Dealing With The Death Of My Ex

By

Woman in a cemetery
His passing forced her to make peace with their turbulent relationship.

I was on a date with my boyfriend of six months. But after we purchased popcorn, took our seats, and held hands watching Dark Knight, I couldn't help but think of Luc, my ex, during the film. Something about Heath Ledger's character reminded me of him—the lip-smacking attitude of too much Xanax. Sometimes I guiltily tried to measure how much I thought about Luc. Was it once a day? Once a week?

Back home with our shoes off and phones switched on, my boyfriend saw that I had a voicemail. It was from my mom. I watched him listen to the message, my heart quickening. The Frisky: I Went To My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding

"Luc died," he said.

The news hit my body and I collapsed at its weight. My brain scanned for the words, "This isn't happening."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," I cried wet and raw, letting out some primal howl.

I tried to remember the last time I saw Luc. I was breaking up with him after six years together, on and off. Or I was trying to break up with him. He was opening the large window in his 31st floor apartment, saying that if I left, as soon as the door shut behind me, he would jump.

As I heaved into a pile of pillows, my mom called back and told me the details. He died by asphyxiating on his vomit, after passing out drunk. He was found at a stranger's house, a couple he went home with.

The days that followed were a haze of walking through life, half in the past. When I closed my eyes I was back in his room—sometimes fighting with him, sometimes kissing him.

As I write this, today is—or would have been—Luc's birthday. A part of me goes into some fantasy about what he would be like now, how well or happy he would be. With death, it's kind of easy to do that, to stay in the pleasant memories or thoughts about that person. The Frisky: "I'm Obsessed With My Ex"

There was the time, somewhere around age 18, when we had sex in the pool and he asked me to get a CD from the car. I was in the passenger seat, rummaging with my ass in the air, when he jumped in the driver's seat and backed out of the driveway. "We are driving around naked!" he yelled.

It was maybe two minutes before his grandmother stopped us on the road.

There was the time we were in bed, sexy-cuddling. His face was serious, silently focused on getting me off. Just as I started to come, he began singing, loudly, off-key: "John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmidt! His name is my name, too!"

Remembering our relationship sometimes makes me feel like I'm on drugs. It's a mix of incredible highs and crashes. It's easy to remember our jokes and romance. But the crushing moments hang in my mind, too. The time he got too f**ked up and hit his mom—it was me crying with his sister, assuring her it would be OK. The strings of verbal lacerations. Him promising to kill me.

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