Dear Heartbreak

by Heather Demetrios

  Somehow, time passed. As I got more distance from that horrible moment, I realized something: When I put my time and effort into things outside of me, things I really loved and was passionate about, it was easier to be with those parts of myself I wanted to leave behind. I hated the shy, introverted, nerdy girl I was. I hated being an immigrant and speaking with an accent. I hated that my name was, for most people, difficult to pronounce. But when I was doing something I truly loved, something I was truly passionate about, all of those things receded into the background. When I wrote a poem, my being an immigrant gave me a different view on things that people seemed to appreciate. When I was on the phone with someone in crisis at the suicide hotline, they didn’t care that it was hard to pronounce my name.

  So I dove in headfirst. I did things that helped me accept those prickly parts of myself that didn’t fit quite right: I was a teen crisis counselor, I worked with people with developmental disabilities, I was part of a cleanup crew at the local beach, I volunteered with animal shelters and libraries, and I wrote and drew until my pencils were tiny little stubs and the people at Staples learned my name. I gave of myself whenever I had the opportunity, and every time I did that, I found myself becoming just a little bit stronger. I realized that I may not have been Speech Guy’s type, but I was my own type. Even if I had to end up alone (spoiler alert: I didn’t), I would develop my identity as a kind person.

  I figured out that it had always been inside of me, that kernel of wanting to reach out and soothe others. Speech Guy had done me a favor, in the end: He’d helped bring it to the surface. And now I had something no amount of heartbreak could take away: the knowledge that the world was a better place because of me.

  I see in you, Anonymous, a huge capacity for kindness. I’m sad that some guy at a dance hurt you. But I want you to know something: You are like the other girls. You’re just as smart, just as beautiful, just as talented and kind and amazing. Maybe you haven’t found that out yet. But keep searching for the thing that will help you step outside of yourself and see all the things you’re capable of. I’m one hundred percent certain you’ll find that you are your own type, too. You have the power within you to overcome the heartbreak from Dance Guy, to discover what you really want from this life. You contain multitudes, to paraphrase Whitman.

  You’re so much bigger than heartbreak.

  Love,

  I wanted to smile for her, I really did. But my body was too busy trying to stop my heart from cracking in two.

  —Saving Maddie, Varian Johnson

  Dear Heartbreak,

  I don’t really know how to start this letter, so I’ll just jump in. I am going to tell you the story of why I feel like I deserve to be lonely. For a long time, boys didn’t recognize me because I don’t wear makeup or short skirts. So I was surprised when my crush started to write me. I was nervous and didn’t want to make a mistake. He goes to my school and is in my class, so I’ve known him for two years. In school we barely talked at first, because I am a rather quiet girl and in school he is quiet, too. We started to connect and got closer. We talked more in school and I fell in love. He is the first and—even now—the only boy who has shown an interest in me.

  As you can imagine, I was really happy. In my school it’s normal to go on a language trip to another country, a country I’d always wanted to visit. We went there in June and stayed with host families. His was close to mine and we met every day. A friend of mine, who stayed with the same family as me, was always with us. She tried to set us up and give us as much privacy as possible. This was all totally new for me. Usually I am bad at showing emotions, so it actually was hard. I have trust issues. After seven days we moved to a youth hostel. There, we had more time. On our first day I went to his room and we cuddled in his bed. Then he kissed me. It was my first kiss and it made me absolutely happy. The feeling … I still have to smile when I think about it. We talked a lot and made out. I really thought he would ask me to be his girlfriend soon. Of course that didn’t happen. Looking back, I don’t even know why I thought I would have luck. His ex-girlfriend, who’s also in our school, was on the trip, too. The next day she came into my room while he and I were watching a movie and he hid. I felt so bad, because I thought that he still had feelings for her. I was too insecure to ask him about it, and he left soon after her.

  Later, he texted me to come over, because we needed to talk. I was afraid; nevertheless, I wanted to make this work. He told me that his parents would never allow him to have a relationship with a girl who believes in a different religion, and that he’s sorry. Sorry to hurt me. He told me that he was in love with me and he gave me a heart-shaped stone. I should have ended it, but I was naive and thought it could work. So I said I didn’t care if we couldn’t be together officially; I just wanted to spend time with him. We had an amazing time on the trip, but after we got back it was different. We only hung out twice after coming back. At first, we still texted a lot, but he was always busy. I started to feel like I was annoying him and like he didn’t want to see me. Maybe you know the feeling, but it is one of the worst in the world. Our conversations felt cold and meaningless. During our school holidays, he was out of the country for two weeks, to visit family. He didn’t even text me once. I texted him, but he didn’t answer, so I stopped.

  The feeling was terrible, because he posted pictures on Instagram and on Snapchat. I knew he could easily text me, but nothing came. I waited. I searched for excuses for why he couldn’t write me. It was hard to accept that he just stopped liking me or lied from the beginning. I didn’t want to accept it, so I waited for a message after he came back. He came back, and still no message. I never asked why. I still thought I did something wrong, but I was too insecure to ask.

