On mending

Someone sent me this question on Formspring last week. I chose to post my response here, first because I’m not sure anyone really reads my responses on Formspring, and second because I wanted my thoughts on this documented, if only to remind me of what a difference a few years makes.

When was the last time you had your heart broken? What did you do to mend it?

First let me say that I’m sorry if you’ve had your heart broken recently. If you’re doing it right, I’m sure it feels like open heart surgery, only you’re awake and George Bush is holding the scalpel. Maybe I should leave politics out of this.

What You Don’t Do

As my friend Kim in Florida and I like to say, you don’t bring out the crazy. You don’t send pictures to his parents of the two of you naked and you don’t break into his voice or email. You don’t coat his car in spray cheese and you certainly don’t send his boss all those emails in which he called her names that involve special characters. Please don’t fool yourselves, either; the minor offenses are just as bad. You don’t drive by his house and you don’t call his office. You don’t linger at that coffee shop he frequents. Negative attention really isn’t the attention you want from someone who is supposed to respect you.

You don’t involve his family or friends. Respect his boundaries. If he isn’t talking to you, it isn’t fair for you to manipulate others so he sees you, hears you. I understand the urge, but like running naked onto the White House lawn, you just don’t do it.

Bottom line: every time you feel like doing something – and of course you’ll FEEL it a lot – ask  if you’re respecting yourself by doing whatever it is that you’re contemplating (while laughing maniacally and/or picturing him maimed). Not honoring your whim, but respecting the person you are or want to be.  Are you that girl? And if you are, is that who you really want to be?

What You Do

You’re perfectly entitled to wallow for a bit, whatever form that takes. Watch girlie movies. Call friends. And tell people – for goodness sake, tell people. There is no shame in being uncoupled. It happens to all of us, and the more you hide it, the worse your pain becomes. Honor yourself by being honest. Things may be over, but you are intact, worthy just because you exist, no matter how much you might not feel it now.

Allow yourself to feel the pain. It’s awful to have your heart broken. When you feel like crying, do it, whenever you can.  Pushing those feelings down only makes them pop up later, with more strength, and quite possibly jazz hands and air horns.

I’m not a fan of people recommending that you go do the things that you “get” to do now that you’re single. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a recipe for making you feel even more single. I am a fan, however, of building yourself back up, of filling you. You’re missing connection. Part of healing can come in the form of connecting with other people, but most of it comes in rebuilding a connection to yourself. It comes in doing what makes you happy, what reminds you how beautiful life is, whether you’re single or coupled.

In 2006, I went through a hard breakup. I really felt as if I had nothing, a reed in the wind if you will, completely vulnerable to an overcast day or a sappy song on the radio. I didn’t like to be alone for any amount of time, and had to learn to be connected to myself again. What did that involve? For me, it was testing boundaries and pushing myself. I met more bloggers in person. At the age of 33, I took swimming lessons. I joined a softball team, a sport I considered having contributed to my social phobia as a youth. And I cried when I needed to, sometimes with the car pulled over on the side of the road. I built myself back up by doing. And interestingly enough, so did he. We both did more great things independent of one another than we did while we were together. Interesting in hindsight, isn’t it?

No matter who you are, there are days when you’ll feel weaker than others. You’ll think you’ve conquered the damn thing and then suddenly you feel as if you’re sliding down the hill, trying to dig fingernails into dirt or the nearest pedestrian before you reach the bottom again. It’s all a part of the process. Feel it and know that you’ll feel even a little bit better tomorrow or next week. And that after a few of those episodes you’ll recover faster. And you keep moving forward.

And then whether a few months or a few years later, you pass him on the street and notice he’s grown a beard. And because there is  enough space between the two or you, and because you’re no longer a reed in the wind, you text him and joke him about it. And he jokes you back. And you close the brief conversation with a smile on your face, feeding the cats and contemplating whether you’ll make chili or a frozen block of Lean Cuisine for dinner. And you jump on chat to tell a friend a joke you heard during the day. Because life goes on, and isn’t that part of the beauty of it?

We’re moving . . . We’re moving

We’re all trying to be healthier. I know this is the standard New Year’s resolution, but I sense that the global commitment to improvement is more serious this year, that there’s recognition that we need to do something if we’re going to live long enough to die at the hands of robots. I am convinced that moving more is the key to all of this, not necessarily exercising, but being out in the world and engaging in activities that fill you up sans food or booze. That’s a difficult life change, however; when friends and I make plans to meet, said itineraries almost always involve dining or drinking. Friday nights are perfect for happy hours; Saturday nights are better suited to an early dinner and late drinks. I don’t remember the last time I had weekend evening plans that didn’t center on eating or drinking. Maybe with my mother? That was a brunch, actually, and even that involved mimosas. I make a killer mimosa.

At Weight Watchers, we often discuss how to engage in activities that get us moving more or rewarding ourselves without pizza or Penfolds. Without fail, group go-tos include walking, playing Frisbee/catch in the park, dancing naked in our kitchens while singing into spatulas, reading, and the detestable act of shopping for clothes. Yet none of these activities is something I’d do with girlfriends or a life mate on a Saturday night. I searched the Interwebs to see what the sage millions had to say, and guess what popped up again and again? Ham radio. I’ll have to look into that.

The criteria for our task at hand:

1)      Activities must be done outside the home.

2)      They must be things you engage in with other people.

My ideas:

Bowling (of course now most city bowling alleys have full bars in addition to townies)

The tried and true movie night (without pretzel nuggets, despite their known ability to cure PMS and all else that ails you. And no. The small buckets of queso they sell them with do not make buying them more acceptable.)

Board or card games at a coffee shop (I guess Diet Coke and coffee are acceptable; booze is only required when you play with the ultra and annoyingly competitive)

Salsa, swing, ballroom dancing lessons (this makes me squee slightly)

Museum, musical, theater events (advance planning and hair washing required!)

That’s all I’ve got. Can you help? I’ll be looking for your ideas in the comments, so please don’t fail me like Grandpa did.

On missing

It’s odd, this. Unwavering yet intermittent. It comes, goes, grips at once like a flu and at another moment, unremarkable. Symptoms are scattered, inconsistent. There are patches of day in which the void is so whole, so pronounced, distinct, yet life happens just as it has, to do task lists tallied and Blockbuster DVDs returned. The gas tank is filled at a familiar spot, staples purchased at stops that provide the most ease. Shared spots? Perhaps. I’ve no idea. Can you imagine? It’s odd, that.

There is much to share in the moment. The woman across the way has lost her twin weight. Do you remember her? Chili pepper is a color that looks good on me. The large is too big on top. Travel is planned and honors have been bestowed. Family members excel and the new year news is indeed positive. A friend may move south and another strikes up a familiar band. Good things, as I say. Does that stir something within? Do you remember?

Do you remember me? The shade has changed but the rest remains the same. The spark I suspect once intrigued is intact. I’m in motion. I’m reading and watching. Writing. I’ve questions about the most ordinary of days, about itineraries and meals, photographs and followers. I answer them for myself and hope I’ve come close. I trust I have. I laugh and plan and hold my own when least expected. Take care not to confuse action with content.

There is anger. Anger tempered by understanding, a frustrating combination. It’s very adult, of course, recognizing when life is more important than you are, for the moment or forever. Adult doesn’t matter much when the child in you wants connection, warm skin, discovery.

The tie is understood, inherent to us being, of course, just as are Tuesdays and the burn of a hot stove. It all is so. Quite simple, really. A promise from both sides exists in word and thought that we’re there if the other should be in need. Only a part of me remains confused. If not now, when could we possibly need the other more?

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