I had the phone cord stretched until all its little curls were pulled straight so I could be in the hallway of my subterranean college apartment, away from my roommates watching TV in the living room. Her voice was a small bird, so I put all my energy to concentrate on its flight. Then, I understood. The relationship over. Had been, in her mind, for months. And final. Moving in with someone else.
Immediately, the burn of tears. I slid to the floor, to a seated/leaning position. I couldn’t speak. She may have been explaining something, but if so, I still don’t know what. All I knew was I had to get out. The call ended somehow, and I ran up the dank stairs to Allen Street, and I began running south. Away.
I ran and ran, and I’m no runner. I cried and cried, too. I must be a crier.
When I returned to the basement apartment, I called an old high school teacher, who’d become a friend. I pleaded, Let me come visit. It was a week before finals, and New Jersey never sounded so attractive. He gave me the wisest advise I think I’ve ever gotten, words I’ve passed on to others. No, he said. Don’t leave. No matter where I went, he said sagely, I’d carry the pain with me. So, stay there, let my profs know what’s going on, and do your best to get through it.
You’ll just carry the pain wherever you go.
I’ve never had a harder break up. I did in fact carry the questions, the unending conversations with her (and him!), all over the place and for months. Maybe years.
Yes, years. And I’ve told this story plenty of times.
But the strange thing is that it changed over time. At first, it was a story of my shock and the long struggle to love again. It was a story of falling hard. Later, as I got to know myself better, I realized that I treated her terribly. I was only shocked because I wasn’t paying attention. And she only took this step because she wanted to be happy, and I certainly didn’t do much to help that enterprise. I realized a hard truth about that relationship: I treated her badly for a long time but didn’t have the guts to break up with her. But this way, I could be innocent, the victim, the good guy. My pain confirmed all that. I had the high ground. Pretty elaborate mental gymnastics.
I would never had learned all this had I not fallen so hard. Alcoholics and drug addicts who survive their disease and maintain their sobriety know the value of hitting bottom. No one wants to bottom out, but no one wants to be an addict either. Hitting the awful bottom can be the catalyst for transformation. The Japanese say Fall down seven times, get up eight.
It’s what we do with heartbreak, regret, embarrassments, and other tragedies that make all the difference. So maybe I’m not praising the falling. Anybody can fail. Anyone can be a jerk and suffer a painful break up. Some people wise up, persist, learn from, and become big hearted, not hard hearted. I guess I want to celebrate the art of getting back up.
Immediately, the burn of tears. I slid to the floor, to a seated/leaning position. I couldn’t speak. She may have been explaining something, but if so, I still don’t know what. All I knew was I had to get out. The call ended somehow, and I ran up the dank stairs to Allen Street, and I began running south. Away.
I ran and ran, and I’m no runner. I cried and cried, too. I must be a crier.
When I returned to the basement apartment, I called an old high school teacher, who’d become a friend. I pleaded, Let me come visit. It was a week before finals, and New Jersey never sounded so attractive. He gave me the wisest advise I think I’ve ever gotten, words I’ve passed on to others. No, he said. Don’t leave. No matter where I went, he said sagely, I’d carry the pain with me. So, stay there, let my profs know what’s going on, and do your best to get through it.
You’ll just carry the pain wherever you go.
I’ve never had a harder break up. I did in fact carry the questions, the unending conversations with her (and him!), all over the place and for months. Maybe years.
Yes, years. And I’ve told this story plenty of times.
But the strange thing is that it changed over time. At first, it was a story of my shock and the long struggle to love again. It was a story of falling hard. Later, as I got to know myself better, I realized that I treated her terribly. I was only shocked because I wasn’t paying attention. And she only took this step because she wanted to be happy, and I certainly didn’t do much to help that enterprise. I realized a hard truth about that relationship: I treated her badly for a long time but didn’t have the guts to break up with her. But this way, I could be innocent, the victim, the good guy. My pain confirmed all that. I had the high ground. Pretty elaborate mental gymnastics.
I would never had learned all this had I not fallen so hard. Alcoholics and drug addicts who survive their disease and maintain their sobriety know the value of hitting bottom. No one wants to bottom out, but no one wants to be an addict either. Hitting the awful bottom can be the catalyst for transformation. The Japanese say Fall down seven times, get up eight.
It’s what we do with heartbreak, regret, embarrassments, and other tragedies that make all the difference. So maybe I’m not praising the falling. Anybody can fail. Anyone can be a jerk and suffer a painful break up. Some people wise up, persist, learn from, and become big hearted, not hard hearted. I guess I want to celebrate the art of getting back up.
