Is not knowing what to do with yourself.
You know, of course, what you should be doing. What you should be doing is laundry, and going to work, and visiting friends, and treating yourself to ice cream and foot massages and designer tissues to sob into. You know these things in your head because that's what everyone tells you to do after a break-up. And you listen to everyone because they've been through it before, and breakups suck but the world keeps turning, and you're great so you'll get over it.
You also know what you want to do: you want to smash things; to throw your phone off your balcony just to give you one more thing to worry about and one less person to call; go over to his house and rip off his shirt and run your nails down his back while he kisses you softly before pinning you against a wall and whispering how he forgives you and he's sorry. —Alternatively, you want to hybernate in a whiskey-blanket (your uncles know how, so it shouldn't be too hard). You want to sleep until the day when that mythical "friendship" is possible. When you no longer miss his tenderness and his intelligence and the way he spoke about you as if you were something spectacular.
You want the day to come when you can write something less maudlin.
But you don't know what _to _do, because despite what you should be doing and what you want to be doing your body doesn't cooperate. Your brain protests sluggishly, your limbs put up a fight. Your libido, confused and distraught, packs up and leaves. There is a person-sized hole in your life and you don't know what to do to shrink it or to stop staring into it or fill it or fix it. You look at your hands and your thighs and your feet and your breasts and your hair and for the blinding flash of a moment you hate them. Before your better self takes over you hate them for being rejected and you release your hate in a barrage of insults: _stupid, dirty, liar, unlovable, tainted. _
Here is what you end up doing: You reign yourself in (reluctantly), bundle up in something attractive and drag yourself out the door. But you don't know what to do so you sit and cry and snarl at anyone who approaches. Eventually you go home exhausted and embarrassed. You sit on your bed and pull out every single time anybody has rejected you and you uncoil them all like a rope. And you wonder what to do as you study that rope but your higher self wins and you put it away (a soft voice deep beneath your soul says _for later, _but you ignore it).
And though you still don't know what to do you sleep. Because maybe things will be better in the morning. Maybe then you'll figure out your next step.
_*Two things: A) this is horribly written Jezzies, I apologize. Please don't take this as exemplary of my writing skill-it's more of a rant than anything. B) Because of this, I ask that no one shares it to the mainpage. I'm posting it somewhere else first for copyright issues (just in case), but that's it._