  After the summer break ended and we saw each other again, he said nothing. He ignored me, not one word. Not even a look—he treated me like I was invisible. I felt terrible, but who should I have talked to? I have friends, but they have their own problems, and mine are not important—at least I always thought that. So I stayed silent, too. I am the go-to person for a lot of my friends if they have relationship problems, but they never asked what happened. I feel lonely and unworthy of being loved. Now he’s started a relationship with another girl from my class—you can guess how I am feeling. I am still too insecure to ask him why he just threw me away. I want to hate him, but I can’t. I still care and want him to be happy. So I keep silent. It hurts to see him with her. It hurts that all my friends are in relationships and I am alone. They tell me how much they love their boyfriends and how amazing they are. Not once has someone asked how I am feeling. I feel worthless and lonely. Still, I don’t say anything to them because I am afraid. I am afraid to lose them. I am afraid of them leaving me like he did. I am afraid that they will laugh about me, because they think my problems are unnecessary or ridiculous and, finally, I am afraid of being alone forever.

  Love,

  E., 18

  LIFE IN THE FRIEND ZONE

  Dear E.,

  First of all, let’s get the most important thing out of the way: You are most certainly worthy of being loved. I believe every human being is afforded this right. We deserve love—platonic, familial, and romantic love. And more importantly, we deserve a type of love that respects us, keeps us well, and keeps us safe.

  Part of me wants to spend the rest of this letter explaining how you are better off without that jerk and how you should move on with your life. Actually, part of me wants to end it here: Get over that jerk and move on with your life!

  But I’ve also been in your shoes—the person on the losing end of a burgeoning relationship. It’s so easy to feel lonely, unwanted, and unworthy of love. It’s hard to navigate relationships as a teenager. Hell, it’s not so easy as an adult, either.

  Another part of me wants to sit you down, hand you a triple scoop of chocolate ice cream, and say, “Don’t worry. It will get better.” You will graduate from high school, and go on to university or work or other experienc
es, and you will find someone special who appreciates everything about you. You will find ways to be less lonely, either with friends, or in a romantic relationship, or even by yourself. You will thrive, and people will see the beautiful person you really are.

  But I didn’t want to hear any bullshit like that when I was a teenager. All I wanted was the person I loved to love me back (which, of course, is still valid even today).

  Plus, I don’t like ice cream.

  So all I can say now, as someone well past eighteen, is that I had a situation similar to yours—and if I can make it out okay, you can, too.

  I was a lot like you in high school. Girls never noticed me—at least not in the way I wanted them to notice me. I always thought I was weird looking—super skinny, with huge clown feet and toothpick-thin legs (no lie—I was so self-conscious about my legs that I hardly wore shorts). My ears were so big that they belonged in their own zip code. I played baritone and trumpet in the marching band, served on the student council, and was a member of the chess club. I collected comic books and geeked out over all things Star Trek. I was one hundred percent nerd. Being a nerd is all in vogue now, but that wasn’t the case in the late eighties and early nineties. We were not the cool kids. We were the kids who ate lunch while huddled in the corner, trying to be invisible.

  I was also extremely lonely. I used to think—if only Tanya or Betty or Roxanne would like me, then everything would be different. Everyone will see how important I am! And maybe I’ll actually get to kiss someone for real. Or, hell, maybe I’ll even get to make out! Woot!

  Newsflash: Tanya, Betty, and Roxanne never noticed me. And even if they had, they were in no way interested in helping me practice my tongue-hockey skills.

  Of course, movies and television shows didn’t offer realistic romantic expectations. You could pick just about any cheesy high school romantic comedy and see where the beautiful girl—after pining for some superficial hunk for most of the movie—eventually came to her senses and found solace in the arms of her geeky friend—usually after said geek got his ass kicked after trying to defend his lady-friend’s honor. (I’m looking at you, Daniel LaRusso from The Karate Kid.)

  Another newsflash: I took karate when I was a teenager. That crane-technique shit does not work in a real fight. Trust me. I have the scars to prove it.

  So, anyway, I spent my first year of high school fumbling through the like/lust/heartbreak cycle that I attached to any available girl, whether she was in my league or not. Then, during summer band practice, I met someone new … let’s call her Michelle.

  Michelle was trying out for the band. She was short—her head landed just below my shoulder. She had light-brown skin and small brown eyes. Her hair was in a ponytail, except for one long lock hanging down to her cheek. The tress was curled tight like a spring—I remember wanting to grab it and give it a tug to see if it would bounce. I also remember being surprised by the tenor of her voice. It was deep. Almost sultry. It totally went against the stereotype of her small, dainty frame.

  It was love at first sight.

  Correction. It was one-sided love at first sight. I was already planning what we’d be wearing to prom for the next two years. How much her parents would love me once they met me and realized how awesome I was. How we’d keep our relationship going while we went off to our separate colleges.

