***Sidenote: this piece was not published to vilify my ex at all. Just because we didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s a bad person. I was not used or abused, peaches! Although many of the people reading this have been in those kind of relationships, so if that’s you, don’t feel as though this post is any less applicable to you. Just wanted to clear that up. Thank you.***
Ya girl (barely) lasted a month in a relationship! Exciting stuff, experiencing a taste of commitment. Solid progress for someone who can’t normally stay in a single place longer than a handful of months.
I’ve been stalling this post for the past two weeks, feeling equal parts embarrassed and ashamed. Although I pride myself on my transparency, I’ve kept the Breakup Updates exclusive to my Tumblr. Wasn’t too long ago I was getting ready to publish a post about my first relationship (thank God for hindsight– that would have been the ultimate self drag).
Breaking up with my first, well, everything, wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve had to do. Walking away certainly isn’t uncharted territory. I’ve felt heartbreak before, I’ve been an inconsolable, soggy mess. Saying goodbye is practically my first language. But, this loss was…wildly unfamiliar.
It hurt in places I didn’t know I had.
It wasn’t just losing a best friend or confidant or dick appointment. It’s a future! You lose all the potentialities, all the what-ifs you couldn’t stop your dramatic ass from daydreaming about. Someone becomes a part your foundation, and you’re left having to knock it down. Expected to “just get over it” because you’re young, or ’cause it didn’t last that long, or “at least” you’re the one who ended things? No, thanks.
The night of, I had parked by some church and blew up his phone. He took it well, said he was glad it was so “mutual and amicable” (! I know. I screamed at that part, almost chucked my phone in the woods). I sat in my Jeep for a couple of hours, blasting a playlist packed with Adele and La Dispute, mucus and tears staining my face. It had then gotten dark, he didn’t call, and a cop rapping on my window scared the absolute shit out of me.
“Ma’am, what are you doing here?”
“I can see that. It’s 10pm and you’re in private property.”
“My family is home and I needed to have some me-time. I’m crying.”
“This building has been vandalized recently; this isn’t the best spot for that.”
“I just pulled in anywhere I can on my way home. This is my first break up. I don’t know what to do.”
About two good, solid, whole minutes of silence. Me still crying, her blinding me with a flashlight.
“…Alright, good luck.”
She left, he said at least we’re friends, I blocked him on snapchat and proceeded to sing Wrecking Ball as though my life depended on it.
Eventually I ran out of tears and as I am way too vain to indulge in ugly, dry sobbing, found my way home.
The next night I downed a bottle of red wine and cried on the toilet. It was as cathartic as it sounds.
The next, next day I made sure my eyeliner was thick and sharp, wearing a bright yellow blouse, sans bra. Jeans that showcased the flat ass I felt embarrassed to ever show him, and heels that would’ve made us the same height. My best friend and I shared a tea filled lunch right before I was due at the airport. The timing for Heartbreak was honestly so perfect. I was so busy I forgot to be sad!
Well, okay, that’s a lie. There was nothing I did where it wasn’t in the back of my mind. Hurt followed my sleep and accompanied my morning. The second I’d wake up I was in a bad mood. Angry at myself, at him, my friends. I felt like I made a mistake. Stared at my phone hoping his picture would pop up (it was so cute, I took it on our fourth date, he was showing me something stupid, I was a fuckin’ dope). I was pissed at all of my pals going on and on how it was “about time”. They kept saying how I was so much better off, and although they were right, hearing it just added a sting to my ache.
Music and family are what helped me, though.
My brother let me blast my ‘boys suck’ playlist on our way to the airport, and my sister took a video of me crying. My mom left me a kind voicemail, and my pops offered to fly to “talk” to him. I was surrounded by people who let me be depressed, who didn’t question me wanting to drive my own car or excusing myself to the restroom so much which probably left everyone wondering if I had IBS.
It was hard seeing myself as this girl. To feel pathetic and Extra for obsessing over some breakup when he probably wasn’t thinking about me at all. He occupied my mind twice as much as he did before. How fucked up is that? I broke up with someone to get them out of my life, yet here I am…I’d picture him laughing at something and imagine what I’d be telling him, beyond bummed I couldn’t do that now. I kept thinking of what his face looked like when he came, or how adorable it was when he spun me on the sidewalk. How I’d no longer do those things with him. Reminiscing both fucked me and healed me.
There were only a handful of these heartrendingly sweet memories, only so many beautiful moments I could relive before the ugly ones crept in.
The ones when he’d ignore me hours on end. The days he offered no validation or effort whatsoever. The promised phone calls never made. The comments towards others that made skipping meals and joining a gym more and more appealing. The “ok, you’re right”s just to get me to shut up. Him thinking he knew what I wanted to hear, then bailing the second I managed to get him to engage. Not being happy for any fucking thing I ever did, because in his book it wasn’t good enough. Making me feel ashamed for my family. For my accomplishments. Moments of pride he stole. Confidence he made me doubt. Intimacy he pressured me into.
