Picking Up the PIeces After a breakup
By Jayne Shrum
I can’t sleep. I used to pretend Jordan was next to me and I would curl up into a ball and wrap my arms around myself, drifting away with a dopey smile on my face. Now, every night is a struggle, staring at the fluorescent light outside my window, trying to arrange my fat rolls so I don’t feel them flop every time I turn over.
My roommates turned the heat up too high again. Tossing and turning, I finally fling off my comforter and sit up to turn on the light. The too-familiar sting of tears comes once again, a slow trickle rapidly progressing into dry, heaving sobs.
Jordan and I spent the summer wrapped in each other’s arms. We first met while I was working a closing shift at Starbucks. Hardly romantic. My off-duty shift supervisor and one of my best friends, Faith, pulled me off the floor to introduce us. Apparently, my crippling social awkwardness and the smell of old, wet espresso beans didn’t scare him off; and so began our unconventional courting.
It didn’t bother me that we had to go to the park on our first date (he didn’t have a job), or that he’s four inches shorter than I (who isn’t?), or even that he has five years on me (my poor mother). He had this stupid, dazey look on his face and stumbled over his words.
He liked me.
Like, like -- like. Like sixth grade kind of like. Like other-people-might-think-you’re-smoking-something like. And I liked him back.
My beloved dog died while we were on our third date. I wasn’t strong enough to go to the vet and watch while she was put down. I had been right by her side for the last six months, sleeping on the floor with her after she had her leg amputated and sitting for hours in the waiting room while she had chemo. But I couldn’t take her to the vet, knowing I wouldn’t be taking her home. So I sat in the passenger seat of Jordan’s crappy old Saturn as we drove to dinner, staring out the window and blinking back tears.
I don’t cry. At least not in front of anyone. Ever.
He pried open my clenched hand and held it. I didn’t want him to ever let go.
Maybe it was the cheap Walmart candle he would light while we watched movies, and maybe it was the way we laughed ourselves to sleep every night. Maybe it was the way he would hold me tight, as if he wasn’t ever going to let me go; regardless, like-like turned into trust, and trust turned into love.
I had to scoot my butt down and let my feet hang off the end of the bed to put my head on his chest. One sticky July night, he pulled me even closer and squeezed me even tighter and kissed me on the top of the head. Because I don’t have a filter between my brain and my big mouth, I spat out:
“Do you love me?”
He took a deep breath. He rambled about past girlfriends and getting hurt, and going too fast, and saying too much too soon, until I put my hand over his mouth and looked him right in the eye.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He called me "Snowflake." Because I come from a sheltered, upper-middle class suburb and my ignorance regarding the real world is rather crippling. He thought it was cute that I made him meet me at my car to walk me up to his house. Because he lives in the city and I didn’t want to get shot or mugged.
Soon enough, Jordan found a job at AT&T. It wast exactly a career, but it was enough to get him off unemployment and enough so he could buy a new car within a few months (graphic design majors, I beg you to reconsider). As the summer started to fade, he promised to spend every free moment of the weekend with me and to visit me at school occasionally during the week.
After I worked my obligatory 16 hours a week at Starbucks on weekends, Jordan would drive me back to my apartment at school. I waited my whole week for those Sunday nights. The hour-long drive was always spent talking about anything and everything over his weird techno music, more often than not with my head on his shoulder.
He usually spent the night. And sometimes we would just curl up together, tracing each other’s face with a fingertip, our eyes doing all the talking. Other times we would laugh and play and tease until one of us went too far and we fell asleep angry, Jordan facing the wall. But I always woke up in his arms.
One Wednesday in November, I came home for a doctor’s appointment and decided to start my weekend early, as I had been sick.
When Jordan picked me up from my appointment, he told me he was taking me to dinner and that he had something to tell me. Naturally, I pestered and pried until he told me on the way.
“I’m going to South Korea to teach English.”
At first, I thought he was joking. He’s a freelance graphic designer who sells cell phones to pay the bills. I almost giggled. But, I realized when I saw his face that he was dead serious. And, I could tell from the sparkle in his eye that he was so excited to tell me about it. Like it was supposed to be good news.
“Oh. How long?”
