Читать книгу How to Survive a Breakup - Lisa Cleary - Страница 6

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Are You a Type A, Anxious Overachiever… Too?

So, you’re almost 30 years old.

The age when those “30-by-30” lists come into play and life markers become actual achievements. When you can repeat the four Cs of diamonds in your sleep, and the stages of an unborn baby become synonymous with fruit. When you realize that PMI and HOAs aren’t STDs; they’re financial annoyances…

And then, well, there’s me.

The late bloomer. The socially stunted. The individual who isn’t sure if her life is the consequence of bad decisions or the culmination of bad luck. I say this because, two years ago, I experienced The Summer Slap-Down: a mass layoff, a tumultuous break up after a rather long-term relationship, the subsequent start of a new job, and two unexpected moves—simultaneously, in a matter of three neat months.

What’s the funniest part of it all?

Well, I’m a writer. And, in fact, I’m a health and happiness-based writer. I’m the type of person who writes those kinds of lists, like: “What kind of friend are you?” Answer: “Just read this list and look inside of your pantry: you’re nutty and smooth like peanut butter, or boring like whole grain bread and everyone’s forced to be with you.”

Suffice to say, the irony was real: my own advice had not worked for me. But I do stand overqualified for having experienced many of life’s major stressors in a compressed amount of time. There’s a special sort of feeling for when you’re packing up your desk, wondering, How am I going to support myself, and can I justify my unemployment funds to cover my weekly allowance of wine? And then, when you go home to your apartment to pack up the rest of your life, you’re left to wonder, What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

Where am I going to live?

That summer, I cried for maybe the fifth time ever.

But I Planned My Life Out… In My Planner

I have always been a Type A, anxious overachiever, and therefore a planner by default. That mindset is my greatest attribute and, yet, my fatal flaw. To this day, I map out weekly goals that translate to long-term achievements, color code them as I go, and then evaluate my accomplishments at the end of the week. It’s both exhausting and highly effective.

So when, at 31 years old, I had not been able to show off an engagement, a well furnished home, and an established career as a novelist, I questioned why—and how—all of my planning had gone awry. I wasn’t even in the process of building up to those goals. I was breaking up, moving out, and stomping on life.

Indulging in my melodramatics, I kept asking myself: why were others married and birthing their second child, when I was just starting over in almost every facet of my life? I realized that there were worse injustices in life and that shitty things in life happen, but I still felt compelled to compete with everyone else. That’s what happens when you’re Type A. The thing was, though, my perspective was off-kilter at the time, because I felt like I had nothing to compete with. I felt like I had nothing to show for myself.

That summer, friends quickly noticed my significant decline on social media and lack of HCPs1*. I ceased posting artfully plated, home-cooked meals for two. I stopped sharing uplifting quotes from literature, because no one should care about selfless love anymore. It didn’t exist. And, after I got laid off, I never again mentioned how cool it was to partake in yoga at lunch and to be part of an elite group of writers. (Who needs a proper salary when you can get paid in free Starbucks?) No one wanted to see what I was really doing in between my recurring meltdowns, which consisted of scouring Match.com profiles, wondering what bottom of the barrel was left for me. No one knew that I’d eat a heavy dinner, so I could try to fall asleep by 8 p.m., with my now ex-boyfriend in the other room of our apartment, packing to move out.

Most especially, no one wanted to hear me whine and worry anymore. I had exhausted all sympathetic outlets.

Even though I felt like I had failed in not hitting the main life markers that so many of my friends had already accomplished, I wasn’t overly worried about the success of my career or my personal finances. I was still in control of my journey as a writer, even when taking layoffs into account, because I largely only needed to rely on myself to get the job done. My main concern, however, was the one facet of my life that required the willing compliance of one other person: a relationship.

I Feel Juvenile

Trusting life’s plan, particularly with regard to love and relationships, was a daunting task when reality plagued my own family and friends. Divorces and child custody hearings? I don’t know how they did it. Abusive relationships? I’m awed at the courage it took to walk away. Sudden deaths of spouses? It’s a pain I don’t know how my loved ones carry to this day.

