in retrospect, it appeared that I might have become just a little addicted to being dumped.

Maybe it’s listening to Liz Phair on repeat, or maybe its the extensive retail therapy I engage in.

It’s masochism that few ever admit to indulging in. But we all do it. Out comes the ice cream, the Nick Cave, and of course the ranting. God, the ranting.

One of the most dangerous exercises out there is deconstructing every painful fibre of your relationship.

I figure we do this (especially in our early years) because it’s way cheaper than buying tickets to the opera. Every action, and every reaction takes on this heightened significance, and then you end up with this torrid affair that seems more at home in Medea, than in real life.

In A Lover’s Discourse, Roland Barthes makes the point that the moment we begin to retell things, they cease to be things that simply happen, but events that happen to us. We’re either the hero or the villain of our tale, and it ceases to be about the relationship as it was, and becomes the relationship as a story.

“Can you believe what that asshole did to meeeeeeeeeeeee” I would shrilly shreak. Whether it was complaining about their terrible dance moves, their inability to communicate, or their perceived sociopathy, I turned bitching about the ex into an art. Every single time, I could muster just the right amount of indignant rage to let whoever I was having coffee with know how much of a jerk X or Y individual was.

Did it feel good? Yeah. Was it helpful? Less than I hoped it’d be.

The advice given to us about how perfectly handle “the break up” is pretty standard; it requires one going out, getting glam and showing your ex who’s boss. You glide down the street as if everything is A-OKAY, you flirt shamelessly with strangers in bars, and you get over it.

There’s a grace period for the newly broken up with, and I, just like many people wounded in love, had a tendency to overstay my welcome. There’s nothing wrong with talking about it, but you’ve DEFINITELY just GOT TO GET OVER IT ALREADY when you’re getting sick of yourself talking about “that asshole”.

It prevents you from taking new risks, from conversing with other people, and you basically become the angry, jaded, bitter ex that you swore to yourself you’d never become.

Take for example Oedipus. He blindly searches for the answer to the Hellenistic whodunnit, and in the end pays the price for his dogged quest to know what the hell happened.

Now, I’m not saying that attempting to find out went wrong will cause you to stab your eyes out (if it does, let me hug you right now), but you will stay obsessed, and life will continue to suck.

~Natasha Hunt