The joys of… breakups

I’m not sure if it’s possible to be good at breakups, but I know you can be bad at them. I know because I am. I have now spent a considerable portion of my life moping, crying at rom-coms, and trying to find revelations in Mitski songs. I’ve become deeply obsessed with horoscope apps on my phone only to then have to force myself to quit these apps as I realised all I was doing was using these vague platitudes to justify my poor decisions. A tough lesson to learn.

You go from knowing someone loves you to just not. It’s a big change

It feels a bit like I lose my mind after a breakup. I know this is to be expected – it’s both a rejection, and an unexpected upheaval of everything you’d previously known. You go from always having someone to message about the smallest minutiae of your day to staring at an empty screen, hoping that someone, you know won’t, will text you. You go from knowing someone loves you to just not. It’s a big change.

It’s definitely reasonable to react irrationally, I know this, but even so, it feels like a personal failure. It feels a little bit like I’m always the one who humiliates herself, who cries hysterically in public, and leaves at least ten voicemail messages in the space of an hour. For the other person in this equation, the breakup seems a breeze. No matter how many I’ve sent, I have never ever woken up to a missed call or a message saying this other person wants me back. Generally, they seem fine. They don’t care while I seem to care so much I can feel it growing claustrophobic in my chest.

It seems like – proof! All of those thoughts and all of that hate is proved right

I think the reason why I struggle is because it’s never actually about the breakup or even, to be honest, about the other person involved. Deep down in my chest is this pit of insecurity which delights in the rejection. It seems like – proof! All of those thoughts and all of that hate is proved right. I’m not pretty, it says, I’m not particularly nice to be around, and maybe, just maybe, I’m outright unlovable. As a teenager I used to feel superior when I’d hear singers moaning about how their heartbreak made them miserable. ‘I’m miserable’, I’d think, ‘and I’ve never even had my heart broken!’ But now, I get it. You have to be so vulnerable when you’re in a relationship with someone. You have to expose all of the uncomfortable, awkward, ugly parts of yourself to someone, and hope that despite this, they’ll still love you, and treat you gently. There’s a moment of shock when the relationship ends: I did all this, and it still wasn’t enough. It’s hard not to take it personally.

Anger is powerful, and I think it’s important, but for me at least, it always comes with a slight discomfort

It’s kind of imperative you don’t though, just to make sure you’ll get through it. A really easy way to do this, normally in the direct aftermath of the breakup, is to get really angry at the other person. Criticise their communication style, and the fact that more time was spent labouring the details of their parents’ divorce than ever asking you questions. Decide that actually you were too good for them, and head out with your friends to get drunk, only to realise that the alcohol just makes you teary, not confident. Anger is powerful, and I think it’s important, but for me at least, it always comes with a slight discomfort. Despite everything, I know I don’t want to spend my life angry, and I know I don’t want to become a bitter person.

When you tell someone you’re going through a breakup, you’ll normally be told to give it time. This piece of advice is infuriating, but it’s true. Life goes on, the sadness turns to anger, and eventually, one day you’ll wake up to realise you haven’t thought about it in weeks. There’s a certain sadness in this acceptance too. It seems unfair that you can feel an emotion so deeply, and then just wake up one day, just to feel nothing. I wish I could be like one of those women in Greek myths who cry so much they turn into a river, or turn into a stone when faced with a slight inconvenience. Unfortunately for me, I’m a twenty-first century woman trapped in the same one shape, but that doesn’t mean that breakups can’t be catalysts for much smaller change. On a deeper level, after the grand emotions have gone away, I like to write a list of factors that I think led to the breakdown of the relationship, things I’ll maybe do differently next time, and behaviours I now know I want nothing to do with anymore. On a far more shallow level, it’s fun to dye your hair, cut yourself a fringe or change how you dress.

One of a pair, with who you are now, single

I know as a woman – I don’t really know whether this is true for men or not – you’re encouraged to make a relationship all encompassing, let it eat up who you were before. This means, among other things, a breakup is painful because you lose a key piece of your identity, and you’re forced to reconcile who you were before. One of a pair, with who you are now, single. This is uncomfortable, and awkward, sure, but there is no denying that there is undoubtedly a glamour to self reinvention. Call old friends, and make new ones. Watch films, listen to music, and read books. Take up embroidery, or get really into mountain biking. Get a new piercing. Completely change your look. Become a new person entirely.

The world is so big, and to be frank, you’ll never be this young again. Just remember: with every ending comes a new beginning.