Dear Heartbreak

by Heather Demetrios

  What I am trying to show you by laying bare a lot of my adolescent drama is that people hurt other people. We even sometimes hurt people we care about. When you are young, you have a wild heart. The boy you are dating also has a wild heart and so does your friend. Wild hearts want what they want.

  Your situation, darling, is quite simple when you boil it down: You and your friend like the same boy. You have been blessed with the extraordinary good fortune that the boy you like likes you. That is the only difference right now between you and your friend. I am sure that she has convinced herself that if she were you, she would step aside. She would choose your friendship over the boy.

  But I am not sure that is true. Actually, I am almost positive that it isn’t true. Remember: Wild hearts want what they want. This is why I get so mad when people rant about “unlikable” characters in novels. Everyone is the unlikable narrator of their own story. We all want things we shouldn’t. We all want things that sometimes hurt other people. Even people we care deeply about.

  Policing someone’s heart does not solve the problem. You cannot make someone who does not love you, love you. You cannot make someone not love someone they love. When I was your age, I used to listen to “All My Little Words” by The Magnetic Fields all the time. On that track, Stephin Merrit wisely sings, “And I could make you rue the day/But I could never make you stay.” And this, this, my darling girl, is exactly what I am trying to impart to you. You can never change the will of someone’s heart. You can punish them. You can threaten them. You may even be able to convince them to try to act against its interest, but you can never change how their heart actually feels.

  Once you accept this truth, life may seem a tiny bit less painful. You have created a false dichotomy for yourself. You do not have to choose between this boy and your friend. This is not a choice between romance and friendship. You only have to let your friend understand that you care about her, but you also like this boy. Those two emotions are not as incompatible as you believe. You have to let her know there is room in your life for both of them. She may be mad, but ultimately she has more of a choice to make than you do.

  She can either dig deep and decide to let her love for you trump her own disappointment that the object of her affection does not return her feelings, or she can wallow in that disappointment. I hope she will not choose the latter. There is nothing for her there in that well of disappointment and her bitterness will only eat her alive from the inside. I know—I have been there.

  One of the most difficult things I have ever had to learn is how to hold space for two conflicting emotions—to learn how to be happy for a friend when they are given something that I wanted. My most basic instinct in these upsetting situations is to resent my friend for having the good fortune that I didn’t. But I have now learned how to clamp down on that feeling, to lean hard into my love for my friends, to let my love for them be greater than my own disappointment. To understand that they did not take whatever it was that I wanted from me; to understand that the thing I didn’t get was simply not meant for me and that is a fact regardless of what has happened to my friend. To understand that holding that kind of toxic jealousy inside of me is a slow death and if I let my jealousy kill me, I will not be around to have other triumphs.

  You are going to have to ask your friend to love you more than she resents you for having what she wanted. Again, this is her choice to make. Not yours. When it was my turn to make this choice, when I was in the position of your friend, I chose wrongly. I hope your friend does not let you down in the way that I let S down. But I do think that if you engage your friend in an open dialogue about the situation, you will be much more likely to end up with the outcome you desire. Both S and I were doomed by our own respective inabilities to articulate our feelings. Maybe we were both scared of them; I don’t know. But I do know we didn’t own them and that was our biggest problem. We let our secrets and our silence run like a river through the foundation of our friendship, eventually cracking it into pieces.

  A part of you probably expected that I would answer your letter by preaching about girl code. We, as women, are often taught by societal messaging that to be a good friend is to sacrifice our own happiness. We are taught to shrink our desires, to make ourselves smaller so that other people can be more comfortable. Fuck that. As you state, even if you break up with this boy, it will not erase your friend’s heartbreak. It does not solve her problem that the object of her affection does not return her feelings. It only serves to make two more people upset. This is not a reasonable solution. It, in fact, is not a solution at all. Because—think about it—even if you acquiesce and end your relationship for the sake of your friend, will that really solve the problem? There is a chance that your hurt over ending the relationship will fester into a deep wound of resentment that will cause major problems in your friendship.

