How to Get Over a Break-Up: A Five Year Process

You stayed up all night, completely spiraling out. The bags under your eyes have begun to look as though you had purposefully smeared makeup beneath your lashes. Your mom has started to notice, but now you’re an expert at playing things off. You got away with assuring her that you were up late finishing a project.

Stepping out of your brother’s car, you suck in a deep breath. School is the absolute last place you want to be at the moment, but it’s also the only place you ever see her. As per usual, it smells like a combination of pubescent sweat and old plaster. It’s 6:30 in the morning and everyone is groggy. You’re equally hesitant and eager to make it to the cafeteria where all students wait before classes begin. More than likely, that’s where she’ll be.

You tug your iPhone 5 out of the back pocket of your jeans and click the center button. No new messages. You’re not surprised, just scratching for anything that will untie the anxious knot in your belly. You’re also self-conscious because you forgot to brush your teeth and you only have one stick of gum left. Quickly, you cram it between your teeth and chomp, scanning the hundreds of faces in the cafeteria to find who you’re looking for.

The nerves build with each step towards her. She’s doing her best to not notice your arrival, but she’s terrible at being inconspicuous. You flash a forced grin her way and swing your leg beneath the lunch table, but the small semblance of a smile is instantly lost when you routinely glance at her forearms for new cuts.

“Hey,” you mutter, feeling like an idiot for not immediately knowing what to say. She grants you a nod, but nothing else. She’s scrolling through her Instagram feed and ignoring the obvious tension between the two of you.

It’s only been thirty seconds, but you’re positive it’s been an hour. You clear your throat, cringe at how awkward you sound, and speak again, “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She shoots back.

You’re starting to feel more frustrated than anxious now, “Promise?”

“Yes.” It’s clear to you that this translates to No, but I don’t want to talk to you.

“Hey, how’s my favorite couple?” comes a greeting from an outsider. You glance up to find your absolute least favorite classmate, Josh. He’s annoying, arrogant, and legitimately sexually harassed you and your other friend earlier this year.

You furrow your eyebrows, “Can you please leave us alone?”

She scoffs at you, “What is your problem?”

“Uh, I hate him and I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend right now,” You announce. All of a sudden, you’re shaking. Rage is building somewhere deep inside you. You don’t quite see red, but if Josh doesn’t go away, you feel like the color will blind you.

Josh chuckles mockingly and makes a comment as if you’re not even there, “Didn’t know saying ‘Hello’ was gonna set her off,”

When she laughs the dam inside you breaks. You slam your fist on the table, the forthcoming pain not even registering, “Go the fuck away, for the love of God, not a single person wants you anywhere near them.”

“I do,” she corrects you. “You don’t get to talk to people like that just ‘cause you’re pissed at me!”

“I’m not even pissed at you!” You exclaim, “This is exactly why we need to talk privately!”

“Well, anything you have to say right now, you can say in front of Josh.” She challenges, crossing her arms over her chest. A long sigh exits through your nose as you search for some meaning behind her behavior within her bright, blue eyes. Her glasses have a water smudge on the inside lens, and you hope it isn’t from her tears.

You’re exasperated. After a sleepless night of unanswered texts and Facetimes, and now this cryptically uncomfortable behavior—you snap. A sarcastic smile breaks across your face, the only time you notice her disposition become disarming. “Okay, honey. Let me talk about our very personal issues right in front of this douchebag. Last night you told me you felt like you were going to relapse, so I texted your mom to ask her to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself, and—”

“Yeah, that’s the problem right there! I’m grounded again because of you!” she explodes back.

You let out a strangled breath and continue, “I did what you and your mom fucking asked me to do! I was just trying to keep you safe!”

“Well don’t worry, I don’t need your help anymore and I will never ask for it again!” She assures you, swallowing hard. You’re overcome by all the stress and sleep deprivation that has been plaguing you for months accompanied by this newfound fury and injustice.

She stands up to leave, Josh smiling smugly as he follows. “Stop,” you grab for her wrist, to this day you aren’t sure how hard.

Recoiling out of your grasp, she shouts, “Get off!”

Accepting the warning, you jerk your arm back and decide to stand with them. You don’t even know how or why, but you watch as she staggers off the bench with no balance and falls to the linoleum floor with a thud. Guilt immediately waves over you as you hop up from your seat, “You alright?”, you inquire with an outstretched arm.

Embarrassment colors her cheeks and she refuses your help, pushing herself to her feet and glaring into your eyes with an expression you had never received from her. You’re worried now. The white, brick walls trapping you in this version of Hell start to crumble at your feet. Her lips are moving, but you can’t discern the meaning of her hurtful words.

“What?” You ask.

“I said we’re done!” she retorts, a stream of water threatening to escape her tear ducts.

Without your realization, a crowd of spectators had formed to view this dramatic interaction. Freshmen year is apparently too boring for people to mind their own business. Your breathing becomes erratic as she struts out of the cafeteria and away from you. The worst part is Josh and a few others get to accompany her, not you. You’re escorted to the guidance counselor because you’re having a panic attack. You spend the first four class periods of the day panicking, sobbing, and eventually rationalizing the situation with the counselor (who is now a convicted sex offender, but we don’t have to talk about that).

This feels like the end of your life. Losing her has been your biggest fear for three years now, and it has finally come to fruition. She broke up with you—in front of all of your peers. Everyone saw you have a panic attack, and everyone thinks they saw you push her to the ground. This is the popular theory since you aren’t able to mingle and defend your side of the story. You feel like the world is ending.