The sinking feeling started when he said upwards of a year. The feeling intensified through dinner as I picked through my food. I pretended to be happy and attentive, nodding emphatically at every point he made. But on the inside, everything seemed to have frozen.
I asked him to take me home after dinner, saying I didn’t feel well. When he pulled up in front of my house, I backed away when he leaned in to give me a goodnight kiss. If my nagging mother could have heard what I blurted out next, she would have beamed with pride:
“You’ll barely be making any money. … How will you pay off your student loans? How will you make your car payment? How will you pay for your phone? You have what, six maxed-out credit cards? What about your debt? You won’t be able to find a job when you come back. This is pointless. You’re not a teacher. You don’t even want to be a teacher.”
And finally:
“Do you expect me to wait for you?”
He said no, of course he didn’t expect me to wait for him. It would be too much to ask.
“How long have you wanted to do this?”
“Months,” he said.
He told me he had gotten his passport and clearances and everything. All he had to do was apply and get approved.
If he had been planning on doing this for so long, he had wasted my time. He had lied to me. For months. I didn’t see the point. He said he wanted to pay off debt and see the world. Teaching English to South Korea children 40 hours a week would leave little time for sightseeing. And the $2,000 a month salary wouldn’t even begin to cover living costs if he were paying off his debt. He would have to quit his job, meaning he would have no job to come back to.
All of this was made clear to him as I screamed it in his face, trying to drill it into his head, finally adding:
“It’s me or South Korea.”
I slammed the car door and let my mother see me cry for the first time since my sophomore year of high school.
The next night, he asked me to meet him at Eat 'n Park after work. Somewhere public. Where I couldn’t yell at him. I ordered toast.
We had forced, casual small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
He stared down at the table and started folding a napkin into a neat, tiny square, silent. He sighed and finally looked up, meeting my watery, pleading eyes with his remarkably dry ones.
I started crying into my toast. He had made his choice. He didn’t have to say anything.
But he did. He tried to explain himself. That he couldn’t just give up a dream for me. That even if it didn’t work out, he had to try. That he didn’t want to hurt me even more in the future, so sooner is better than later. That he loved me and he always would.
I didn’t understand. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what this "dream" of his was. He had never mentioned anything to me, but now he tried to explain, as if I could focus my attention on anything over the searing pain of my breaking heart.
By now, my toast was a soggy blob on my plate. I couldn’t move, let alone speak. After a few moments of silence, I croaked:
“Please don’t do this to me.”
He stared at the floor and feebly kicked around a cherry tomato that had fallen off the salad bar.
I could see that it had already been done. I shrugged away a good-bye hug and hurried past the Smiley cookies that mocked me on the way out. I sat in my car in the cold, staring at the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath between sobs.
I was in love with my best friend. And within two days, he was gone. We had talked about a future, living together, getting married, having kids, just last week. We were supposed to be that grumpy old couple who can’t stand each other after 60 years of marriage but who always fell asleep holding hands. He was my companion.
He had taken advantage of my innocence, my trust, my body and my love. I was angry and heartbroken. I demanded answers and got no reply. My pleading was met with silence. He cut me off as if I never existed.
I threw every reminder of him in a bag and left it in the rain by his car while he was at work. I tried to get rid of every trace of him. I wanted to rip him off like a Band-Aid; but by trying so hard to forget, all I could do was remember.
I blamed myself. I thought that maybe I was too condescending, or maybe I was too preoccupied with myself to let him feel he had a chance to reveal anything to me. I had said some hurtful things while I was caught up in my anger and confusion.
At the same time, I felt worthless. He had chosen something that might not even happen over me. I felt like he had thrown me away because I wasn’t good enough. I had awful thoughts about how if I wasn’t enough for him, I wouldn’t be good enough for anyone else. I wanted to be angry at him. But I couldn’t be. It was his choice. I just wanted him to be happy, even if I wasn’t.
Months of struggling desperately to understand were spent barely being able to get out of bed, eating myself into a stupor and leaving mascara stains on pillowcases. I felt used and left behind, worthless and lonely, even guilty.
Exhausted and worn down, I hit bottom and knew it. I had forgiven him from the moment he hurt me. Eventually, it became time to forgive myself and move on. It wasn’t a moment of enlightenment. I was simply running out of tears.