  I’m the mother of two tiny (and absolutely adorable, thank you very much) ladies, and I want to raise them to be kind. To be good friends and good people. Capital-G Good. I want them to care about others, about the planet. But I do not want them to think that to be nice is synonymous with sacrifice and suffering. That is a lie that has been sold to us female folk by the patriarchy for far too long. In this particular situation, you can be a good friend by being honest and by being empathetic. You can tell her you are sorry that your relationship brings her pain, but ending your relationship would cause you pain. Her pain is not worth more than yours; your pain is not worth more than hers. This is not a situation where there is nobility in sacrifice. There will be times in your life when that is the case, but this is not one of them. Do not be tricked into thinking otherwise.

  Sweet girl, you need to understand that life is not something that just happens to you. You, darling, make life happen. Own that. There will never be a point in your life when you won’t inflict bruises, but part of growing up, part of doing the real work of becoming a responsible human being, is learning to own those bruises. You must be honest with your friend. You must tell her that you love this boy and you are sorry that your love for him causes her pain, but you must—you must—own your love of him. You need to let her know exactly how important this boy and your relationship with him are to you.

  Laying this truth bare for your friend—owning this love you have for a boy who loves you back—will require courage, but it is much more noble than waltzing around the issue, pretending as though you are an actress simply reading the lines you have been given. Pretending that you are some sort of victim that has been put into an impossible situation. Undecided Girl, you are not a victim.

  Life is not a play. You were not cast as the star by sheer good luck. You write the script. And the script you are writing involves you dating a boy that your friend also likes. This is messy, but it is survivable. As I have now said a dozen times, I think your friend’s pain will be lessened a lot (I mean, A LOT) if you take ownership of your feelings for this boy. If you truly lean into them and let your friend understand the depth of your love for both her and this boy.

  Before we end, I want to address one little thing that has been nagging at me. You begin your letter by declaring, “I am in love with a poisonous boy.” This made me flinch. When I think of a poisonous boy, I think of a boy who is cruel. Who is abusive, verbally or physically. Who is a mean snake who needs to be kicked to the curb, smashed under the heel of your boot. However, the rest of your letter does not leave me with the impression that this is actually the case. But if it is, run for the hills. Run as far as you can, sweet girl. Leave this boy behind. If he is actually harmful, you need to tell someone. I implore you to do this. There are too many men in this world that believe they can abuse women. Do not let him get away with his cruelty. You deserve so much better.

  As I said, though, from your letter, I have not been given the impression that he is harmful. If anything, he seems quite nice. A boy who has managed to win not only your affection, but also the affection of your friend. Am I right in thinking that that’s wh
at you feel is poisonous about him?

  If the answer to that question is yes, than I believe what you meant to say is that you are in a poisonous situation, a lose-lose predicament. But as we’ve already laid out, you are not actually in a lose-lose predicament, my darling. Remember, it’s up to your friend to decide if your friendship will be lost over this boy. That’s her predicament—not yours. You just have to fess up to your own feelings and be kind.

  When I got so angry at S for dating A, it wasn’t even really about A. It was about the fact I felt like S had never been completely honest with me about how she felt about A. Our problem was that we never talked about our true feelings to each other. It was also about the fact that my ego was bruised because A wanted S now. I felt like she was winning at something I was losing at. I hope you and your friend rise above this and do not get sucked into our society’s twisted obsession with convincing women to compete against each other for the attention and affection of men. You and your friend are not in competition with each other. The boy has not chosen to like you instead of your friend—do not see your relationship as a contest that you have won. Love, my darling girl, is not a blood sport.

  Let your friend know you love this boy and that you love her, too. Show her your love for her by having the courage to be honest with her. Stop slinking around your feelings. Stop pretending like this is a situation that simply happened to you. This is the bravest and kindest thing you can do for your friend. This is the bravest and kindest thing you can do for yourself.