To be fair, though, I let him do all these things. Not only accepted, but encouraged them. I put up with it in hopes the Good Times would come back. That maybe if I stuck with this long enough, he’d care about me the way he used to. I believed his excuses, accommodated him in every way. From answering his calls at one in the morning on a Thursday, to not texting him for a week– my desperate ass did whatever he saw fit.
I was just so caught up in making everything live up to my expectations! I confronted him too often, made things complicated due his lack of communication and mixed signals. He went from encouraging clinginess, telling me that’s how he knew I really cared about him, to not wanting to hear from me at all days at a time. One day he needed me and couldn’t imagine not being this close, and the next couldn’t get further away. A switched flipped and I was insecure and dependent enough to want anything back, at whatever expense.
I made myself small to keep us big.
There isn’t a blog post long enough to describe how angry and disgusted I feel with myself, but I’m hoping this word purge will hit base with some of you. Will get you to consider walking a more plausible possibility than sticking with something that’s hit a wall. We’re young! Not trying to save a marriage of some decades for the sake the children. Love is growth, and it requires an effort you can’t do alone.
And alright, our relationship wasn’t really that serious. We were “friends but a little more but not quite” a year off and on. Still, influential all the same. It was the first time hearing a boy telling me he loved me, me hesitantly whispering it back. The first time someone was inside me in every sense of the word. My first time understanding my mom just the slightest more. Of getting songs! Of showing someone off, of being this type of happy.
My mistake was rushing things inorganically, of letting the novels I read as a tween romanticize the concept of having a boyfriend. Things could have evolved on their own, and maybe I’d be across the country with him right now. Maybe I would have published my First Relationship instead of my First Breakup.
But hey, it happens.
I learned a shit load, regret a lot, and miss even more. I wish we were as close as we once were, and that he actually meant the things he told me. I regret not being the kind of girl that would help him hurt a little less. I hope maybe as time passes we can be in eachother’s lives again, and I can be there for him in a different way.
For now though, I’ll stick to crying to the Kite String Tangle and bleaching my hair. I’ll replace my nostalgia of him with memories of my friends. I’ll think of my sister blasting trap instead of his playlist. I’ll picture my momma and I dancing to Selena on Sunday mornings rather me and him in that AirBnb at midnight. I’ll reach out to all the pals I neglected in my pursuit of this guy. I won’t skip classes ’cause a fight with him was too distracting.
I’ll do better next time, retain my goddamned dignity, and prevent razor burn.
And if by some miracle you took time out of your very stressful day of doing nothing and you’re reading this, Chulito: the plant’s name is Micheal. The comment from two years ago is true. Your fingernails are too long. I’m worth something even after failing Chemistry 121, twice, AND math 97. I think fat people deserve love, and poor people respect. You’re right, I did look down on you ’cause you ate meat. And fuck you for trying to trick me into eating it. And for “forgetting your wallet”. And for making me listen to you cry about your mom not wanting to pay to fucking lift the car she bought for you, while you wouldn’t give me more than five minutes when my mother skipped town. And fuck you for trying to not use a condom.
I’ll always have love for you, even if you become just another blip from the past, but the second you stopped being my friend was the second I caused your pimples.
To my hermanas reading this: my Boyz Suck playlist can be found here, eating thai food in a bubble bath is an unmatched bliss, and the relationship you have with your friends and family is just as– if not more– important to maintain than the one with him. They’ve been your sounding board before him, and they’ll be there after. Taking them for granted or discarding them for a min will only heighten your later hurt.
Please; eat whatever the fuck you want, and dye your hair whatever color you fancy. Get that piercing he called trashy! Be dramatic, change it up. Sob in public. Scream in your car. Delete the conversation so you don’t kill yourself with reading over old messages. Take down his photos. Remove y’all’s songs from your Spotify–but not before you listen to them one last time. You have to feel EVERYTHING. Break down so you can build yourself up. You were never there to “fix” or change him, and I know you tried. Extend that patience, kindness and love to yourself now.
And don’t feel too pathetic for hoping still to see his name on your notification screen, or checking to see if he’s seen your story. I heard a goddamned Post Malone song the other day and eyes watered! I still save vines knowing he’d die at them. We just gotta take it day by day, ’till the hurt moves somewhere else and something takes its place. Eventually Landslide by Fleetwood Mac will have me thinking of American Horror Story, rather an unhappy, beautiful boy (a piece of shit really, but that isn’t as poetic).
As the Dixie Chicks once said, time heals everything– even if we’re stuck waiting.