You shuffle to your locker, completely numb. Mindlessly, you enter the lock’s combination and lift the handle. After a few seconds of fiddling through your belonging to find your materials for French class, she’s there again, by your side. Your breath hitches, but that’s all you feel in that moment. You’re expecting another surge of uncontainable emotions to erupt within you and cause your third anxiety attack of the day, but it doesn’t. You’re in the eye of the storm.

“I know we don’t have time now, but we need to talk later,” she begins. “And, everyone knows what happened, just so you know.”

“Everyone knows what?” You ask, your lack of passion instantly sensed.

She shifts awkwardly, casting her gaze away from you, “Well, that we got into a fight and you pushed me and then went to Mr.—”

“You told people I pushed you?” you huff in disbelief, pushing your locker shut. “Why would you do that? I barley even touched you! And you just broke up with me, you don’t think I’ve been through enough today?”

“Hold on, I didn’t break up with you,” she interjects to your surprise. “Why would you think that?”

You throw your arms up in the air, “You literally said ‘We’re done’, what the fuck else am I supposed to think?!”

“I meant we were done with the conversation!” she shoots back.

The loud buzz of the bell indicates that you’re late for French. You absorb the confusion and aggression again, regarding her fully composed. “Look, this is going to sound rude, but please don’t talk to me for the rest of the day. I’ll text you when I’m ready to talk.”

With that, you turn and leave her standing there. You offer no attention to the remainder of your classes throughout the day, thinking only of your deeply bruised relationship. You always try to convince yourself why you should stay with her. She’s funny, talented, beautiful, unique, she loves all of the same things you do, you’ve been close since the 7th grade, and she’s going through so much right now with her depression that truly requires a lot of patience and support. You also remind yourself of the many fond memories you share with her, like dancing around your room to music you both love, riding rides and goofing off at the local amusement park, the cringe-worthy experience of asking her out for the first time over Facetime, learning to play instruments together, and so many more. This time, however, you decide to use the strategy suggested to you by your guidance counselor and think of whether or not all of those things are worth how incredibly anxious you’ve been.

Still weighed down by your fatigue, you think first of all the sleep you’ve lost either worrying about her or talking her out of committing self-harm or suicide. You think of the lack of privacy she allows you by demanding you notify her of your every move, access to all of your social media accounts, and even your diary. You think of the things she says and does that leave you feeling worthless, such as rejecting your affection when cute boys are around, encouraging you to dress more masculine and not use make up so she can be the “pretty one”, and already breaking up with you multiple times before. You think of the massive strain this relationship has had on all other relationships in your life, your grades, your hobbies—everything. Not to mention this horrible day that you’ve had and all the negative actions she’s taken against you.

You manage to make it through the remainder of the school day, hiding tears and dodging furious glares from your peers that believe you physically accosted your girlfriend. You do text her that day; you tell her you think it’s a good idea to break up after all. It was the hardest thing you had ever had to do. You still don’t sleep well that night, but you start to. You aren’t on speaking terms with her for three months. Then, you have a passionate reconnection in the girl’s bathroom and get back together for a week. You break up again and start dating a guy for the first time. That doesn’t go well either, so you almost get back with her again, but for the first time in five years, you realize that you cannot make her happy, you can’t fix her, and being with does not make you truly happy.

This lesson was the hardest you’ve ever had to learn and took almost the entirety of your high school career. Despite all the pain and angst this relationship brought you, you’re immensely glad for all that you’ve learned through her and even let the experience guide you out of a similar situation with another girl in junior year.

It’s been almost five years since one of the most dramatic days of your life in which you had a very public altercation with the women who you would soon meet in person for the first time in almost as long. Despite the fairly frequent communication the two of you had recently engaged in over text, you’re understandably nervous about the meet-up. You’ve discussed it extensively with your fiancé who is surprisingly encouraging about you meeting up with your ex-girlfriend—he insists that the closure would be a positive thing for you. You glance between your new iPhone 8 and your eight-month-old, Freddie, in the backseat as you wait.

When you receive the message indicating her arrival, you inhale deeply and grin at your little one, “Ready?”

As you unhook Freddie from the car seat, you’re greeted in the parking lot by a vaguely familiar voice. “Hey,” she says timidly, an unsure smile on her lips. She looks almost unrecognizable, especially due to the long purple hair cascading across her shoulders where her previously blonde style laid short.

You hold the almost-toddler in your arms and return the expression, “Hey!”

“Oh my god, he’s so cute! And so big,” she laughs, waving at Freddie. “It’s nice to meet you! I see your pictures all the time,”

You chuckle, “Yeah, I feel pretty obligated to update everyone on how cute he is.”

“I don’t blame you,” she replies as the three of you make your way towards the entrance of the restaurant you had agreed to meet at. “So, how’s life?”

Just like that, the discomfort fades away as the two of you seamlessly slip back into conversing easily and laughing about stupid things you both said and did in the past. You’re grateful for the unique opportunity of reconnecting after all these years of resentment and uncertainty. You’ve both moved onto different people and paths in life and are content with being acquaintances who are simply happy for one another. You also have no desire to run to her, kiss her, or tell her you’d throw it all away for her. You’re not surprised by this, but you’re somewhat comforted in knowing that it would have made your fourteen-year-old self very proud.