Tag Archives: breakups

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Less is More

A month has passed since Mr. P and I officially parted ways. While he doesn’t quite remember the choice between coming home with me and working things out or going to Brooklyn and ending our relationship, I do — and I’ll probably never be able to return to that corner because it reaps of bitterness currently.

That was the Saturday night following my birthday and on Monday, the day I ended the daily-post regimen of this blog, I met him at a sushi restaurant after work. I dressed particularly attractive for the occasion — determined that if I felt good about myself, I’d be strong enough to stand my ground. We took our seat and he instantly grabbed for my arm and started apologizing for the weekend. Where he was 30 minutes late to my birthday dinner, and an inexcusable three hours late for his own friend’s party, leaving me alone with his family without anyway to get a hold of him. It wasn’t about his tardiness or his decision to not go to my apartment that night and try harder, really. It was just the tip of the iceberg, the final act where I realized the man I had been falling for may just be a figment of my imagination, not the actual man behind a clever mask.

I could barely look at him and I remember focusing so intently on a poster displaying different types of a sashimi, I could probably recite it if I tried. He wanted to take some space and some time, but stay together because he loved me. Tears welling up in my eyes, and Seal’s “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” ironically playing in the background, I set the key to his apartment on the table, along with a notebook I had kept our entire courtship, even dating back to when he was Mr. Unavailable. I told him that I’d either give it to him when we married or when we broke up. The latter just seemed to be our fate. As far I know, he hasn’t even opened it once since that day.

I meant business then and I knew I had to do the right thing, even if it felt wrong and it was extremely difficult. We had been fighting relentlessly, feverishly for six weeks and I couldn’t take another night where my eyes stung from tears, or worse, we were both so silent because there just wasn’t anything left to say. The only way to salvage any type of anything — and to build my own self-worth back up — was to end the relationship. In some sort of odd way, I felt like I was breaking up with a part of New York because he’s been part of my life here for nearly as long as I’ve lived here. He wasn’t just my lover or my first Manhattan boyfriend, but my best friend. And having that constant consistency is an awkward thing to wean yourself off of — especially since there wasn’t a big fight that transpired or some huge awful thing that either of us did that was entirely unjust. It just wasn’t working and we both knew it.  I didn’t want to have to be the one to walk away, but I knew I’d be angry if he got to it first. It’s a petty thing to admit — but aren’t we all a little shallow when our hearts are breaking?

Even so, I didn’t fully remove those rose-colored glasses. Maybe it’s because I know him so well or because the way I got to know him was through a grand gesture for another girl (who happens to now be more of my good friend than she was ever his ex-girlfriend) — but I expected a parade. I thought I would be showered with gifts and kind, reassuring words. I was convinced there would be an email waiting in my inbox that declared his passion and his commitment to me, regardless if he felt passionless himself. I didn’t want to believe that he’d just let me go, just like that, and that would be…that.

But when you part from someone because they aren’t meeting your emotional needs, aren’t falling for you at the same rate you’re falling for them, and can’t give you what you want right now — why would you expect them to step up to the plate once you bruise their ego, hurt their feelings, and walk away? It’s a terrible double-standard but one I was led to believe was the standard for him: a woman is pushed to her limits and he can’t allow her to disconnect because he realizes how much he cares.

But there haven’t been flowers or love letters. No box of chocolates or lilies at my door. No sweet sentiment that makes me wonder if there is still possibility blooming between us. No wonderful anything, no declaration of love, no paramount change to change my mind. Instead, there have been a handful of emails, a dozen calls, some text messaging, and lunch delivered to my office. Oh and a pumpkin. I’m not sure why I expected more — but in some sort of odd way, I’ve started to tell myself that in this case, in the case of our relationship, less is really more.

If someone sees that they are only hurting you by being in your life, that they’re disappointing you, that they can’t give you that love that you want and that you deserve, if they can’t do the gesture to win you back because winning you back would only result in more trouble for both of you — isn’t the greatest gesture of all…no gesture…at all? If you can’t love all the way, why settle for meeting in the middle? If you’re not ready for va-va-voom, there’s not reason to keep all that room open in your heart.

Maybe he realizes that and so instead of dragging out the conversation, making a play that he can’t follow-through with, even if he wanted to, he’s releasing me to find someone who can go the distance. To find someone who won’t need to make a gesture because they’ll see what they have when they have me. Someone who can meet my needs and even surpass them.