  Let your heart want what it wants. Stop pretending. Own your heart, Undecided Girl. It is yours. Own the fuck out of it.

  Rooting for you,

  The truth was, maybe they’d come to the end of their path together. Maybe it was time to say good-bye.

  —When Dimple Met Rishi, Sandhya Menon

  Dear Heartbreak,

  I just really don’t like you. It’s nothing personal, but all that you have done to other people and me is just too much.

  I never really experienced you until the time I got into middle school. It’s kinda hard being a teenager as it is. And having you show up does not help. It was sixth grade; I was the shy, good girl who rarely spoke. I had my little group of friends, but I preferred being away from all drama. While other girls spent hours arguing over what guy they liked and who liked who back, I spent my time writing my feelings in my journal. This was all while I developed my first crush. It was a new and exciting feeling, but I couldn’t tell anyone about it because I am religious, and that kind of stuff at my age is just not tolerable. So I kept it in for years.

  I continued holding my secret until I could no longer. It was the end-of-the-year eighth-grade dance, and I needed to tell him. I looked over at the dance floor. My eyes only seemed to focus on him, and I just wanted to let it go and finally tell someone. A slow song came on, and, to my surprise, he came up to me and asked me to dance. I was shocked and petrified. I only nodded my head. As we danced, we talked about our day, and he started to tell me about how “great” I did at the track meet before the dance. This was the perfect chance to tell him how I felt about him.

  I took a deep breath and told him. His facial expression started to change as I finished my confession. The song was coming to an end. He looked at me and said, “Oh, I didn’t know that. But I just don’t think that it’s possible—we’re better off just friends.” And with that, he walked away. With each step he took, my heart shattered.

  Heartbreak, why are you so hurtful? I started to regret telling him, and started to lose my confidence. I felt betrayed, for some reason. I just wanted to make this feeling go away. It felt horrible to not tell anyone about this as well. I am Muslim. I started to think that this was the reason that he rejected me, and my heart broke even more. Everything that made me me—I didn’t want anymore. I just wanted to be like all the other girls. But, honestly, Heartbreak, you need to stop!

  Love,

  Anonymous

  BIGGER THAN HEARTBREAK

  Dear Anonymous,

  There is so much in this letter that speaks to my heart. Introverted girl who spends time writing in her journal? Check. Not allowed to talk about boys/crushes at home because of religion and culture? Check. Wondering if the boy rejected you because you’re Muslim? Teary check (only in my case, it was because I was Hindu/Indian/brown/had a “funny” name).

  Oh, it’s so unfair, isn’t it? I mean, like having crushes on boys isn’t difficult enough. Add in things like an introverted personality and a culture/religion that only a small number of people in the country share and you’ve turned the whole love thing into a pit full of crocodiles and fire.

  But you know what? In your letter, I see someone extremely kind and thoughtful. For instance, in your very second line, you say, “all that you’ve done to other people and me is just too much.” Even in expressing your intense dislike of heartbreak, you’re still putting other people before you. You’re still thinking of them.

  Here are a few more examples that cue me in to your personality and the kind of person you are: “I preferred being away from all the drama.” “I spent my time writing my feelings in my journal.” “I am religious, and that kind of stuff at my age is just not tolerable. So I kept it in for years.”

  Know what I hear?

  I really care about others.

  I respect what my parents and religion want from me and will put that before my needs.

  I’m thoughtful and creative.

  I get what you’re saying, Anonymous. I feel all my feelings in the solitude of my own room, even now, as a bona fide adult. I prefer to keep away from chaos and confusion; I write my thoughts and feelings in a journal. This also means, of course, that I’m an observer.

  See, I think most people fall into one of two categories: observers or participators. Participators tend to be louder, more dramatic. They tell people how they feel and they’re open about what they want and what they’re thinking.

