Читать книгу How to Survive a Breakup - Lisa Cleary - Страница 7

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There’s Always a Story

Before we dig deeper, let me share my story. Everyone always has a story.

I was an unsure late bloomer when it came to relationships, and I always second guessed myself. In high school, I never felt confident about my appearance and finger-painted my face with greasy drugstore makeup, and I was the geeky, behind-the-scenes writer of the newspaper and yearbook committees. I never got asked on dates and always went to homecoming dances with friends or by myself. I was desperate to be liked, but I never felt worthy of it.

Fast forward to my collegiate days: I entered college as a 17-year-old virgin and was teased relentlessly for it. “No, Leah, I have never seen a penis,” or “But I’m scared of STDs, and he’s wearing salmon shorts,” were the frequent answers I repeated. Over and over again.

I still cared what others had to say, but this time I wasn’t going to play desperate: I promised myself going into college that I would lose my virginity to my first love and, eventually, I did. It was the perfect day, and our relationship went on to last for about four years.

But, like with many college couples, we broke up about a year after we graduated, and so I threw myself into my career. I was already working full time in medical editing and publishing, a job which largely required me to thumb through page proofs after page proofs of vividly depicted genital infections. After a year of that, I also enrolled in graduate school—full time. I kept at the grueling schedule of work from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., classes from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m., and assignments from 10 p.m. until well past 2 a.m. While I’m a naturally driven person, my motivation was based off of one factor: I was desperate for some sort of passion in my life. I needed a drastic change.

On top of all of that—a few months after I started graduate school—an opportunity to work part time for NBC as a daily health columnist was offered, and I jumped at the chance, knowing that the exposure could open many doors. I wrote early in the mornings and late at night, after my classes and assignments, and I worked even longer hours during the weekends.

I maybe slept four hours a night and managed the best that I could. Every Sunday evening, I meal planned: I ordered a week’s worth of takeout at Wendy’s at once and, for the rest of the week, I dined on containers of chili, hamburger patties, and cold, soggy fries. I took naps in my car during lunch breaks, and I was frantic but organized. During that period and, most important of all, I only had time to focus on one thing: myself. I quickly became self-aware of my capabilities as a writer, and my confidence flourished.

That mindset soon began to permeate the rest of my life.

Over the course of the next two years, I dated off and on, for periods of six months or so at a time, and no one ever seemed to stick. If the chemistry wasn’t there, I moved on. Instead of spending time on mediocre date after date, I finally acknowledged that I had the power to control my own dating life and denied easy, available opportunities to free myself up for more substantial individuals—a direction that I had been traveling all along in my writing career. Not only was I redirecting my mindset in all aspects of my life, but I was finally taking control of it.

Of course, along with this revelation, I also came to disdainfully realize that dating is a roller coaster of hopeful expectations and realistic disappointments. Countless first dates were last dates. On one date, a guy proceeded to text and take calls throughout dinner. When the date was over and he dropped me off, I was surprised by his quick sleight of hand, which happened to find its way to my left boob for an uninvited tug.

I even exhausted my favorite spot at meeting men, which was a little Mediterranean restaurant that seated twenty, located down the street from my apartment. I loved their pumpkin hummus and their spiced sauces drizzled over quinoa, but I had to stop going after the cook commented on seeing me all of the time “but with different men.”

Then, when I was 28 years old, I met Mark.

He was exactly what I needed: a trustworthy, genuine source of comfort. We shared mutual friends, and so I felt safe with him. He seemed motivated with a competitive job in business management and well educated with his MBA.

By that time, I had also completed graduate school and my contract with NBC had ended. I was explosive—I needed to experience a proper social life, and Mark happened to be quite the socialite. We became inseparable over trivia nights and cocktail specials, and he showed me the corner bars that looked like dives but were really among the area’s top-rated restaurants. We spilled secrets over happy hours and drank until the bars closed, and even then we were invited to stay after hours. We broke out into slow, romantic dances in public whenever we felt like it, and we were fun and intoxicating. Mark and I made so many friends. We just drew people in.

Never one to be impulsively led by my emotions, I was surprised when I found myself madly in love with Mark. He developed into someone who was more than just fun. He listened and cared about my insecurities and fears, and I could openly vent to him about anything. He always responded that my personal issues were ones we’d work on together as a team, and he always said “thank you” whenever I kissed him good night on the cheek. Mark was a WYSIWYG type of guy—you know, the What You See Is What You Get—which to me was an attribute, because he was comfortable with being himself and by being honest. I couldn’t have asked for more.

