Dear Heartbreak

by Heather Demetrios

  I want to love myself.

  God, that sounds so cliché, and it is, but I’m not saying I have to love myself before I can love someone else. I’m saying I want to love myself. Full stop. Not in relation to loving someone else, not so I can achieve love with another person. I want to love myself with no qualifications or comparisons. I want to like hanging out with me. I don’t want to twist myself into knots to try and be whoever and whatever he needs, to show how good I am at being a girlfriend. I am tired of trying to prove my worth.

  I want to tell myself who I am. And more importantly, I want to believe it.

  I recently realized that all the men I’ve dated who have called me selfish only did so when I wouldn’t do what they wanted, when I pushed back on their opinions or demands in some way. That word—selfish—has haunted me, made me hyper-aware of everything I say and do. It is my kryptonite, my poisoned apple. It is the shackles around my wrists and the gag in my mouth.

  Fuck that. If being proud of myself is selfish, then I’m selfish. If enjoying my life is selfish, or sleeping until noon is selfish, or traveling to other countries is selfish, then I’ll shout about my selfishness from the rooftops. Because I’m sick of living the alternative.

  The first time I compromised my needs for a guy was in high school. I was eighteen and graduating and he was sixteen. We worked at the same grocery store. Let’s call him Dale. He was very funny and confident and he wanted to be around me all the time. I felt overwhelmingly needed, and it felt good. When you said your heartbreak soothed all your jagged edges, eased your anxiety … oh, Abandoned, how well do I know that feeling! The sense of release that comes from needing someone and being needed is intoxicating.

  We almost broke up before I went to college. And he was the one who instigated it. It made sense. I was going to New York; he was staying in Boston. And the sheer panic I felt, of being left, of losing him, as if I would never meet another man ever again, as if he would be the only one to want me this way, to love me this way—it was a taut, burning, physical fear. It’s the fear that makes us put our own well-being aside in favor of theirs, isn’t it? I can track that fear’s progression throughout my life and my relationships. It has a different form and grip each time, but at its core, it has the same beating, pulsing heart: This is your only chance. No one will love you if this person doesn’t.

  So I begged him to stay with me and he did. I honestly can’t remember if Dale was abusive before I went to college, though I’m sure there were hints of it, and if you asked my mother she would likely respond with a resounding YES. But I do remember the day I moved into the NYU dorms—I believe it was a Friday and my parents had driven me down with all my stuff and helped me put sheets on my bed and unpack my clothes and set up my desk. And we went out to lunch and I just lost it. I had to go home, I insisted. I wanted to see Dale, and he wanted me to come home—he had been the one to suggest I come back for the weekend, even when I had only just arrived in the city.

  My mother wanted me to stay, but my father said I could come home, and so I lost my first weekend alone in New York. I came home and saw Dale and the tightness in my chest eased. He was happy I was there with him and I was happy he was happy. I went back on Sunday and the stress and fear returned.

  It became a requirement that I had to talk to Dale every night before bed. If I didn’t, he would yell that I was cheating on him. I remember vividly one night when I woke him up to say goodnight and he was so tired we just decided to talk the next day. Come morning, he was furious with me for not calling him, and no matter how many times I insisted that I did, I promise, babe, I swear I love you, I called, I promise … he didn’t believe me.

  I started coming home on weekends and not telling my parents. I stayed with a family friend who had been a mentor to me during high school. I spent the money I had earned over the summer on bus fare. I did it for him, to prove to him that he was the only one, that I loved him. But it was never enough. He constantly berated me and put me down, calling me a slut and a whore. He was paranoid and jealous, sometimes to a scary degree. I can still clearly recall the day I was in his kitchen and we were making lunch and he turned to me and said, “Even if you came home every weekend, I would still think you were cheating on me.”

  He said this to my face. He told me who he was—a guy who would never trust me no matter what I did, no matter how much I worked to prove my faithfulness.

  And still, I stayed. Because who was I without him?

  I barely went out at all my first semester. But as hard as Dale tried, he couldn’t prevent me from making friends. And two of my closest friends happened to be guys. We were all in the same acting studio together and they were wonderful and fun and always talking about the cool bars or restaurants they’d go to, plays they would see, concerts they would attend. Things I couldn’t do myself because if I didn’t call Dale at a very specific time, he would lose his mind and I would suffer for it.

  I can’t quite remember what the last straw was, but I do know that when I came home at Christmas, something felt stuck inside me. I had spent a semester making new friends and watching them grow, seeing them go out and get to know the incredible city that is New York, turning from high school kids to college students. I felt like a puppy on a leash watching from a window. And deep down, in a place I had been ignoring for months, I knew the reason for my isolation. I called my mother at work and said, “Mom, I’m not sure if I want to be with Dale anymore.” And my mother—who absolutely hated this boy, and for good reason—took a breath to control her own feelings on the matter and said, “Well, what does your heart tell you?” She knew if she said, “Dump that asshole immediately,” I would have balked. That’s just the way I am—stubborn to a fault.