There is pain in the silence and a lot of frustration, but if you’re brave enough to not blame yourself for the lack of a chase, you’ll see there’s actually more peace without the persistence. Having a grand gesture can be grand, but not unless it’s the one you need. And sometimes the one you need is simply…nothing.

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A Glass of Perspective

There are a few stages in the mourning period following the end of a relationship that are so emotionally difficult, we all swear we’ll never fall in love again. Of course, we all eventually do — but at the time, it seems inhumane to experience such traumatic ups and downs when we still have the aftertaste of a happiness that was, once upon a not-so-long time ago.

I’m attempting not to blame my current grief on myself or the fact that it’s incredibly normal to experience the longing, but rather on outside factors that can alter someone’s rational mindset. In fact, I think I’ll call them “Things That Make You Want to Call Your Ex to Come Over and Keep You Warm or Do Other Things That I Shouldn’t Mention in My Blog.” (Short title to come later).

1- The transition from hot weather to chilly weather= it’s colder, snuggling is desired.

2- The onset of a nasty flu due to a last-minute decision to get my first ever flu shot= I’m curled up in blankets drowning myself in chicken soup that’s not even half as good as my dad’s.

3- The tactful persuasion of my friends to go out and drink away my woes= alcohol’s even more persuasive ways of making me want to reply to text messages, emails or phone calls that I know I should definitely ignore.

4- The indescribable feeling of being so satisfied with your job that the days go by so quickly, you can barely believe it = such joy is often expressed to the person you love, and then suddenly, because of your decision, they aren’t there anymore. Or if they are, you know you can’t take advantage of that lack luster connection.

Sure, I’ve felt all of these things before in some shape, form or fashion. I know that before I can feel completely like myself again and let go of the idea of what I thought I’d found with Mr. P, I have to feel all of the heartbreak. I have to let those dreams die in the slow, painful and wrenching way that they always seem to do. I have to remove those lovely rose-colored glasses I’ve sported foolishly for the last several months, and not only face who Mr. P really is, but who I am without those specs. I have to be willing to cut communication and my losses, so I can try to see all the lessons I gained from the relationship. And before there can be wisdom, there’s always a bit of whining and a few nights of sending emails I instantly regret the next morning.

I woke up today with a cloudy head and tired eyes, and out of habit, I turned to greet Mr. P’s warm body. When I rolled over, I nearly fell off the bed (getting used to the whole middle region still), and realized I was alone. His photo isn’t by my bed, his backpack isn’t in the corner of my room, and he doesn’t have a towel here anymore. There are no sneakers by my bed, no toothbrush by my sink, and his number isn’t the last one I’ve called. There isn’t anything new for me to analyze or something for me to worry about in terms of us because whatever was us, is now over. There isn’t anything to feel guilty about and there wasn’t a bridge that was burned, just my pride and my spirit were bruised in the process. Along with a sometimes overshadowing sadness that floods over me on mornings like this one.

My mood continued to be melancholy, despite my attempts to cheer myself up with pumpkin pancakes and two cups of coffee. For the first time in while, I allowed myself to have those “Remember when?” thoughts. My mind chronicled the good times while carefully omitting the bad chapters that most of the time, outweighed the splendor. My memory served me wrong and highlighted those moments where I really felt like I was falling in love and those weekends where we spent endless hours talking and caressing, forgetting that we had any responsibilities at all. My senses started detecting things that remind me of him — from New York landmarks to Groupon deals that he would have enjoyed and funny emails I’d like to forward him. My heart continued to ache, even after treating myself to soup I couldn’t taste and walking around the office for a bit to give myself some breathing room…well, from my own thoughts. I worked incredibly hard to try to erase the negativity I was engaging in, but my headache just continued to get worse.

That’s when numbers 1, 2 and 4 come into full effect, as I cursed myself for not bringing my daytime medicine. I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe through my nose, so I started inhaling slowly through my mouth, making me sound incredibly odd when I answered the phone. I could have taken a quick elevator ride to buy some meds, but I was comfortable and more content, apparently, to just suffer through the sniffles. While stifling my coughs, someone from the mailroom stopped by my desk with a package, which I signed and thanked her for, and went right back to work.

An hour later when I decided I absolutely had to get some water or I would pass out, I kicked the package with my foot. After shooting the bag a dirty look, I opened it up and found a blessing I didn’t even ask for: orange juice.

Naturally, my first thought went to Mr. P — wondering if he had remembered my addiction to the juice and sent it to me as some sort of grand gesture. I quickly realized it was simply a PR company promoting a new blend, and while I was a tad disappointed, I was more highly surprised and entertained. Here I was, sitting around missing a man who couldn’t give me the love I deserved and needed, and the universe delivers something to brighten my day, without even the slightest request from me.