From a career standpoint, I had been planning on moving to Washington, DC, before I had even met Mark. Right when we had begun dating, I had ecstatically quit my old job and was beginning a new one at a startup in DC—it was the next self-proclaimed big chapter of my career. I had been in the midst of scouting out neighborhoods, but I listened to my instincts and paused the hunt, because coming home to Mark offered me more of a promising future than even my career at that time. For that year, I commuted back and forth from Baltimore to DC, three hours a day on top of ten-hour days. I saw Mark as an investment worthy of prioritizing.

Unfortunately, I wish I had listened when my instincts flagged the bad parts of him, too. Like with my bed, for instance. The bed I was using at the time was handed down to me by my grandparents, and it was a queen-size wooden frame with a thick footboard. During the first month or two of dating, Mark and I spent almost every day together. He slept over as many nights as I slept over his house, and he made out just fine in my bed. It was a compromise, as any relationship should be. It certainly was easier on my schedule whenever he slept over my apartment, because I came home relatively late, near 8:30 p.m.—unlike Mark, who was home by 4:00 p.m. and able to run errands, go to the gym, and eat dinner before I even made it back. On the nights we stayed at my apartment, I could simultaneously do laundry and other little things, like take out the trash.

On the nights I stayed over his house, however, my schedule was even more cumbersome. I needed to pit-stop at my apartment to eat dinner, get any late-evening errands like grocery shopping done, shower, and then pack an overnight bag. When I actually had time to do things like grocery shop, it was always rushed and like watching a contestant on Supermarket Sweep having a seizure over the produce aisles. By the time I finished and found street parking at Mark’s place, which was often near 10:00 p.m., I was ready for bed, but fully aware that if I were going to spend time with him, I would need to stay awake for a couple hours more.

After a few months (as it so often goes with the post-honeymoon stage), Mark began to complain about the footboard of my bed. He was tall and his feet extended over it, which he said bothered his ankles and caused him to have a hard time sleeping. I threw blankets and pillows over the edge, so that he could rest his ankles more comfortably, but he insisted it was easier for me to spend the night at his house and that we could both sleep better in his bed. The new arrangement was, of course, easier for Mark all around—he never had to wake up earlier for work, miss watching a game with his roommates, or worry about packing lunches the night before.

I eventually ended up giving in, because I loved Mark and because I wanted to spend all of my time with him, no matter whose house we stayed at. Sure, the footboard of my bed cut into his ankles, but our new arrangement cut into my time, and I never pushed back. At that very specific moment, I had begun to de-prioritize myself and my own needs, and I only had myself to blame.

By the second year into our relationship, the good still far outweighed the bad, and I continued to love, hard. We moved in together and our relationship became true bliss: bye-bye overnight bags! Now, I could walk five feet to my own dresser and open a drawer to pull out clothes. I could rummage through shelves of cosmetics instead of travel bags to get ready, and I even housed all my food under one roof—in the fridge!

Man, I really had it made.

Mark and I even routinely cooked dinners together and sat outside on the deck and, on one night, I lit more than fifty tea candles and sprinkled them out by our feet, so it was like we were looking down at a sky full of twinkling stars. I finally had what I always prayed for and planned for, a home and my prince charming. Everything was finally going my way. Everything felt perfect.

Speaking of homes, Mark and I lived together in a small neighborhood in Baltimore City, known for its crime—but also its quaint, historical row homes, paired with a horrific lack of parking. The joke is that there’s either a bar or a church on every corner, and I’ll just say that my faith was lacking in the attendance category. When Mark and I should have been sharing values, we were sharing mimosas over brunch. We lived in-the-now, and we were the fun couple that everyone wanted to be.

Eventually, I began to see my finances take a hit, and I begrudgingly reeled back. I had blown through more than $10,000 in savings and needed to grow up, quick. I took on more freelancing jobs in addition to my day job, and landed some solid gigs. I went out less and worked more.

I won’t go much further into Mark, because this is my story—not his. But to explain what led to our breakup, I will say that we really started to fight when approaching our third year together. Before, we never fought, because there wasn’t anything to ever fight about when you’re having fun. Now, our fights ran on a continuous loop, and I became very critical of Mark. I felt as if the relationship wasn’t evolving as we grew older.

“Is an engagement going to be in our future?” I kept asking. I wasn’t in my early twenties anymore. I was 30 years old, soon to be 31 by that time, and I wanted to understand where my future was headed.

“What’s the rush?” Mark asked. He always responded by accusing me that I needed a timeline to get engaged. “We’re together, and you know we’re going to get married. Why does everything always have to be planned, and why can’t we be happy and enjoy the moment?”