Maybe it’s because I make so many mistakes, but forgiveness comes easily to me. I understand that people aren’t perfect and that they do things that are hurtful whether they are aware of it or not. I believe that people learn from their mistakes, and they need to be forgiven in order to move on. That being said, I struggled to forgive myself, knowing that I needed to.
I started forcing myself out of bed and onto the treadmill, walking through an hour and a half of Taylor Swift and Adele every day. I dove into my homework and filled my days with activities. Instead of punishing myself for what I might have done wrong, I started to accept that I couldn’t change the way things happened, and I focused my energy on pushing myself in the right direction.
I still love the Jordan I remember. I always will. Short and goofy, awkward, with warm, smiling brown eyes and a scruffy beard. It won’t be hard for him to find someone else. And, I hope she loves him. I hope she makes him happy and he loves her back.
But he will never laugh with me again. Shopping with her will never make a trip to Target more fun than a trip to an amusement park. He won’t melt under her and surprise her with a tender kiss while she holds him down and plucks his unibrow. Her bare feet won’t hang off the bed while she falls asleep with her head on his chest. He won’t call her "Snowflake."
I have a long way to go to realize my full potential, and my memory of Jordan sometimes makes me skid to a stop. But it’s becoming easier to collect myself and get going again.
I’ve started to make peace with myself. I’ve stopped questioning my own worth and started concentrating my energy on finding happiness. One day soon, my wounds will be healed, and I’ll have a stronger new layer of scar tissue.
Relationships can be lifelong, or, more often, they can be fleeting. In Jordan's and my case, it was a spark that started a fire, only to be extinguished just as quickly as it was lit. While relationships end, love lasts forever. Through Jordan, I can see parts of me that I’ve never been able to see. I may forgive too easily, but I’ve learned that I am passionate and resilient. I learned to accept my weaknesses, and also how to be stronger. And, I learned that forgiveness eases pain.
I haven’t yet learned how to stop missing him, and I miss him so much it hurts sometimes. These are the nights I can’t sleep, nights when I hit the speed bumps. But even though I can’t see around the next bend, I know the road becomes smoother, and I will be able to look back at Jordan and wave with a smile on my face because he taught me how to love.
I can’t sleep. I used to pretend Jordan was next to me and I would curl up into a ball and wrap my arms around myself, drifting away with a dopey smile on my face. Now, every night is a struggle, staring at the fluorescent light outside my window, trying to arrange my fat rolls so I don’t feel them flop every time I turn over.
My roommates turned the heat up too high again. Tossing and turning, I finally fling off my comforter and sit up to turn on the light. The too-familiar sting of tears comes once again, a slow trickle rapidly progressing into dry, heaving sobs.
Jordan and I spent the summer wrapped in each other’s arms. We first met while I was working a closing shift at Starbucks. Hardly romantic. My off-duty shift supervisor and one of my best friends, Faith, pulled me off the floor to introduce us. Apparently, my crippling social awkwardness and the smell of old, wet espresso beans didn’t scare him off; and so began our unconventional courting.
It didn’t bother me that we had to go to the park on our first date (he didn’t have a job), or that he’s four inches shorter than I (who isn’t?), or even that he has five years on me (my poor mother). He had this stupid, dazey look on his face and stumbled over his words.
He liked me.
Like, like -- like. Like sixth grade kind of like. Like other-people-might-think-you’re-smoking-something like. And I liked him back.
My beloved dog died while we were on our third date. I wasn’t strong enough to go to the vet and watch while she was put down. I had been right by her side for the last six months, sleeping on the floor with her after she had her leg amputated and sitting for hours in the waiting room while she had chemo. But I couldn’t take her to the vet, knowing I wouldn’t be taking her home. So I sat in the passenger seat of Jordan’s crappy old Saturn as we drove to dinner, staring out the window and blinking back tears.
I don’t cry. At least not in front of anyone. Ever.
He pried open my clenched hand and held it. I didn’t want him to ever let go.
Maybe it was the cheap Walmart candle he would light while we watched movies, and maybe it was the way we laughed ourselves to sleep every night. Maybe it was the way he would hold me tight, as if he wasn’t ever going to let me go; regardless, like-like turned into trust, and trust turned into love.
