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Don't overanalyze
654B. A code that can lead to pleasure as well as to the worst affliction. I don't even know if I want to dial it anymore. I stare at it quizzically and wonder if it wouldn't be the worst mistake of my life. I thought I had made a big mistake living with Paul for eight years, but I tell myself that we can continually innovate, that nothing remains the same. Even pronounced on a poorly lit evening, love is allowed to think that the time to leave has come.
It's awful when you think about it. But why does this deep feeling of guilt approach me and prevent me from breathing? Damn, I'm free! I have my suitcases, and I am in front of Agnès' building. I am ready to rebuild my life. I'm 38, and it's not over yet. My life is ready for a new beginning.And yet, there is a problem. I'm afraid, and I had not planned this nasty fear in my suitcases. I thought leaving Paul with a short note near his croissants would solve the matter, but I am back to square one. IRelated chapters
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I would like to throw the phone in a trash can and run away, but again, that would prove my cowardice. I have to face Paul, tell him that the words left in the kitchen were telling the truth. He will be in pain. It will make me cry because deep down, I know he's the loser in this game.My phone is ringing once more. Why is Paul insisting? He still hasn't understood? I thought I was clear, though. I knew he was head over heels with me, but now it clearly seems like I have lived with a lunatic. What if he's a psychopath? I'm afraid he'll blackmail me and starts talking about suicide!And here we go again, at this simple thought, I just can't help it! Tears come to tickle my eyes. I feel like a little girl deprived of a snack when everyone is eating in front of me. Making Paul suffer tortures me and he doesn't know anything about it. He has no idea that I am in front of Agn&
The obsessive fascination Don't knock at the wrong door
It was my first visit to a therapist's office. I didn't know what to expect: diplomas all over the walls to show that he knew what he was talking about, plants to relax me, Kleenex for crying, a lovely couch to lie on. And the therapist himself, I don't know why, but I had imagined him bald and with a big belly. Before entering, I had heard his voice. I hadn't liked it. I had found it without warmth and emotion. As cold as a washcloth placed on the forehead to reduce fever. I don't want to sound crazy, but I really wanted to run away when I heard him behind the door: What am I doing here? I am in a therapist's office because I left a breakup letter on a kitchen table? I thought I was wasting his time, that other more grieved patients would need his miracle recipe. But I am not sure, when I heard
The obsessive fascination Don't be angry with me
I know what you're going to say, but trust me, I tried. And not just once. I timidly looked at myself several times in the mirror with a detached air, and I pronounced these three words which have the power of striking in the chest: "I leave you." I said them, I assure you. Quite loud even, in the hope that he hears them and accepts them. At 39, it might be about time. He cannot stay to contemplate this grumpy love that turns its back on him. Even an icy gust of wind doesn't dare to make me go towards it.Have I given him too much? Am I this athlete who thinks he has no more strength at the end of the race? I had them, my quarter of hours of glory, my hours too, where I collected his
The obsessive fascination Make our love blossom again
Sometimes I tell myself that love is like flowers, it's stunning at the beginning, and over time, this beauty gives way to decadence. Love can sometimes be misleading, and we no longer recognize it. It's like it never existed. I don't know if Paul noticed that his hands were no longer producing the same effect on me, that my body was no longer electrifying at the slightest second. Sometimes, I tell myself that we should take the time to sit down around a table together, even if it means putting a vase overflowing with fresh roses just like things were at the start of our flame, to encourage us, to tell us that everything can go back but do I want to? I met Paul at a party. It's a pretty mundane place. I
The obsessive fascination Don't live in our memories anymore
This morning Paul left the house early. He told me about a very urgent contract to sign. I let him run away, and a cruel thought came over me. It's embarrassing, but for a split second, I started wishing he didn't come back, that he was stuck for hours signing that damn piece of paper. I did not interview him as I might have done in the past. I didn't care if this great-looking apartment would be for a rentier or a young art history student. I didn't care. It was as if my tongue had disappeared overnight like my feelings. I shudder just at this admission. It almost slices my throat to tell myself that I do not feel any lack, that I feel relieved in his absence.Something is wrong, and it gets me confused. My friend Carole collects commitment-phobic, and I'm only good at wiping tears
The obsessive fascination Deal with it
Forget me. Imagine you've never met me. Put me in the drawer of your memories—both the good and the bad. It doesn't matter the slightest. Ignore the existence of our story. You won't find anything extraordinary there anyway. See me as if I were a speck of dust. It's not very bad but what is it for? It ruins the landscape.In fact, no, why put me down in this mishap? Why should I still feel guilty for asking you to erase what connects us? You told me that the two of us " would be forever." I now remain deaf to this form of blackmail. Yes, that's blackmail, Paul. What the hell did you imagine? That you could continue to own my body and soul until the end of time? You are very selfish, let me tell you. Are you only aware of my own desires? No, I am correcting myself—my absence of lust. When you approach me, I see myself as a little girl on a merry-go-round. My mother insist
The obsessive fascination Don't say anything
I folded up the letter and hesitated for a long time before wrapping it. This colorful envelope would have been a bit like giving a present with a friendly smile. A gift, even poorly chosen, gives pleasure, brings a little joy because we always tell ourselves that it is the intention that counts, that the person has thought of us. Yes, I thought of Paul, but this letter is not a present. This letter will undoubtedly give a taste of bitterness in his mouth as if he had a drunk whole salty ocean. He is going to choke on the bottle of wine. I can already feel it coming. And about me? I will remain like a tiny mouse, unaware of all my actions. The pen wrote, my hand just went with the flow—this perfect cowardice which characterizes me in all ingenuity. I reread my letter calmly. Shutters were closed. I didn't want any distraction from the outside, no noise, no smile that would taunt me when I have just crushed my heart on a pi
The obsessive fascination Devour me
No, I wasn't expecting it. Of course, I had noticed this slightly lost gaze of his. How else could it have been? He reminded me of a teenager who was after a girl's phone number at all costs. I had anticipated everything but that! When will I finally drop my hypocrisy? When will I realize that Paul and I have been together for more than 8 years and after such a long time spent together, we need something else than a plain 'good morning' each time we wake up. And last night, I can't help but shudder when I think about it. I really think I felt his hands caress my chest. With a soft and light hand, yes. But had I invited him to? Carole doesn't understand me. I have what she does not have and what she would like to have. Nocturnal caresses, little atte
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