How to Survive a Breakup. Lisa Cleary
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pace, and I knew couples who wanted to work out their differences before getting hitched, which sometimes took years and years. I admired their determination and commitment to each other. But just like with Mark’s argument that every couple is different, I knew that I would never be the individual who could wait to become engaged after five, ten, or fifteen years.
I knew, deep down, that Mark and I had diverged to two very different points in our lives and, marriage talk aside, we each carried very different priorities. Our arguments never stopped cycling, and only temporarily paused from time to time.
Mark was right in some ways when he blamed me for not cutting him enough slack. Especially with regard to relationships, recognizing and relishing in the good parts of life are always pressed upon us because positivity can be a freeing mindset. Human nature by default is overly critical and, when we focus on the positive, we’re able to appreciate that much more of a person. In going off of this mentality, you might remember the age-old saying, “It’s the little things that count.” But I’m a firm believer that this mantra runs both ways: little thoughts of consideration count in making a person feel special and loved. At the same time, little acts of selfishness add up, and I was whittled down.
One evening, I needed to get away from Mark and from everyone. I checked in at a motel near my work, one that I could afford. The front door had a funny lock to it and the paper thin sheets felt like my big toe could rip open a hole in them at any time, and I understood then why the rates were $49/night. I fell asleep to the TV, but I jumped awake to my own thoughts throughout the night. Could the lock be jimmied? Is someone watching me through a double-sided mirror? I felt like Keith Morrison on Dateline was waiting to narrate my every move.
And then, when I eventually couldn’t fall back asleep, the detached voice in my head asked:
What are you doing here? What… are you doing?
I was so low. So blue. My lowest point wasn’t whenever I fought with Mark—it was that night in the motel, when I was finally alone and able to process my thoughts. I was unhappy. We were both unhappy.
One weekend, not too long after my breaking point and when I was supposed to travel with Mark to a wedding, I cancelled my flight and told him that I had to do what was best for me, and we both knew what that meant. He didn’t even try to fight it, because it was a relief for both of us. We were both finally free to find our own peace.
We took rotations in the apartment to pack up our belongings, though neither of us had actually figured out where we were moving yet, and my heart ached to look at the empty space. We were breaking up. I was single. Things were done. It was over. The sentiment was in such stark contrast to when we first moved in together, which I thought signified the start of years and even decades to come. We had developed sentimental routines, like with me, trying to covertly push Mark’s shirts to the right to make way for more of mine in our closet, but with him always noticing and moving his clothes back over. Or with his favorite cookies, which he always put on the very top shelf so that I couldn’t reach them. None of that mattered anymore.
We may have hugged at the end. I really can’t remember, but I do know that neither of us broke down. I didn’t cry because the breakup had been a long time coming, and I was numb and relieved for my joint tenancy to finally come to an end.
As I packed up trash bags and boxes of my belongings, I thought that our breakup would be the peak of my turmoil. I thought that all of the hatred that I felt, the hatred that embodied me and infiltrated every word that I had spoken would lift. That it would all float away from me and I would feel an automatic rush of peace.
I wanted that ZzzQuil warm-and-happy kind of feeling. I expected it.
But… I never got it right away, at least not like I had hoped. I didn’t understand then, at the time, that I needed to look at myself first. And, if you’re like me and currently feeling the worst of the worst, and experiencing emotions you never thought you had, remember this: there’s nothing wrong with processing life.
You will get over your breakup. It will happen.
But, just know that it won’t magically happen one morning, or one day next week, no matter how many two-second self-help lists you read in between TV commercials. Not every part of life is happy and full of butterflies—and not every happy moment in life unfolds immediately… and this, yes, is coming from a happiness writer.
Now, I finally understand that life will never, and can never, be a constant explosion of happy social media posts. Sometimes, life requires that we take the bad with the good. Life’s happenings—well, they happen. And when you are able to finally get to the point where you can acknowledge that not all days need to be bubble-gum-glib, like I once thought—that’s the first and most important step to launching the healing process, and to really understanding that that’s a more genuine kind of life.
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