I had to scoot my butt down and let my feet hang off the end of the bed to put my head on his chest. One sticky July night, he pulled me even closer and squeezed me even tighter and kissed me on the top of the head. Because I don’t have a filter between my brain and my big mouth, I spat out:
“Do you love me?”
He took a deep breath. He rambled about past girlfriends and getting hurt, and going too fast, and saying too much too soon, until I put my hand over his mouth and looked him right in the eye.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He called me "Snowflake." Because I come from a sheltered, upper-middle class suburb and my ignorance regarding the real world is rather crippling. He thought it was cute that I made him meet me at my car to walk me up to his house. Because he lives in the city and I didn’t want to get shot or mugged.
Soon enough, Jordan found a job at AT&T. It wast exactly a career, but it was enough to get him off unemployment and enough so he could buy a new car within a few months (graphic design majors, I beg you to reconsider). As the summer started to fade, he promised to spend every free moment of the weekend with me and to visit me at school occasionally during the week.
After I worked my obligatory 16 hours a week at Starbucks on weekends, Jordan would drive me back to my apartment at school. I waited my whole week for those Sunday nights. The hour-long drive was always spent talking about anything and everything over his weird techno music, more often than not with my head on his shoulder.
He usually spent the night. And sometimes we would just curl up together, tracing each other’s face with a fingertip, our eyes doing all the talking. Other times we would laugh and play and tease until one of us went too far and we fell asleep angry, Jordan facing the wall. But I always woke up in his arms.
One Wednesday in November, I came home for a doctor’s appointment and decided to start my weekend early, as I had been sick.
When Jordan picked me up from my appointment, he told me he was taking me to dinner and that he had something to tell me. Naturally, I pestered and pried until he told me on the way.
“I’m going to South Korea to teach English.”
At first, I thought he was joking. He’s a freelance graphic designer who sells cell phones to pay the bills. I almost giggled. But, I realized when I saw his face that he was dead serious. And, I could tell from the sparkle in his eye that he was so excited to tell me about it. Like it was supposed to be good news.
“Oh. How long?”
The sinking feeling started when he said upwards of a year. The feeling intensified through dinner as I picked through my food. I pretended to be happy and attentive, nodding emphatically at every point he made. But on the inside, everything seemed to have frozen.
I asked him to take me home after dinner, saying I didn’t feel well. When he pulled up in front of my house, I backed away when he leaned in to give me a goodnight kiss. If my nagging mother could have heard what I blurted out next, she would have beamed with pride:
“You’ll barely be making any money. … How will you pay off your student loans? How will you make your car payment? How will you pay for your phone? You have what, six maxed-out credit cards? What about your debt? You won’t be able to find a job when you come back. This is pointless. You’re not a teacher. You don’t even want to be a teacher.”
And finally:
“Do you expect me to wait for you?”
He said no, of course he didn’t expect me to wait for him. It would be too much to ask.
“How long have you wanted to do this?”
“Months,” he said.
He told me he had gotten his passport and clearances and everything. All he had to do was apply and get approved.
If he had been planning on doing this for so long, he had wasted my time. He had lied to me. For months. I didn’t see the point. He said he wanted to pay off debt and see the world. Teaching English to South Korea children 40 hours a week would leave little time for sightseeing. And the $2,000 a month salary wouldn’t even begin to cover living costs if he were paying off his debt. He would have to quit his job, meaning he would have no job to come back to.
All of this was made clear to him as I screamed it in his face, trying to drill it into his head, finally adding:
“It’s me or South Korea.”
I slammed the car door and let my mother see me cry for the first time since my sophomore year of high school.
The next night, he asked me to meet him at Eat 'n Park after work. Somewhere public. Where I couldn’t yell at him. I ordered toast.
We had forced, casual small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
He stared down at the table and started folding a napkin into a neat, tiny square, silent. He sighed and finally looked up, meeting my watery, pleading eyes with his remarkably dry ones.
I started crying into my toast. He had made his choice. He didn’t have to say anything.
But he did. He tried to explain himself. That he couldn’t just give up a dream for me. That even if it didn’t work out, he had to try. That he didn’t want to hurt me even more in the future, so sooner is better than later. That he loved me and he always would.
I didn’t understand. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what this "dream" of his was. He had never mentioned anything to me, but now he tried to explain, as if I could focus my attention on anything over the searing pain of my breaking heart.
