It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (32 page)

So I looked at places to live in both cities, put in various inquiries and talked to people I knew that lived on each coast. And after much debate, I finally decided on a winner. . . .

Start spreading the news: You are looking at a future New Yorker! Ahhhhh! I’m doing it! I’ve purchased a one-way ticket and it’s non-refundable! Having practically no idea what areas are suitable to live in, I’ve booked a three-week rental in the West Village, where the one and only Sarah Jessica Parker lives. I figure I can’t go wrong being neighbors with only the greatest New York woman ever! That will give me exactly twenty-one days to find a permanent home. I’ve even ordered a pair of those faux fur snow boots all the fashion bloggers are always raving about.

I broke the news to my parents, and despite my mother crying when I told her, she’s happy for me and knows I need this change. My father is obviously worried about the logistics, as any protective dad would be, but I’ve done enough research and number crunching to know a) I will likely be living in a shoe box, b) open-toed sandals are going to have to be purged from my wardrobe, and c) I’ll probably be broke after a year. But none of those factors dampens my overwhelming excitement in this very moment as I imagine life as a single girl in New York Fucking City! I’ve got to learn how to correctly say “aaaapple” and “coooiifee,” because I am going to be a New York City girl! I could live in a brownstone, just like Carrie, sip cosmopolitans with girlfriends, hail cabs, go to the theater, visit museums, run in Central Park! I can be whoever and whatever I want!

Aside from a fresh start, I’m not going to lie, part of me relishes this move as the ultimate fuck-you to Number Twenty-Six, who has a pronounced disdain for big-city life.

Sure I may be a lost soul right now, but if that’s how it’s going to be, then at least I can be lost in New York City and not Atlanta. I’m ready for something different to begin for me.

With my one-way ticket purchased, I’m both excited and scared. Then again, what do I really have to lose? It’s time for me to do this. I’ve always been envious of friends who studied abroad or moved to a big city and wished I could do the same, but I took the safe route instead; hell, I got engaged to someone who lived five miles away from me! But this catastrophic journey has changed me. It’s opened my eyes to a whole new world. A world that is bigger than Atlanta, bigger than me, bigger than my past.

That’s the thing about a breakup, it’s the perfect opportunity to leave the past where it belongs, and instead roll the dice, take a chance you wouldn’t normally take, and reinvent yourself. It’s the ammo everyone needs to face what we all fear the most: change.

Oftentimes, it’s not other people or even ourselves that stand in our way of greatness, but this fear of change. We fear the idea of it so much that we try to avoid it at all costs, not without reason. Change brings with it uncertainty. It makes you think of all the what if’s, which leads you to realize that you don’t know the answers. So, you decide to stick to what you do know and take the safe route. Change brings with it the fear of failure. You figure you’ve dealt with enough setbacks in your life, so why bother trying anything else? Which brings us to perhaps the biggest reason we shy away from change. Because we fear it might lead to success. Funny how you can fear both failure and success, huh? It’s as if we feel unworthy of happiness because we’ve become stuck in a world of sadness for so long. You get to a point where you become comfortable in this world, and accept your life as all you deserve, misery and all.

But what if instead of fearing and defying change, you just embraced it? Change is inevitable for every person and everything after all. It’s what turns winter into spring, a seed into a tree, a teenager into an adult, a fashion fad into a faux pas, and a lover into an ex. You can hide from it, but it’ll still happen.

But then you go through something horrific like a breakup and you stop fearing change—you actually crave it. Because just like the seasons, these shitty feelings you have will also have to evolve. Think about where you were a year ago, maybe even two. Now think about where you are right in this moment and all the events that have happened between now and then. Those are all changes in your life that you’ve managed to endure. I mean hell, I went from being in a courtroom to being on a reality television show, to being engaged and now being single. If so much change can happen then, why can’t it happen now? That’s the beauty of change, is that it works for us and against us. It’s terrifying, yet hopeful. It can turn the best of times into the worst, but it can also turn the worst into an even better best. And when it does, you can look back at where you’ve been, what you’ve gone through, and smile because of where you’ll be.

Your breakup has severed the ties that once held you back from redefining your life. Now there’s no boyfriend saying he doesn’t want to move to a new city, there’s no difficult choice of trying to make a long-distance relationship work, there is nothing that ties you to where you are. You have nothing and no one stopping you from taking a great leap of faith toward something that has the ability to mold you into the person you’ve always dreamt of being.

It’s time for you to realize that there is a great big world out there that exists, and it’s waiting to be discovered by you. Sure, you’ve been holed up, consumed with this breakup, thinking that life consists of only yourself and this damn breakup. And while you may have hit the Pause button, the world has continued to play. It’s a daunting realization that the world will go on with or without you, but that’s just how life works. So, you have a choice, now. You can either choose to sit out and watch, or you can decide to get your ass up and get back in the game. And in order to do that, you have to be willing to accept the scary idea of change. You have to go out on a limb and say screw it, “I have nothing to lose, therefore anything is a gain.”

Lesson learned:
There aren’t a lot of silver linings to heartbreak . . . But this? This is a big one.

I
relapsed. And when I say relapsed, I mean R-E-L-A-P-S-E-D. Let’s just say, I have officially broken my dry spell. Shit, shit, shit!

