For almost every one of the last seven weeks, Sunday afternoons have been about me and B. In early June, I switched my volleyball training schedule to complement his only day off, and more than once, I've rescheduled family dinner to accommodate activities with his friends. I guess that right there says it all. He mostly stayed the same; it's me that changed. That wanted to change.
Today, my first full day post-break up, has not been my best. Today, I bawled for an hour in front of a group of acquaintances and total strangers, most of whom had no idea why I was crying. And I didn't enlighten them. I didn't feel compelled to share my pain with them. They could watch, but what could they do? Say they're sorry? Tell me that it's for the best? Recount that time they got dumped and then met their dream guy/girl? I wasn't up for stories.
Plus, I'm not a pretty crier. Maybe it's vain, but I didn't want them to see my face. This morning, I woke up with under-eye bags like double-chins and swelling to rival that time I learned the hard way that I'm allergic to acne meds. I mean, I should've expected monster face, after a night like last night. I cried before I went to sleep. I cried as I was falling asleep. I woke up periodically through the night and cried then, too. And my face + tears = ugly. Red, puffy ugly. Somehow it still surprised me when I looked in the mirror this morning, though.
Normally, a puffy, red face would prompt me to hole up in my house and press cold spoons or tea bags to my eyes all day. But I had church, and my choir needed me, and I think I needed to get out of the house, too. I needed to do something other than sit on my bed, or sit at my parents' house and listen to my siblings fight over cookies (yes, the 17 and 22 year old siblings). I also kept up my obligations because I didn't think it would be a big deal. I thought that I'd gotten all the crying out.
But apparently sadness wasn't done with me yet.
I cried during most of mass. I avoided eye contact with my choir mates because talking about it--openly acknowledging the pain with people who knew nothing of my personal life--was too hard. I went through multiple wads of toilet paper. My sweater is covered in spots where I wiped my eyes, or my nose. I was a wreck, and I couldn't keep it together.
"Are you okay?" my choir director asked. "Do you want to talk about it after mass?"
I shook my head. I'd already talked about it. I'd written about it. I'd thought about it non-stop. How would owning up to my misery change anything about my miserable state?
Eventually, I told her on my way out of church. "I won't be here the next two weekends because I'll be out of town. Also, my boyfriend broke up with me yesterday. That's why this--" I gestured toward my face--"is the way it is."
I sobbed on the way home. Even though I was angry--to the point that I may or may not have held up a certain finger when I drove past B's house (unfortunately on my regular route to pretty much anywhere)--the tears wouldn't stop. I was sad. It seemed that I would be sad for a while.
When I got home, I saw that a friend from college had emailed me. It was a simple email ("sending you love!"), but an important one. A much appreciated one. I wrote back, "Thank you, friend. It is what it is." And she responded quickly, asking if I'd seen the TED talk by Brene Brown about vulnerability. I had, but I watched it again. In the talk, she quotes her therapist, who once told her, "It's neither good nor bad. It just is what it is."
Later in the afternoon, friends texted to see if I wanted to go to a movie. They needed something to do, and I'm sure they knew I needed something to do. We decided on Trainwreck, the new Judd Apatow movie with Amy Schumer.
As you might imagine, I was a little worried about seeing a romantic comedy. Watching people fall in love is not exactly on a newly-single person's list of top ten things to do. But after watching that TED talk, I wanted to challenge myself to be more vulnerable. I wanted to lean into my discomfort, in the hopes that something better would come out of it. As I learned in another recent movie (ahem, Inside Out), sadness is a powerful and valuable emotion. On top of all that, it was the only movie from a list of choices given to me that I hadn't already seen.
In the end, the jokes were raunchy, and the plot, fairly predictable. But somehow this ridiculous, funny movie about a messed up girl and a boy who likes her also helped me realize/remember two very important things. First, that my family and friends are incredibly wonderful, and I am ever grateful to be surrounded by people who love and support me in healthy ways. Second, that there's really no point in me being with someone who's not excited to be with me, too.
In her talk, Brene Brown labels people who have positive relationships with themselves and others as "whole-hearted." These are people who embrace vulnerability, who love when there's no guarantee, and who experience great joy and connection as a result. It turns out that if you want to feel anything, you have to feel everything. And as hurt as I am, and as angry as I am, I'm still glad the last three months happened. I'm glad I was honest and authentic with B. He may not have been sincere with me, but I was always sincere with him. I didn't hide the way I felt. And I'm proud of that.
On our last night before breaking up, we took a long drive to meet a friend of his, and on the way back, we were listening to a podcast interviewing some former professional athletes. Normally, podcasts aren't my thing, but this one was interesting and at the very end, the host asked for recommendations from each of the athletes for the listeners. Gabby Reece, a former volleyball player, suggested something that I really loved: I'll go first. Instead of waiting for someone to smile at you in the grocery store, she said, or waiting for your partner to say "I love you" first, take the first step yourself. Put aside anxiety and self-protection, and put yourself out there. Be the first to reach out.
Oddly, Brene Brown said the same thing about the people she researched. Whole-hearted people, she said, say "I love you" first. Whole-hearted people, she said, believe that they are worthy of love and connection, even if it doesn't always work out. Whole-hearted people, she said, believe firmly that they are enough.
In my inbox this morning, I got my weekly Barking Up the Wrong Tree email, that research-based blog that I love so much. How can you attract more luck? it asked. The recommendation was four-fold: by being optimistic, by taking advantage of opportunities, by trusting your intuition, and by looking for the bigger picture.
My gut says: this break up is a sure thing. My optimism says: it's for the best. The big picture says: this is just a blip on the radar. Opportunity says: there's someone out there who will love you just as much as you'll love them.
But I'm not ready to jump back into things. "Get a glass of wine, choose a Netflix show, and let yourself be sad," a friend said to me on the phone when I expressed that maybe I just needed a rebound. And she's right. It wouldn't be fair to the person I meet, and what if that rebound relationship lasts longer than I mean for it to? What if I end up missing someone great because I've settled for a little emotional anesthetic to tide me over? What if I end up missing myself?
Two years and ten months ago, I set up my first meeting with my therapist because I'd broken up with a guy that didn't feel the way about me that I'd felt about him. Instead of focusing on that relationship, she chose to focus on me. How I saw myself. What I wanted for myself. She helped me see that I was enough. And now, almost three years later, I know that I need to remind myself again of that very important fact. Because I am.
B may not have loved me, but I do. And that's enough.
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