By now, my toast was a soggy blob on my plate. I couldn’t move, let alone speak. After a few moments of silence, I croaked:
“Please don’t do this to me.”
He stared at the floor and feebly kicked around a cherry tomato that had fallen off the salad bar.
I could see that it had already been done. I shrugged away a good-bye hug and hurried past the Smiley cookies that mocked me on the way out. I sat in my car in the cold, staring at the steering wheel, trying to catch my breath between sobs.
I was in love with my best friend. And within two days, he was gone. We had talked about a future, living together, getting married, having kids, just last week. We were supposed to be that grumpy old couple who can’t stand each other after 60 years of marriage but who always fell asleep holding hands. He was my companion.
He had taken advantage of my innocence, my trust, my body and my love. I was angry and heartbroken. I demanded answers and got no reply. My pleading was met with silence. He cut me off as if I never existed.
I threw every reminder of him in a bag and left it in the rain by his car while he was at work. I tried to get rid of every trace of him. I wanted to rip him off like a Band-Aid; but by trying so hard to forget, all I could do was remember.
I blamed myself. I thought that maybe I was too condescending, or maybe I was too preoccupied with myself to let him feel he had a chance to reveal anything to me. I had said some hurtful things while I was caught up in my anger and confusion.
At the same time, I felt worthless. He had chosen something that might not even happen over me. I felt like he had thrown me away because I wasn’t good enough. I had awful thoughts about how if I wasn’t enough for him, I wouldn’t be good enough for anyone else. I wanted to be angry at him. But I couldn’t be. It was his choice. I just wanted him to be happy, even if I wasn’t.
Months of struggling desperately to understand were spent barely being able to get out of bed, eating myself into a stupor and leaving mascara stains on pillowcases. I felt used and left behind, worthless and lonely, even guilty.
Exhausted and worn down, I hit bottom and knew it. I had forgiven him from the moment he hurt me. Eventually, it became time to forgive myself and move on. It wasn’t a moment of enlightenment. I was simply running out of tears.
Maybe it’s because I make so many mistakes, but forgiveness comes easily to me. I understand that people aren’t perfect and that they do things that are hurtful whether they are aware of it or not. I believe that people learn from their mistakes, and they need to be forgiven in order to move on. That being said, I struggled to forgive myself, knowing that I needed to.
I started forcing myself out of bed and onto the treadmill, walking through an hour and a half of Taylor Swift and Adele every day. I dove into my homework and filled my days with activities. Instead of punishing myself for what I might have done wrong, I started to accept that I couldn’t change the way things happened, and I focused my energy on pushing myself in the right direction.
I still love the Jordan I remember. I always will. Short and goofy, awkward, with warm, smiling brown eyes and a scruffy beard. It won’t be hard for him to find someone else. And, I hope she loves him. I hope she makes him happy and he loves her back.
But he will never laugh with me again. Shopping with her will never make a trip to Target more fun than a trip to an amusement park. He won’t melt under her and surprise her with a tender kiss while she holds him down and plucks his unibrow. Her bare feet won’t hang off the bed while she falls asleep with her head on his chest. He won’t call her "Snowflake."
I have a long way to go to realize my full potential, and my memory of Jordan sometimes makes me skid to a stop. But it’s becoming easier to collect myself and get going again.
I’ve started to make peace with myself. I’ve stopped questioning my own worth and started concentrating my energy on finding happiness. One day soon, my wounds will be healed, and I’ll have a stronger new layer of scar tissue.
Relationships can be lifelong, or, more often, they can be fleeting. In Jordan's and my case, it was a spark that started a fire, only to be extinguished just as quickly as it was lit. While relationships end, love lasts forever. Through Jordan, I can see parts of me that I’ve never been able to see. I may forgive too easily, but I’ve learned that I am passionate and resilient. I learned to accept my weaknesses, and also how to be stronger. And, I learned that forgiveness eases pain.
I haven’t yet learned how to stop missing him, and I miss him so much it hurts sometimes. These are the nights I can’t sleep, nights when I hit the speed bumps. But even though I can’t see around the next bend, I know the road becomes smoother, and I will be able to look back at Jordan and wave with a smile on my face because he taught me how to love.