It has been a few weeks since the series, Letters to a Broken Heart, that Sophia Hembeck and I collaborated on has ended. We’re each putting out a conclusion of sorts on our respective Substacks.
There is a short story by Sandra Cisneros that I always go back to called, Eleven. In it, the narrator, who just turned 11-years-old, says: “What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one.” I always come back to this story every birthday that I’m fortunate to have. I also now relate it to other things, like heartbreak.
After a fresh heartbreak, you are not just feeling the heaviness of that, but also the weight from all of your previous heartbreaks. After I pulled the initial stinger out of this most recent heartbreak, I started to feel, remember, and process previous breakups, past moments where my heart had been beaten and bruised. The welts heal over time, but they reverberate when a new break happens. The body remembers what the mind often forgets—for better or for worse.
Though I have mostly processed and let go of this recent storm, I still think about how different things were just a year ago; how the end of this month would have marked three years together. I know longevity is somewhat of a bullshit marker, and I know three years is not even that long, but it would have been my longest relationship.
While I feel like I am on the other side (mostly) of this recent heartbreak, I’m continuing to work on the echos of past heart storms. I reflect on my last three relationships—all of which concluded in painful, movie-like endings:
The way in which A. seemed distant the week before he broke up with me. Something inside me knew it was over that week because I had asked him, “Do you still love me?” He invited me over to his place that weekend, and ended things while eating Taco Bell. Telling me he didn’t think he had time to be in a relationship. A month later I found out he was addicted to coke and had been cheating on me for at least a month. I was numb for the rest of the year.
The way in which M. called me randomly one day and said, “I don’t want to marry you. When I think about living with you, I don’t feel excited.” We had only abstractly talked of marriage, but we did talk about living together—especially after we hit the 2 year mark. I was so confused by his phone call. The way his voice quaked. The way he ended with, “It will take me a long time to get over you.” But then I saw him on Tinder a month later. It was telling that after he ended things, I felt waves of relief amidst the grief. More relief than grief.
The way T. told me my offer of support was stressing him out. And later saying via text, “When I think about seeing you, I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack.” I knew it wasn’t about me. But it still hurt. And unlike the other two, he didn’t even have the decency to talk to me in person or on the phone—after 2.5 years together. I knew I had to end it because he was a coward. No apology. No “I’ll miss you.” No “Thank you.” But then asking if he could contact me when things have settled. I told him: “Sure, you can try, but I can’t promise I’ll want to talk to you.” My anger finally let itself out of her cocoon.
It’s impossible for me to not look back. It’s impossible for me to wonder why I have such poor luck in love and relationships.
The good news of this pain is that my standards are much higher now. I will never accept behavior that I previously accepted. I will never worry more about the comfort or happiness of a man (or anyone I’m dating) over my own. I will never erase myself again. And I sincerely can’t wait to put these new things into practice.
I will be 37 in December and though getting older is always somewhat scary to me—especially now that I’m single again—I’m feeling thankful for the person I am. Though I’m tired of being so resilient, I’m grateful to have this well that never seems to dry up. I am much more capable than I give myself credit for—than others give me credit for. I love myself so fiercely these days that for me to entertain being with anyone, they’ll have to feel at least as good as I feel.
How exciting to finally know I am the love I keep looking for.