When you’re older, and no matter what anyone tells you, asking about an engagement and the future of your relationship is a topic that should be discussed. Those are fair questions to ask when you’re in a serious relationship. You’ve had time to grow into yourself—unlike during your early twenties, when you’re still figuring out which job you even want. Now of course, you don’t want to press a relationship if it’s not ready, and you want to give it ample time to grow. But, at some point, you have to acknowledge that you have more responsibilities as an older adult. The time that I gave to Mark was substantial—and so I naturally had less time to spend with my family and friends, and less time to develop myself as a writer. That’s what happens when you’re in a relationship, because it’s ultimately worth it. And so, it was only fitting that I wanted to affirm that my investment could mature. Shouldn’t we be excited? I wanted to learn how we could grow even stronger as a team.

I stood my ground whenever we fought, and always responded to Mark that his timeline didn’t include a commitment to me, despite the fact that we were already living together. I certainly understood that relationships move at their own pace, and I knew couples who wanted to work out their differences before getting hitched, which sometimes took years and years. I admired their determination and commitment to each other. But just like with Mark’s argument that every couple is different, I knew that I would never be the individual who could wait to become engaged after five, ten, or fifteen years.

I knew, deep down, that Mark and I had diverged to two very different points in our lives and, marriage talk aside, we each carried very different priorities. Our arguments never stopped cycling, and only temporarily paused from time to time.

Mark was right in some ways when he blamed me for not cutting him enough slack. Especially with regard to relationships, recognizing and relishing in the good parts of life are always pressed upon us because positivity can be a freeing mindset. Human nature by default is overly critical and, when we focus on the positive, we’re able to appreciate that much more of a person. In going off of this mentality, you might remember the age-old saying, “It’s the little things that count.” But I’m a firm believer that this mantra runs both ways: little thoughts of consideration count in making a person feel special and loved. At the same time, little acts of selfishness add up, and I was whittled down.

One evening, I needed to get away from Mark and from everyone. I checked in at a motel near my work, one that I could afford. The front door had a funny lock to it and the paper thin sheets felt like my big toe could rip open a hole in them at any time, and I understood then why the rates were $49/night. I fell asleep to the TV, but I jumped awake to my own thoughts throughout the night. Could the lock be jimmied? Is someone watching me through a double-sided mirror? I felt like Keith Morrison on Dateline was waiting to narrate my every move.

And then, when I eventually couldn’t fall back asleep, the detached voice in my head asked:

What are you doing here? What… are you doing?

I was so low. So blue. My lowest point wasn’t whenever I fought with Mark—it was that night in the motel, when I was finally alone and able to process my thoughts. I was unhappy. We were both unhappy.

One weekend, not too long after my breaking point and when I was supposed to travel with Mark to a wedding, I cancelled my flight and told him that I had to do what was best for me, and we both knew what that meant. He didn’t even try to fight it, because it was a relief for both of us. We were both finally free to find our own peace.

We took rotations in the apartment to pack up our belongings, though neither of us had actually figured out where we were moving yet, and my heart ached to look at the empty space. We were breaking up. I was single. Things were done. It was over. The sentiment was in such stark contrast to when we first moved in together, which I thought signified the start of years and even decades to come. We had developed sentimental routines, like with me, trying to covertly push Mark’s shirts to the right to make way for more of mine in our closet, but with him always noticing and moving his clothes back over. Or with his favorite cookies, which he always put on the very top shelf so that I couldn’t reach them. None of that mattered anymore.

We may have hugged at the end. I really can’t remember, but I do know that neither of us broke down. I didn’t cry because the breakup had been a long time coming, and I was numb and relieved for my joint tenancy to finally come to an end.

As I packed up trash bags and boxes of my belongings, I thought that our breakup would be the peak of my turmoil. I thought that all of the hatred that I felt, the hatred that embodied me and infiltrated every word that I had spoken would lift. That it would all float away from me and I would feel an automatic rush of peace.

I wanted that ZzzQuil warm-and-happy kind of feeling. I expected it.

But… I never got it right away, at least not like I had hoped. I didn’t understand then, at the time, that I needed to look at myself first. And, if you’re like me and currently feeling the worst of the worst, and experiencing emotions you never thought you had, remember this: there’s nothing wrong with processing life.

You will get over your breakup. It will happen.

But, just know that it won’t magically happen one morning, or one day next week, no matter how many two-second self-help lists you read in between TV commercials. Not every part of life is happy and full of butterflies—and not every happy moment in life unfolds immediately… and this, yes, is coming from a happiness writer.

Now, I finally understand that life will never, and can never, be a constant explosion of happy social media posts. Sometimes, life requires that we take the bad with the good. Life’s happenings—well, they happen. And when you are able to finally get to the point where you can acknowledge that not all days need to be bubble-gum-glib, like I once thought—that’s the first and most important step to launching the healing process, and to really understanding that that’s a more genuine kind of life.