I woke up at 4 in the morning, exhausted but restless; my body’s payback from a night spent drinking my dinner. My cell phone sat next to the clock, reminding me to check the damage I had no doubt caused hours earlier. It wasn’t too bad: no “come fuck me” texts to near strangers, a few “I fucking love you so much” messages to college roommates, a ridiculously long phone heart-to-heart (of which I remember next to nothing) with Alexis. But as I scrolled down the display of dialed numbers, one stood out but didn’t surprise me: ex boyfriend.

Somewhere between the last gin and stumbling home, I called ex boyfriend. Luckily, he didn’t pick up. I rattled off a chain of swear words at the receiver as his recorded voice monotonously told me to leave a message, but somehow had my wits about me to hang up instead. Thank. God.

Before last week, my relationship with anxiety was pretty much non existent. The word was hardly part of my vocabulary. But lately I have been feeling sheer-terror-life-crisis-anxiety. I hate admitting it. The parasitic feeling that has taken over my chest and has caused me to halve my calories while doubling my drinking, is all because I have to see ex boyfriend at a wedding.

Despite previous jokes, the thought of seeing the face I used to know as well as my own makes me uneasy. I won’t be able to blissfully ignore feelings anymore. It’s constantly in the back of my mind. Every clock I see is counting down the minutes; every plan I make brings me one day closer to that dreaded wedding. I feel weak and constantly think I’m burdening my friends if I ever bring up the situation.

If I were to publish the story of my relationship with ex boyfriend, the book would be the size of the Harry Potter series with size eight font. The tragic part about our story is that it was never bad. Neither of us cheated. He never hit me. We got along well with each others family. We just couldn’t be in the same city when we needed to be, and the long distance got the best of us. Time and alcohol helped me move on. I thought he had as well, since he was seeing a new girl. We kept in touch enough to know what was going on in each other’s lives, but not enough to rub salt in healing wounds.

At my best friend’s wedding (by the way, weddings: the emotional chopping block for single females), ex boyfriend called me drunk and upset. He said he loved and missed me, and we drunkenly spilled our guts and reopened each wound that took so long to heal. I would be a liar if I said it didn’t feel good to hear it all but I should have known better.
He made promises he couldn’t keep and I believed them. I told him off, cut off all communication, but in the process I broke the promise I made to myself to never let myself be disappointed by him again.

But in the interest of civility at our friends upcoming wedding, we talked a handful of times in the last few months. Rarely do we discuss topics other than vague family updates and baseball rumors.

The mystery makes me anxious. I don’t know what to expect, which leaves room for my imagination to make many unwanted suggestions.

I can’t think of a better environment to be in when I see him. I will be surrounded by friends who love me and know me better than I know myself. They don’t want to see me hurt and will be strong when I can’t. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling like it’s bound to happen. This anticipation is like a nightmare I’m watching unfold in my head and I’m powerless. I just can’t wake myself up.

I’m going to avoid him, the history, the whole situation and make every effort to not get black-out drunk. For real.

-Anastasia Beam