I smiled and poured myself a glass, happy to have something that always seems to make me feel better. It won’t keep me warm at night, it isn’t alcoholic and it probably won’t help my career, but it gave me something I needed more than vitamin C: perspective.

Sometimes it’s those things you don’t ask for or those things that you don’t even know you need that you actually do. Oddly enough, orange juice was just what I needed, even if I thought I needed something (or someone) else instead. After all, pouring myself a glass of tangy perspective is much better than pouring myself back into the past.

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The Show Goes On

Since the pharmacist decided to take her sweet time, I was running late to a luxury event where, apparently, they revealed a fabulous new car for 2012. Not one for automotives unless they are yellow and can take me from point A to point B — I wasn’t annoyed to miss the big unveiling, but rather the unveiling of the champagne.

When I arrived in my worth-every-penny gold and white heels, sporting an orange dress and tousled locks, the first thing my dear friend A said was: “Your hair always looks so good. I kinda of hate you just as much as I love you.” I put together a smile while I put together my attitude and looked around, attempting to take in the expensive scene that technically I couldn’t afford, except for the fact I’m considered press. No one needs to know I cover love and sex instead of new cars and overpriced chocolates (though they were quite delicious).

It came as no surprise that my friends were camping out in the beverage line and I was thankful to have such beautiful lushes as my affectionate accomplices. M and A tried out bourbon while K and I stuck to wine, and as I whipped around, still situating myself and my bag, I found myself eye-to-eye with someone I didn’t want to see…

…Mr. Possibility’s best friend.

I didn’t notice him at first, as I was carefully trying to ignore the creepy older dude hitting on K and I behind us, but when I turned my head, he swiftly said, “Lindsay! What are you doing here? I didn’t think you noticed me.” He was right — I hadn’t. I was far too consumed in catching up with the girls to pay attention to someone who only brings back memories of a time that may have been recent, but now seems so far away. He’s a lovely person with an impressive resume and Rolodex, and while there may be tension between Mr. P and I, I decided to be the bigger person and greet him with the same pleasantries he presented me with. We exchanged a few words and I introduced my friends before we headed off to make our rounds around the event. The second we separated, I whispered over my Cabernet: “That’s Mr. Possibility’s best friend. How is it such a small world?”

I followed the advice of my friends and carefully put the fear of Mr. P showing up in the back of my mind, though I casually kept one eye on the entrance, praying he didn’t walk through, arm-in-arm with a tall blonde that would put my short stature to shame. We tasted the most delicious macaroons I’ve ever had, ran into some old friends who happen to play Manhattan Rugby (in other words, trouble!), and made an effort to be as ridiculous as possible at such a fancy occasion. You could blame our age or the fact that pricey things aren’t impressive as our bond — but either way, I’ll go with the latter. Sometimes giggling is more fun than gawking — right?

As we stumbled out to the Autumn night, thankful that the rain subsided, we made our way to a local place we love, ordered truffle french fries and laughed about things we won’t remember tomorrow. We discussed weekend plans while confessing how sincerely happy we are with our jobs and how sometimes we just want to pinch ourselves out of a reality that seems so dreamlike. There was hardly any mention of relationships, no deciphering about a guy who may or may not like us, no realization of insecurities or inconsistencies. Instead, if we talked about guys, it was in the context of how badly we wanted sex and how we could possibly go about sleeping with half of the foreign population of Manhattan without losing our dignity. We haven’t figured it out yet, but when we do, I’ll be sure to update. Promise.

As I saw the street lights reflect off my plate and in the eyes of women that I haven’t known very long, but feel like I’ve known forever, I felt a certain sense of peace and an undeniable joy stem from my heart. There may be no Mr. Possibility left to go home to, but the possibilities before me seem quite endless. I thought, nestled in my own corner of Manhattan: The city is still alive and so is my life, it’s just that one chapter has come to a close. There is still so much more ahead. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have mixed feelings. There are moments, like when I see a mutual friend or when I walk past something I first saw with Mr. P that I miss him. There are times when I still get the urge to text him or to email him, and a few times, I’ve given into that longing, only to be further disappointed by the response. The thing about breaking up with someone who wasn’t giving you the love and commitment that you deserve, is that once the relationship has been solidified as over, that disconnect only seems more evident. His name is still sensitive to my ears and the memory of his touch still endearing, but the level of settling I’d have to surrender to go back to his bed is far too high for me to rationalize it. My heart may feel one thing, but my head places it in its place when it’s pulling too roughly.