  We quickly—and, dare I say, effortlessly—struck up a friendship. And … that’s where it stayed for a long time. We were both so damn shy. We didn’t know how to navigate romantic feelings. I had no idea how to turn a friendship into a relationship. Neither did she. But other boys did. Cooler, hipper, taller, non-geeky boys. Boys that were everything I wasn’t.

  As she began to revel in this attention from these other guys, I decided I’d just be her friend. That’ll be okay, I told myself. Because, like in the movies, the girl always eventually ends up with the friend, and they all live happily ever after. (At least until there’s a sequel—I’m looking at you, The Karate Kid Part II.)

  And that almost happened. She did pick a friend … but not me. Instead, she started dating one of my best friends, another band geek. Talk about brutal. There they are, being all lovey-dovey, and I’m the fool sitting on the sidelines, hoping she’ll one day snap out of it and pick me.

  Their relationship didn’t last long (it turned out that my friend was gay, though I don’t know if he really knew it at the time). I remember when he broke up with her. He did it at school—before the first bell. Michelle’s friends took her to the bathroom because she was crying so much. When he told me what had happened, I didn’t know whether to punch him or hug him. I hated that he had hurt my friend, but now was my chance! Since my friend was the dumper, and had already moved on to another relationship, I figured he’d be totally fine with me trying to pursue Michelle. And he was.

  But she wasn’t. She still loved him, even though he was now with someone else.

  I told myself that it was okay; I’d stand by her and be the friend she needed. I emphatically stated that our rock-solid friendship was more important than these silly, fleeting high-school romances. Which was true. It was also total bullshit. I was not-so-secretly hoping, waiting, praying, assuming that it was only a matter of time before she got over her ex. Only a matter of time before she would wisely realize that I was “the one.”

  And then the football player came along.

  He was a bad boy with a good heart. We shared a science class together—I liked him. He was funny and charming. He knew Michelle and I were friends, so he asked me for advice about how to approach her. Being the gullible fool I was, I actually gave him good advice. But honestly, I was also a bit cocky. I wasn’t worried about him. Michelle was going to be my girlfriend. It was destined.

  I’m sure you can guess how this ended. Long story short, they became a couple. And they seemed pretty happy. I finally got the hint and started dating other people as well—I even made out with a few girls! But none of my relationships ever lasted. These other girls were nice, but they weren’t Michelle. As long as I loved her, I couldn’t love anyone else.

  What was worse, we would still talk every day at school, and on the phone at night at least three times a week, and she would continually thank me for being such a good friend. I kept my feelings to myself because I was trying to be that good friend she could talk to about anything. Not just good friends—by the time I graduated, she was my best friend. I couldn’t imagine going more than a few days without talking to her.

  It was a tough, shitty situation to be in. Every time she looked at him and laughed, my heart ached because it wasn’t me she was fawning over. Every time she placed her hand on his, or he put his arms around her waist and hugged her, I felt all the sorrow and loneliness bubbling up inside, pushing against me like churning water against a dam. But I shoved all those feelings way back down, because she was my best friend, and I was supposed to be happy for her.

  I thought things would be better once I went away for college. And they were, at least a little. I dated more (and made out more). I became more confident. I began to understand what I really wanted. Who I really wanted. And I became determined not to let anyone—including her boyfriend—stand in my way.

  I crafted the entire speech in my head—what I would say, how I would say it, even when I would take all these melodramatic pauses between words. I couldn’t have the conversation face to face—I was away for the summer, and would have been too scared to talk to her in person anyway. So I played the most romantic music I could find as background noise and gave her a call.

  She could tell something was different in my voice as soon as I started talking. I laid it all out—explaining how long I’d felt this way about her, and all the reasons why we were perfect for each other. I told her she was the one person I looked to for comfort when things were wrong in my life—and I challenged her to deny that she didn’t see me in the same way. And she couldn’t deny it. I was the person she turned to when everything was going to shit in he
r world. She couldn’t imagine living without me. She truly loved me.

  But only as a friend.

  I was devastated. This was not how it was supposed to happen. I had become a better person. More confident. I was no longer the geeky band kid with braces and the weird comic book collection. I was finally somebody important and interesting. I was worthy of not only being her friend, but of being her boyfriend as well.

  Of course, it didn’t matter to her how much I had changed. Or maybe she didn’t see this new me. In her mind, I was the nice, sweet, and kind friend I had always been. But only a friend. That was that.

  Looking back, I’ve realized a few things since then. First, it was silly for me to wrap up all my hopes for love and companionship in this one person. Don’t get me wrong—as shitty as I felt during that conversation, when she told me she was staying with her boyfriend instead of choosing me, she was still a great person and it was unfair for me to put her on a pedestal like that. It wasn’t healthy, and, thinking back on some of our long, late-night talks, it probably wasn’t very comfortable for her. I also wish I’d been more honest with her at the beginning. No one likes painful conversations, but it’s like ripping off an adhesive bandage stuck to a scab—you yank the bandage off; it’s painful for a little while, and then it’s over. Instead, I slowly peeled away that adhesive, millimeter by millimeter, over the course of years. Prolonging the conversation didn’t alleviate the pain. It only dragged it out.