  “I don’t know what my heart is telling me,” I wailed. But that was a lie—I did know. My heart was shouting at me, screaming so clearly now that I was finally allowing myself to hear it. And so I called Dale over to my house and ended it that day. He cried, and I cried, but in the end I felt so much better. Free. Light. And I had the most incredible second semester in New York.

  He sent me an email at the beginning of my sophomore year, just checking in and hoping I was doing well—of course, most of the email was dedicated to what he was doing, successes he was having, where he was applying to school. I decided to write him back. I thanked him for reaching out and said I was happy he was doing well. Then I proceeded to inform him—with examples—of how his behavior had been abusive and manipulative and cruel. I tried to be diplomatic, but I’m sure I didn’t entirely succeed.

  His response was chilling. The friendly banter of the previous email was gone, replaced by a harsh, grasping, angry boy who couldn’t acknowledge what I had to say. One line in particular has stuck with me: “I didn’t make you feel like a whore; the things you did made you feel like a whore.”

  But I was stronger now. And I didn’t believe what he said about me anymore. He had told me who he was and I saw him now: a controlling, bitter person who needed to put me down to make himself feel better.

  I wish I could say that my relationship with Dale was the only lesson I needed in matters of the heart. But life doesn’t work that way. This heartbreak will likely not be the last you suffer, Abandoned, however much I truly wish it could be. And there are no words of wisdom that can fully prepare you for the heartbreaks still to come, no letters or quotes or proverbs that will magically give you the power to make only the Right Choices. Wrong choices are a part of life—you know this. You’re already looking ahead to the day your heartbreak won’t be such a brutal memory, when you can look back on this relationship and remember the good times without the pain. I was so impressed by that sentiment, Abandoned. And that, I can promise, will happen.

  But I want to share with you the pattern that I fell into, in the hopes that you might be able to recognize your own someday, or avoid having one altogether. And I want you to know you aren’t alone.

  I acquiesced—I think that’s the best way to d
escribe my attitude in relationships. I gave in. I decided that my feelings weren’t as important as theirs. I truly and sincerely did not know who I was without a boyfriend. It gave me a sense of security, like a photo in a wallet I could take out and say, “See? My life has meaning.” I was part of The Couples Club and the thought of losing membership was terrifying.

  Which was probably why I stayed with Alan for so long.

  He was ambitious and successful, the kind of person that was always planning exciting trips for long weekends, or going to concerts, or eating at nice restaurants. I thought he was so much better than me. He had his life together. I was a struggling graduate student. He had a gorgeous apartment in Tribeca and I moved in because it made sense; we were always together anyway.

  Alan wasn’t a bad person. And I believe he truly loved me. But he was the one making the decisions and I was expected to follow along. And I did. He promised he would stay in New York but when a better job offer came, he abruptly left me for Johannesburg, expecting that I would go with him, uprooting the life I’d built for myself here. I stayed when he told me we could survive long distance and I moved to Joburg for an entire summer to be with him. I stayed cooped up alone in a house all day, with no friends of my own, waiting for him to come home and be with me. I was the puppy on the leash again. I stayed with him when he told me he got a job in New York again and it was only a matter of waiting for his visa to come through. I stayed and waited and waited and stayed.

  But he had told me who he was too: He was in charge, he was the boss. We weren’t a team or an equal partnership. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he said he wasn’t taking the New York job. He expected me to keep waiting until he’d found exactly what he needed. And why shouldn’t he? Hadn’t I been telling him who I was, every time I said all right, every time he made a decision without taking my thoughts or feelings into consideration? I told him I was a pushover, that my needs were secondary, and he believed it because it was exactly what he wanted to hear.

  I finally gave him an ultimatum, but instead of having the hard conversation and facing up to the fact that this relationship was ending, the man I had spent the last three years with simply vanished. No phone call, no email, nothing. Just gone. I saw a picture on Facebook a couple of months later—him and a new girlfriend, all smiles with his nieces and nephew. And it hit me that he had been waiting for me to end it. I saw him in an entirely new light, no longer the ambitious successful man with the sort of life I aspired to, but as a boy who put himself first and took the easy road. It is easy to disappear, to avoid the messiness that comes with a breakup. And it is acutely painful to the person left wondering what happened, where she went wrong, how it got to this.

  I think that’s what led me to Baruch. He was the opposite of Alan in every way—dark and brooding and incredibly sexual. He made me feel desired in a way I realized I never had before. He was a drug to me. And like a drug, he came with highs and lows. Baruch never worried about having the difficult conversations. I think he enjoyed telling me he couldn’t see me anymore, only to come back into my life a week later. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Abandoned? It hurts worse when they come back, even when it feels so acutely, deliciously good at the time.

  Throughout that entire week we were apart, I would be devastated. The pain of him leaving was worse than with Dale, worse than with Alan. It was a chain around my ankle, pulling me underwater. It was an ache in my stomach that nothing could soothe. I needed him so fiercely I threw everything I was away—I never talked about myself and he didn’t want to know me. He wanted the me he wanted, little snippets here and there, taking only enough to satiate his needs. He was an addiction I didn’t want to kick. And I honestly don’t know if I would have been able to if he hadn’t moved to Miami after two years of exquisite torture. Physical distance was the only rehab that worked.