Being single isn’t easy — but we all know I know that. If I didn’t, this blog would have never existed. Some of my dearest friends are radiating with the newly-engaged splendor, others are going through a divorce at the ripe age of 23 and even more are doing just what I’m doing: discovering men while discovering themselves. I used to want to skip the dating part and skip the trial and error that it brings. I used to hope that I could just wake up, walk out of my building and be greeted by the man who would be the end of my heartbreak — but now, I long for adventure. I wish to figure myself out more. I wish to try new things and meet new people. I’m thankful that the idea of getting married makes me uneasy because I know I’m not ready. I find peace in being by myself and I try my best to make the most of my solo life before it becomes a duet performance.

Walking back from the subway, sporting M’s new perfume Chance by Chanel, I caught a whiff of my youth. It smelled a little like sunshine, a bit by stale red wine and a lot like curiosity. I smiled at the stranger I passed and I held the door open for the teenager who scurried up the stairs with rosy, blushing cheeks. Once he was out of sight, I turned up my iPod and danced, all by myself, waiting for the elevator to come . No one saw and it didnt’ matter because the words of Lupe Fiasco were enough for me:

The show goes on. After heartbreak, after change, after failure, after disappointment, after the end of something you really cared about. No matter the trouble, no matter how you think it will turn out, no matter what you face, no matter who you love, no matter who you hurt.

The show just keeps going on. And luckily, so do I — as do you.

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Love Me Still

One of my favorite professors in college (actually, she’s the reason I minored in sociology) once told a story from the early days of her 30-something highly-successful and loving marriage.

At the time, her and her husband had yet to learn how to communicate with one another and often got in tedious fights over in the most insignificant of differences. In a particularly nasty fight, she stormed off into their bedroom, slamming the door and collapsing into the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. Ten minutes later, when her husband didn’t follow to console her and apologize, she raised out of her despair to find him. She pulled the drapes away to find him outside, mowing the lawn, seemingly unaffected by the argument they just had.

Infuriated, she sought revenge to make him feel the same pain she did. She described herself running through the house inhibited, furiously looking for something to destroy. And there, sitting in its prized placement on their living room coffee table, sat a book of beloved poems. Not just any collection bought second-hand at a bookstore – but an actual, original copy. Knowing her love for the greats, it had been a wedding gift.

In her rage, she took it in her hands and ripped out the pages, letting them splash across the floor as pitifully as the tears rolled down her face. In this moment, her husband walked in and saw her. She stood frozen, the shreds pressed against the bottoms of her feet, and he stopped in his tracks. Whimpering, she put her angry face back on to show she wouldn’t be the first to let up or to give in. She was sure this would get him – look what she had done. This would get him.

Without saying a word, he picked up a garbage bag and dust pan, swept up the pieces of the book, including the spine and walked away. They went to bed mad, never saying anything, and she continued to pout.

Months later, at Christmastime, the fights had lessened and they had started to effectively discuss issues instead of taking them out on one another (or literature). When their guests had cleared and they were left alone, he said he had a special gift for her. Excitedly, they sat in front of the fireplace, next to the coffee table and she unwrapped a book. The book.

He had painstakingly taped back together every last page of that antique collection of poetry, and inside the front flap, written: How do I love thee? Still.

She had forgotten by then what that awful fight was about but she never forgot that gesture, and she tried to never do something so vicious again. My eyes watered while my heart swelled in class, and it still makes me a little gooey inside to write it now. It was inspiring – and so touching – that a person could forgive and still love someone ever after doing something so horribly disrespectful.

But now, a few relationships and more than a few years later, I’ve come to realize that what she did is no different than what we all do. Especially when we rely on immaturity and grand gestures to keep a relationship strong. If we race away (and wait the allotted few minutes or so), he’ll feel guilty and come to our rescue, tell us he’s sorry and all will be well. We really think that by leaving, the other person will surely follow, for they could never imagine their life without us. We believe that if we remove ourselves enough from the relationship, even cutting the chord or doing something we know that’ll dig that dagger despicably deep, they’ll see how much they’re hurting us because they’ll hurt too. And if they hurt and we hurt, then we’ll get back together, we’ll get over that awful predicament, to be together.

It doesn’t work that way, does it? It’s not supposed to, is it?