My breakup seemed trivial in comparison to the aches and pains of others, but it still hurt. I hurt. I had loved someone whole-heartedly for many years, and I felt conned and empty. I wondered what my ultimate life plan was and what obstacles I still needed to jump. The thought of not being able to fully control my future was frightening, and I no longer wondered when I’d have the chance at legitimate love; I wondered if.

Breakups near, during, and beyond your thirties make for incredibly lonely and isolating times. A breakup is nowhere near as jolting as the “D” word: “divorce,” which is why many family and friends may even fail to acknowledge the situation at hand. Still, the sting of it all lingers. Breakups are also a far cry from ones in your twenties, a time when your best girlfriends could blow off shifts and take sick days to be by your bedside with no questions asked.

Now, because friends have increasing priorities, like significant others, husbands and families, more demanding positions at work, and even worries over aging parents, the sympathetic shoulders to cry on are harder to come by. People are busy. When I juxtaposed my voids against the happiness of my mostly female friends, many of whom were married and even pregnant with their second child, it made me want to push them even further away. I didn’t want to break down to my best friend about my fear of loneliness when her child was screaming, ready for a feeding, in the background.

I felt so… incredibly juvenile.

During the course of the next year, as I adjusted to a new apartment and a new job, I felt very alone. I had never lived alone, and so moving into unfamiliar surroundings, by myself, was frightening and I became depressed. No one prepares you for what it feels like to move out of a very luxe rented apartment, afforded by two salaries, to the cheapest unit in the basement of a complex that’s thirty miles outside of the city.

And so, I barely cried, and I mostly mulled. The holidays were anxious times for me, with the early darkness of late fall and winter particularly tough. At the New Year, I congratulated a burst of friends on their engagements, some of whom I thought would never settle down, and some of whom had moved past their first marriage and were now planning for their second. Come Valentine’s Day, I ordered cheesy breadsticks and broccoli bites and watched Gone Girl. And, as a new spring approached, I realized that I was really alone.

Please RSVP to Help Me

Even though I knew it was detrimental, I continued to compare my life to everyone’s social media posts: more bachelorette parties. More baby showers. Too many festivities. I wondered why Bed, Bath & Beyond didn’t encourage single people like myself to open up registries as a declared rite of passage: if you’re 30 years old and single, you have more than earned the right to throw yourself a party and invite all of your friends to buy you expensive things.

However, no one helped me to expand upon my own homeware. I instead racked up my credit card to purchase what had been split up and taken during the move. I saved my Domino’s preference settings in my phone, so that ordering pizza could be swiftly completed with several taps. I buried myself under my comforter whenever I felt full, and slept in past noon on the weekends. My planning and long-term goals were no more.

I was feeling really sorry for myself.

I’m Here: Because Everyone Else is Busy

Now, I understand what it feels like to hurt, but then to stand back up to whatever life throws at you. I understand what it feels like to achingly assume that you’re five steps behind your friends, and how it feels when you can’t afford your own summer vacation, because you’ve been invited to your sixth wedding of the season… without a guest. I understand your “Duo by Default” fear, and how it feels to be the thirteenth wheel at a dinner outing that you planned. Now, I understand that this is life and that, no matter how much you have, you’ll never be happy if you expect everything to be perfect all of the time.

Finally, I know now what it takes to heal and what expectations you should set for yourself through the journey. Happiness is work. In fact, it’s some damn hard work, and the really tough mental kind, like my days of high school AP statistics, when I had three tutors and still almost failed.

And that’s why I’m here. I’m not famous, and I’m not a life coach. I’m not going to jumpstart your magical life transformation to set you on a new path in just 48 hours. I’m here as a writer who used to dole out lists and advice to now share how I realistically recovered from my breakup. I’m here to stop you from buying Puffs lotion tissues in bulk and to push you to climb out from underneath of your covers.

So what if you’re 30 years old? Or, over the age of 30, like me? I’m here to show you how, day by day, everything will be OK. I’m here to talk to the women and men who feel like they have no one to talk to, because everyone else is busy.

It’s time to get real together—and, let me start by sharing my story.

1* Happy Couple Photos