So here’s the thing (you know it’s going to be bad when the story starts with “here’s the thing”). Despite engaging in a multitude of back and forth texting wars, unfollowings, and photo deletions, it’s been fifty-five days since I last saw Number Twenty-Six. So there I am, going about my business at the gym, getting back to my pre-breakup fighting shape, which will be useful for my new life as a single girl in New York City, when out of the blue, I get a text message from none other than Mr. “REGRET” himself. Figuring a snarky or accusatory text is awaiting me, I decide to first check my social media, only to discover that I’ve neither said nor posted anything offensive enough to get me in hot water. Curious, I can’t help but wonder what he could possibly want and read the text.

26:
How r u?

ME:
Ummm . . . Fine, how are you?

26:
Good, whatchu up to?

ME:
I’m at the gym. What’s up?

26:
Cool. I was wondering if u wanna grab lunch?

My shock turns to nausea. Something isn’t right.

ME:
Haha. Who has your phone?

26:
Huh?

ME:
Who is this?

26:
It’s me lolz.

ME:
What’s your favorite flavor protein bar?

Several security questions later, he’d successfully proven his identity enough for me to inconceivably believe that the person asking me to lunch is, in fact, my ex-fiancé. Why is he being so nice? Did he, like most men, possess the superpower of knowing just when we women have turned a corner, only to swoop in and fuck shit up for us all over again? As I lie on a dingy rubber gym mat I pretend to stretch, all the while really going back and forth in my mind on what all of this means and whether or not I should meet him for lunch. Could it be that his intentions are pure and this is his version of a peace offering? Is he just being an asshole, hoping I will say yes, only to tell me he was just joking? Or, is this lunch invitation really just a sex invitation? I mean, come on, no man wants to have a meal with his ex without indulging in a little dessert at the end, right?

Whatever his intentions are, they’re affecting me enough to make me consider meeting up with him.
Don’t lose control
, I think to myself. I’m stuck in that delicate post-breakup phase where I have successfully cried out all of my tears, some of the hatred toward my ex has subsided, and I’m moving on under
my
terms. I guess you could say I’ve begun to regain both power and control over my life. But with my move to New York just days away, I can’t help but feel as though I’m leaving Atlanta with some unfinished business and it all centers around my ex.

Ultimately, I want things to be amicable between us, considering I was once engaged to this man, but so much damage has been done that I doubt peace is even a possibility. So why do I still find myself tempted to see him? Is it because my toxic relationship has become an addiction of sorts? Is his love my drug? The love I felt was the highest of highs, but the fights and the anger felt like the most painful of lows, yet I kept going back for more. Now, I find myself craving one last high, one final hit, and then maybe I can put it down forever. I need to finally find the power to stop letting this drug tempt me, and instead be able to live my life how I want to, soberly. And then it dawns on me. Somewhere between thinking he’s being an asshole and me needing to kick the habit for good, I realize exactly what I need to do . . . F-U-C-K him! Figuratively, literally, symbolically, raunchily, all of it.

OK, don’t get your panties in a twist and act surprised! There are very few things, if any, in this world that carry more power than sex. It is one of the greatest sources of temptation, the easiest way to mind-screw a man, and if you do it right, the most rewarding revenge imaginable. And in my case, it’s just what I need to free myself. Plus, what do you do to a man that has broken your heart in every way imaginable; a man who has cursed at you, fought with you, fucked with your every emotion, and left you feeling completely powerless over your feelings, self-esteem, and life in general? You become the feisty fighter you are and you take back the power. You prove to yourself and to him that not only have you moved on but that you control your own life rather than your addicting relationship and breakup controlling you. How do you do that? S-E-X. After all, what says “fuck you,” to a man louder than literally fucking him?

It’s a risky move that could lead to my final descent, but I know I’m strong enough to face it. I can do this. I need to do this! If only to prove to myself that I am in the driver’s seat of my own life; that I can have one last high and quit my ex addiction once and for all. Plus, it’s been fifty-five days of hellish withdrawals, and maybe I want some damn dessert too!

And so, I agree to lunch the following day in hopes of emerging victorious! Plus, I’m secretly hoping that he’s packed on the pounds and looking miserable, while I, on the other hand, will be looking my best, naturally of course. I spend the morning prepping for our . . . what do you even call it? We’re not together so it’s not a date, we have no business so it’s not a meeting, I plan on sleeping with him so does that make it a booty call? Whatever it is, all I know is I’m determined to look hot and decide to make a pre-lunch to-do list:

• 
Workout in the morning. Extra crunches . . . check

• 
Shave legs . . . check

• 
Make sure I don’t need a wax . . . check (thank God!)

Next up, I need to nail my makeup. I go for the “natural” look by applying some concealer and foundation complete with blush and, of course, a little contouring. I go light on the mascara but heavy on the clear lip plumping gloss. I give myself a simple blowout with the help of some volumizing mousse. My outfit, equally strategic, consists of black yoga pants to make sure he knows I haven’t tried very hard, a white V-neck casual enough to reaffirm that I haven’t tried very hard but is also low enough to show my cleavage and soft enough to feel like a bed sheet. Top it off with a leather jacket for a splash of badass and the look is complete.

As I glance in the mirror, I realize that despite being a few pounds thicker than I was before this breakup, I don’t look so bad. Sure, it’s largely thanks to the spandex yoga pants and an hour and a half of hair and makeup, but he doesn’t have to know that. As far as I can tell, the only thing he’ll be thinking when I walk in is, “damn, she looks good natural.” Oh, if only he knew. . . .

Despite looking slightly sexy on the outside, as I drive to the restaurant, I’m losing my shit on the inside. So many different scenarios run through my mind.

Scenario 1:
I get to the restaurant, only to be stood up. (Lord, please no!)