  We observers, though, tend to be quieter. Oftentimes, we’re creative, shy, unsure. We tend to question ourselves. We’re empathetic and kind, and we feel our feelings deeply. We also tend to get hurt by other people more.

  It sucks being an observer sometimes. To be one is to question yourself constantly. You’re evaluating yourself way more than you’ll ever evaluate anyone else, because you spend so much time quietly thinking about things: what you went through, what he said, what you said, what everyone really meant. You worry what others think of you. You never feel quite enough. You feel different, other, and maybe a little bit like rejection is in the cards forever.

  I don’t know what makes people observers. Maybe it’s some childhood experience we go through. Maybe our parents are stricter. Maybe it’s genetic. But I do know that to be an observer is to open yourself up to hurt. We’re softer, more willing to reach out to people. And to reach out to people is to (sometimes) be hurt. It’s just the way we are. But in case all of this sounds really sucky, here’s a side note: All my favorite people are observers. I find them to be the most genuine—and oftentimes compassionate—people I’ve had the privilege of knowing. And all of them have stories of heartbreak. Here’s one of mine.

  This one time in high school, I had the biggest crush on the best student in my speech and debate class. When he spoke, people stopped to listen, period. He had this really rich, authoritative voice, and whenever I had to debate anything with him, I would get all shaky (partly because I knew he was about to totally kick my butt in the debate, but partly because he was just so cute).

  We never hung out or anything—observer here, remember?—but I did always smile at him and say hi. So you can imagine how I felt when I was riding the bus home one day and he asked if he could sit by me. Obviously I told him yes, while sliding over and holding my legs really stiffly so my thighs wouldn’t touch him (but also totally hoping the bus would go flying over a speed bump and throw me on top of him).

  We talked about speech assignments and some other stuff and then
I got it in my head that this was my Big Chance. Like, we hardly ever spoke to each other. But he’d asked to sit by me. That meant something, right? If he wasn’t going to take the first step, I totally should just do it. I told him how I really loved his style in speech and debate (no kidding) and how impressive he was onstage. And then I told him I really liked him.

  He was quiet for a long time. And then?

  He laughed.

  “You’re not exactly … my type,” he said finally. “Sorry.” And then he went to sit with his friends in the back. After he’d been there a few minutes, they all laughed, too. I knew they were laughing at me. It sucked. Majorly.

  Over the next few days I kept obsessing about his words. He’d kind of paused before saying the words my type. I felt sure there was a message in that. Was it obvious I wasn’t his type? Well, what was his type? I thought back to his last two girlfriends. Both had been white, blond, and tall. I was brown, black-haired, and short. Was that what he meant? Or was it a personality thing? Why couldn’t I just be outgoing and gregarious, the kind of bubbly girl pegged to be the “sexy, girl-next-door” type? Why couldn’t I be like all the other girls?

  I was so embarrassed, Anonymous. Embarrassed to have put myself out there. Embarrassed to have been shot down. Embarrassed to have been laughed at. Embarrassed I’d failed to see that I wasn’t his type. Maybe, I thought, I wasn’t anybody’s type. Maybe I was meant to be alone. Maybe I’d live in a tiny shack with heartbreak as my pet, snarling on its leash, forever.

  Like you, I couldn’t come home and tell my mom about it. I knew what she’d say if I did: You shouldn’t have told a boy you liked him at your age. You’re too young for crushes. This is what happens when you focus on boys instead of your studies. Etcetera. So I held it all inside. I walked through school feeling like people were staring at me, sure that Speech Guy had told everyone, and everyone was laughing behind their hands at me. My friends didn’t say anything, but maybe they were just being nice. And I was too scared to ask if they’d heard. In speech class, I sat like I had a neck brace on: staring straight ahead at the teacher and nothing else. No one else. Speech Guy pretended like I didn’t exist, which simultaneously was a relief and broke my heart even more.