I can’t imagine being in (another) relationship where I feel like to be noticed, to be valued, to not be taken for granted, I have to leave. And I surely don’t want to be in one where even if I do, even if I’m pushed to that point, I’m left out there in the street, still waiting for a gesture that I’m nearly convinced will never happen.

Because somewhere out there, in this concrete jungle or maybe on a safari I’ve yet to scour, there is a man who will love me still. Who will love me despite the madness or the sadness, and regardless if I’m crazy or collected. Who will be able to give me what I need and appreciate what I give him. Who will be able to fall in love with me as easily as I fall for him.

And if there isn’t – if that’s not my destiny, I’ll still love me…still.

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I Put My Heart to Sleep

When Mr. Fire and I parted ways, I was sincerely shocked.

He became ancy and distant in the matter of a weekend, and within a week or so, all was finished. He ended everything outside of the library on our campus and it’s been the only time I’ve been thankful for bug-eyed sunglasses. I never wanted him to see my tears. I believe I would have been fine, I would have overcome the split easier and with a bit more class if he wouldn’t have started dating someone the very next day. Facebook displayed pictures as a nice slap in the face to his “I just don’t want a relationship” excuse and I spent the weekend down by the North Carolina shore, drinking and talking to God on the beach.

The worst of it at the time, though wasn’t the weekend that followed. It was the next few weeks that just happened to be during exams and my final weeks before I moved to New York for a summer internship. If I was going to be on my A-game for Cosmopolitan, I had better get over this dude and get over him fast – I couldn’t let my career be in jeopardy over a rugby player, now could I?

And so I did what every girl does when she’s mulling over a man: I defriended him on Facebook (only to add him back a year later when we could entertain a friendship), I rekindled a workout regimen to get my mind off of things (and to look super-duper sexy), I used what was left of my meal plan to buy far too much candy and ice cream (so much for those miles logged at the gym) and I avoided him (and her) at all costs. I threw myself into the school newspaper and I prepared for my summer away like a crazy woman, setting up networking lunches, making lists of all I wanted to see and do while I was there, and sending my friends incredibly long emails that now, I just write on these pages.

All of these tactics worked in my favor and throughout the day, I appeared fine. I didn’t miss deadlines and I didn’t tear-up in class. I didn’t curse his name or their relationship (they are still going strong and from what I can tell from frozen faces on Facebook, they are happy) and I did all that I could to build up the confidence that’s always smashed when someone decides to pass you up.

But then night would come.

I’m not sure what it is about darkness that makes you retreat back into the darkness within yourself, but going to sleep was hell. After a few restless nights, I invested in Tylonel PM and my mom sent me calcium tablets which apparently make you relax. My body quickly rejected both of these methods and I was left again, tossing and turning, trying to calm my mind so my spirit would ease. This was one of the first times in my adult life that I experienced what it was like to go without sleep, yet be haunted by dreams that wouldn’t come true. But it wasn’t really my racing mind or my sore body that kept me awake, it wasn’t even missing Mr. Fire really. What kept me from falling asleep was my own heart. Now, I know that it was beating so hard I could hear it out of anxiety (normal reaction to a breakup) but at the time, I thought:

This must be what it sounds and feels like when your heart literally breaks.

No matter if I laid on my stomach or my side, my back or curled up as tightly as my 5’4″ frame would allow, my heart would pound out of my chest so vibrantly that I couldn’t catch a good breath. Finally, after a week or so of un-sleep, I decided to hold my own heart. It was almost like a motherly reaction, an instinctive move to place my palms on top of my chest, as if I’m soothing something fragile: Hush now, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Calm down. 

It didn’t surrender easily. It put up a strong opposition, continuing to race and threaten to bring tears to my eyes, though at that point, I was too tired to really cry anymore. But eventually, with some real effort on my end, I put my heart so sleep.

And once it gave in, once it relaxed and allowed me to sincerely get the rest I needed, I started feeling much better. I started sleeping regularly again, placing my palms on my chest nightly to insure it didn’t feel alone or abandoned. Like I needed to be reminded that I would love again, my heart needed to know that it could rest now, that it didn’t need to worry anymore, that the past person it loved was gone, but there would be more. It needed to know it was alright to let go, it was okay to sleep.

I got through those initial first weeks by holding my heart, and that’s how I get through anything that really upsets me now. Anytime I’m feeling anxiety or I’m really upset, I just hold my heart. I say soothing words until my body releases, my mind stops churning and my heart gives up its fearful rhythm. That was the first time I realized how much power I have over my own body. That no matter how much trouble it felt or how much pain I was going through, I could cope.

And I could do it alone with my own two hands.