  He told me he would never be my boyfriend. And he never was. But if he had stayed in New York, I would have kept holding out hope that if I just gave him more time, eventually he would see how we should be together. Even as my heart, so hoarse from screaming the truth at me, cried, No no no. He isn’t right for you. I was so much more concerned about trying to make sure I was right for him.

  I tell these stories proudly now, because they are a part of me. They have shaped the woman I have become and led me to the place I am in now. Slowly, ever so slowly, I am starting to love myself. I am starting to worry less about getting old, about being undesirable, about never meeting anyone who will like me ever again. I am trying not to put everything into whatever man I might have one remotely successful date with. I am starting to ask myself, Is this what I want? instead of Am I what he wants? I am beginning to break a pattern I thought was unbreakable.

  I am not fully forged yet—my metal is still glowing red-hot, being shaped and molded, but I know what sort of sword I want to be now. You are still in the fires, Abandoned, still malleable. Who knows what sort of sword you will become? You have time to craft yourself, to forge your own shape. And you will be stronger than you thought you could be.

  As for me, I have told myself who I am. And I’m ready to believe it.

  Love,

  I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. If we’re supposed to ignore everything that’s wrong with our lives, then I can’t see how we’ll ever make things right.

  —Please Ignore Vera Dietz, A.S. King

  Dear Heartbreak,

  Fuck you.

  Sincerely,

  Done With You

  WHO SAID I HAVE TO GIVE MY HEART UP FOR BREAKING?

  Dear Done With You,

  Oh, I get it. I really get it. Let it all out until all that’s left is a big, fat Fuck You. Fuck you, heartbreak. Fuck you, love. Fuck you, people. Fuck you, world. Fuck all of it and all of its relatives and any sheets it ever slept in.

  I have been there, Done With You.

  I have been there.

  But let me stop and really try to figure out what your letter means. It’s only two words long. It’s clearly full of emotion—anger and probably frustration, if I was to guess. And sadness. And maybe loneliness as well. And let’s face, it—it’s a lack of patience. Because who has patience for heartbreak? Not me. Not you. And so we arrive at these two words. Fuck You.

  I’m with you, Done With You. I am flipping off heartbreak right next to you because I’ve had my share. Most recently, I’ve survived a twenty-five-year-long marriage that was harmful to everyone involved in it—even my kids. To which you must think: Hold on … why is this woman even giving advice? Yeah. I get it. But listen. Twenty-five years of marriage is a feat that you probably don’t quite get yet. I’m a warrior. I’m a goddamned national treasure for trying so hard to make it work for so long all by myself.

  Except I’m not.

  I’m just another empathetic, caring human who was taken for a ride by a manipulating, scared, unaware person. This happens ALL THE TIME. And it always leads to heartbreak. Always. No matter how confident a codependent person is (which is what I was), it eventually catches up with us. The penny drops. We see that we do everything. We see we’re the only ones who talk, who reach out, who hug and love, who seem remotely interested in the relationship surviving.

  So now you’re wondering how I got into this spot. I’m a pretty together person. I have my life in order. I do my job and then pick up another job and then another. I can make a chicken dinner last all week in many forms spanning many types of cuisine. I can do push-ups. I know when to back away from bad friends. I know when to say no. I don’t drink to excess; I don’t do drugs. I can juggle two basketballs and an apple while taking bites of the apple. I can handle just about anything you throw at me. And I’m proud of that.

  But the one thing that has happened to me over and over again is: Men walk all over me. (Or women. I’ve been walked over by both.)

  Let’s deconstruct. Let’s go back in time. Let’s look at my ingredients and see how this cake got made.

  You have a
kid who never felt loved all that much. That’s me. A kid who’s never been taught the value or meaning of self-love. Also me. A kid who loves doing things and doing them well. Me again. And you let her loose in a culture obsessed with coupling. She gets walked over time and time again. What else did you think would happen?

  I needed love, I needed to feel good about myself, and I needed everything to be perfect. No failure allowed. That’s how I got here, Done With You. By being too damn strong for my own good. But most of all by being quite naturally needy. Because human beings need things and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except sometimes there is.

  Life can be cruel, right? I got used to being made fun of early on—always with my short hair and my boy’s clothing and my shop class and my other “weird” quirks. I didn’t think I was weird, but others did. And little by little, people learned that when they made fun of me, I’d take the high road because it’s what I do. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurting on the high road. I was. I’ve had crazy things said about me and those things ate away at my self-esteem in a huge way. Even if they were stupid.

  (One time in college, a bunch of girls passed around a rumor that I liked to have sex with goats. That was 1988. It took me until 2015 to realize that I wouldn’t have known where to find a damn goat if I wanted to. Now? I can find you a goat. Name your day. I can find you a damn goat. But at eighteen, I didn’t know where to find a goat. And yet for nearly thirty years, that rumor really bothered me. As did many others. They made me feel small. Made me feel less loved than I already did. But it took thirty years until I realized HOW STUPID THAT SHIT WAS. Goats? Really? They couldn’t come up with anything more realistic than goats?)