When my phone buzzed at 11:37 p.m. during the lazy days of Independence Day weekend, I knew my social media sin was coming back to haunt me.

“Damn,” I thought, “Why did I have to click ‘like’ on that stupid picture of his?”

Clicking like on the picture of a former flame in 2013 is holding open the gate to let a resurgence of communication come pouring through. Clicking like on the picture of a former flame is a passive-aggressive indication that you are prepared to text again. Clicking like on the picture of a former flame is probably the dumbest thing I could have done.

After we exchanged pleasantries, my former flame stated the obvious: “You (meaning me) did this.”

Did what? Made it absolutely and utterly OK to let myself get dragged through the mud for the umpteenth time merely because someone is diplomatic, witty and attractive beyond measure? No, I did not do this. That ridiculous Facebook “like” button did this.

Ok, maybe I did this.

So, when I worked up the gall less than 24 hours later to say, “This is never not going to be fucked up for me,” (aka Sayonara, sucker) I was even surprised at myself. I was surprised that this time it took me only one day, and not my previous history of four months, to realize a person was not good for me and would never be good for me.

I am the semi-queen of cutting people out of my life. It’s an action that’s just as much a virtue as it is a vice. I’ve done it on phone calls. I’ve done it via impulsive text messages. I’ve done it in person. I’ve probably done it through email. I’ve done it when it made absolute sense and I’ve done it prematurely. What I am not the queen of, however, is drowning people when they resurface. Because, let’s face it: they always resurface. Always. Always. Always. It is written in the history of humanity that people (specifically men) will always resurface.

After the initial adrenaline rush I get from proclaiming, “Yo, this is not working” has subsided, I’m usually left with a potpourri of mixed feelings. The icy hot pain of the bad times begins to compete with the sugarcoated memories of the good times, leaving me vulnerable to a sneak attack whether it be months or years later. I can’t recall many times when I have stood my ground during these sneak attacks, instead opting to give credit to fate or scold my rash, but probably rational, decision a few months prior.

Cutting people out isn’t the hard part. Cutting people out is the high, sending a rush through your veins because for once, you made a decision about your life. For once, you took control and stepped into grown womanhood. No, cutting people out isn’t the hard part. Hell, that’s the fun part.

The hard part is drowning people when they rebound. The hard part is knowing that good times are sometimes just good times. Some people are good people who are absolutely terrible for us. The hard part is knowing you can’t write everyone off as an asshole, you can’t always play the victim, you can’t always wait for things to just “take care of themselves.” The hard part is that unsuspecting moment on a Thursday afternoon when you have moved on, when you’re no longer fraught with disdain or anxiety or agony, and your phone flashes with the text ”Hey, stranger.” That is the hard part.

Xoxo,

Tyece