the good, the bad, and the ugly

There’s a real need that I have, after a breakup—of any sort—to try and drive absolutely every memory out of my mind. The good, the bad, the ugly—they all hurt. Fragments of recollections, dreams where I remember them—they’re all shrapnel in a fresh wound, digging in deeper, merely serving to re-emphasize the pain, to make it worse.

So, I take some time. I take some distance. I walk away from it all.

And then… I sit back and I decide to remember.

With the fortitude that distance and space provide, remembering the good, the bad, and the ugly suddenly becomes necessary. I have to remember it.

I have to remember hushed giggles in a dark bar where our thighs were pressed against each other’s.

I have to remember the hours we spent in my car, parked in our driveway, the sun setting behind you, both of us talking about everything and nothing, unwilling and unable to say goodbye.

I have to remember every single time I made you laugh; laugh until you cried, laugh until you snorted, laugh with disbelief in your wide eyes, unable to comprehend the words out of my mouth.

I have to remember how you checked in until you didn’t, leaving me behind without an explanation or a word to the wise, and no forwarding address for the baggage you left behind.

I have to remember the sheer lack of courage you displayed when it mattered.

I have to remember every time you didn’t choose me… and every time you did.

The good, the bad, and the ugly dance around until those labels mean nothing. Memories aren’t anything, they just are, and I put the puzzle pieces together to form a perfectly imperfect image of who you once were. Not the rose-tinted glasses I looked at you through, not the storm clouds that you turned into, and not even the way you might see yourself. Just… you.