A person once told me that I would lose myself in love. By that i’m sure she meant I was obsessing. I was losing the bits and pieces of myself that she was once familiar with. And it isn’t an uncommon thing to say. It’s a concern from a loved one. A warning from someone who cares about whether or not you slip into a depression over someone they might have introduced you to. But there are things that these people, the ones who care, won’t tell you. Things they won’t warn you about that are equally concerning. They won’t tell you that you can kiss without feeling. That you can have sex without connecting. Or that you can actually convince yourself that the love you feel for someone else isn’t enough. No one will tell you that you can be alone while together. That you can sit next to someone you love and feel as though your bodies are on opposite sides of the world. That you can wonder how the lines ever connected, how it ever worked.
Love will make you believe it is falling apart slowly. Distances, fights, inabilities to trust - all things that make us think our feelings are being slowly chipped away at. And out of sadness over the unknown, we wander out into some empty space and begin to hold on to each other with an uncomfortable grip. We cling to each other so dramatically because if we don’t, this empty space we’ve entered will surely swallow one of us up. But no one tells you that all of this can all happen as you lay directly next to a person. No one tells you that life doesn’t pull you together or break you away. No one tells you that it’s you. You do this.
You are responsible because you don’t love from your heart. No one does. You love from your need. You aren’t holding on to who another person is; you’re holding on to who you want them to be. You love your facades, but not your vulnerabilities. And so, that’s what you ask of people. You ask them to give you their best facade and you manage to carry on without ever having to witness their vulnerabilities.
You also believe your love has limits. Because someone once told you that there’s a beginning and end to it all. You say that you are in love or out of love or that you stopped loving, which only implies that the love you have to give and receive is limited. Because no one tells you that the love we feel cannot be used up. No one tells you that the one thing we are capable of understanding about love is that it is limitless. No one tells you that you should not add humanity onto love, and so no one stops you from limiting the love you give and the love you receive. No one stops you from building boxes around the ways love can be expressed.
No one reminds you that your heart is an organ. That it doesn’t need regenerating because it was never broken. No one tells you that though the distance between two people can seem so far, there is no distance between feelings. No one tells you that your human need to define and categorize is actually restricting of love. Your desire to please and your fears of the unknown are both proof that you are not without love. But no one tells you that love is immeasurable.
The truth is this:
You will float in and out of peoples lives for the rest of your life. And each time you leave or you are left, you will attribute some part of it to a lack of love. And each time you will be wrong.
Because no one tells you that there is never not love.
The best way to get over a breakup is to get over yourself. When you take yourself too seriously every life event is bound to feel like the fucking titanic. I'm happy because I decided that nothing in my life has been serious enough for me not to be.
Not because I read “10 ways to get over him” on buzzfeed.
I’m starting to cringe every time I hear someone say something like “whatever i’ll just take him less seriously.” and i’m a 22 year old girl with a female best friend. We say these things a lot. I finally realized that most of my problems with the opposite sex stem from taking myself too seriously. Why do we think the dude who hasn’t responded to our message in 3 days actually cares whether he moves from 1st to 4th place? Do you truly think he cares that his name in your contacts is no longer “babe” and that he’s returned to to John?
You will not find what you want by taking people less serious. It’s dramatic. And it only shows that you take yourself too seriously to begin with.
You probably take everything too seriously. I know this because I did too. And I didn’t learn any of this by dramatically giving up on people or walking away from boys who make poor decisions. I learned this from doing the one thing that never occurred to me while I was busy blocking phone numbers and making my Instagram page private.
I grew up around the words “you’ll be alright” because I was born a drama queen. People have been reassuring me that I was going to survive because i’ve been screaming about not making it since I learned how to speak. I’m pretty sure my first words were “i can’t.” I still say “I can’t” to the things I can’t deal with. But i’m learning that I can. Running away. Avoiding things. Toning others out. This isn’t maturity. And the people who think it is often feel this way because they’ve graduated there from screaming and crying. It’s still dramatic.
Congratulations. You behave like a dramatic adult.
I still feel things. I’ll always feel more than the average person because I allow myself to. Because I want to. Because there’s nothing appealing about being the seemingly soulless girl at the party. But I did finally realize that the answers to half of my problems exist in simply chilling the fuck out.
You don’t have to get over anyone to be happy. You don’t have to occupy yourself or find someone new. Like all of life’s cliches - you have to start with yourself. The key to getting over shit is to get over yourself.
Moments of my life have been marked by the person I loved. There were 6 years of “the boyfriend”, where the boy I loved became my best friend. Everything we shared and wine glasses were broken from being thrown across tables. There were moments with guys who made for great sleepovers. They’d teach me to relax, have drinks with me by the water or share amazing stories about all the parts a girl never gets to see. There were eras of people I’d latch onto in a new place, like high school and college where everyone was so busy being busy, but that one girl noticed you and you loved the way she walked by you without a care in the world. With each big time in my life, there was always a person to go with it. A male partner-in-crime who made sense of everything. A female who loved me despite my inability to relate at times.
And seeing them again after their moment is over, when we’ve moved apart or simply grown into different people, always feels like getting to live — if only for one night of bar-hopping — like I’m that person again. We spend hours catching up on all the people we knew together, the places we used to go, and the things we allowed ourselves to do that we would never consider today. These friends are an ambassador of a place I used to live, both physically and spiritually, and it often feels like they carry a huge part of myself with them. I like to think they feel the same about me.
But sometimes, things don’t go so well. We separate for a real reason, and we don’t meet back up a year or so later to breathlessly catch up on everything we’ve missed. For lack of a better term, we break up. And though I would love to pretend that these breakups were totally unavoidable circumstances — or even the other persons fault entirely — they are my fault, at least in part. When I analyze every relationship I have had (and it’s not many, but enough to draw a pattern or two), I’ve behaved selfishly. I’ve dumped too much of my personal bullshit on them, demanded too much of their time, or neglected their needs. I’ve even betrayed trust. Sometimes they acted poorly, too, but I can always find fault in some of the things I’ve done. I can say that I treated them like I didn’t love them, like I didn’t value their presence as a friend.
And we never talk about friend breakups, because we don’t think of them in the same way. We don’t analyze the loss in our lives the same way, and we certainly don’t expect to be able to go to other friends crying, mourning the loss of a relationship you valued so much. But losing a male friend has often left me as devastated (if not more so) as losing a boyfriend. It eats away at me, and runs my self-esteem into the ground. Because it doesn’t feel like a release or a moment of closure the way you do feel the end of a romantic relationship (even if it’s painful), it only feels like evidence of my own shortcomings, of my failures, of the fact that I couldn’t make it work with a person I loved.
It’s probably silly, but every time I love someone truly, I imagine the two of us old, laughing and making dirty jokes and drinking gin on our porches. I imagine us being the coolest grandparents with the best stories at a family party full of young and silly grandkids. But I imagine a future with them, the way I do with my boyfriend, the way I do with my family, the way I do with anyone I love. I picture a version of myself who is older, wiser, but still surrounded by the people she really loves.
Breaking up with a friend— hurting them, or having them hurt you, to the point of separation — means accepting that the retirement home vision will probably not happen. And just like in any breakup, you have to wish them the best, hope that they will find their happiness with someone better suited to them. You have to hope that they will find a partner-in-crime who doesn’t take them for granted, or get caught up on petty things. You have to move on, and let them move on, even if their friendship defined an entire era of your life. Even if they feel like an ambassador from a place you used to live, but can’t visit anymore.