It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (29 page)

Lesson learned:
Being damaged is a choice. So is being happy. Choose wisely.

I
n order to begin reclaiming my independence, I decided to make my very own breakup bucket list. I figure, it can’t hurt to write down everything I wish I was doing instead of dealing with this breakup. I ask myself what I want to try now that I’ve dropped off some baggage and am free to do whatever I choose without being weighed down. I ask myself, what do I
wish
I could do . . .

THE BREAKUP BUCKET LIST

• 
Find a place to live

• 
Take a girls’ trip

• 
Volunteer at a charity

• 
Learn a new language

• 
Lose 5 pounds

• 
Clean out my closet

• 
Take a road trip

• 
Get a tarot card reading

• 
Learn about wine

• 
Go to a sporting event

• 
Travel abroad

• 
Perfect my carrot cake recipe

• 
Watch
Game of Thrones

• 
Go to the Kentucky Derby

• 
Visit my sister in San Diego

• 
Visit Nikki in Kansas City

• 
See Taylor Swift in concert

• 
Maintain shaved legs and armpits

• 
Try 5 new restaurants

• 
Move to a new city

• 
Make out with a hot man who’s the opposite of “my type”

• 
Buy an expensive purse

• 
Learn how to sew

• 
Learn to forgive

In making this list, I realize a few things. First of all, damn, there’s a lot of stuff I haven’t done. Secondly, I hope I live a long time because this list is going to take quite a while to complete. And most importantly, I haven’t even crossed off the first thing, which right now is the most important: finding a place to live.

Yes, in order to get back to living, the first step isn’t finding a new man, but finding a new home. This breakup feels like a natural disaster; it has crushed my soul, made me lose faith in love, and taken with it my home, leaving me physically displaced. Well, not really, thanks to Kelly, but in my mind I am homeless. Though Kelly’s house is nicer than anyplace I’ve ever lived in and fancier than most hotel rooms I’ve ever stayed in. And although she constantly tells me I can stay as long as I want, I know that I can’t. Yeah, I guess you could say that I’m starting to ease into my big-girl thong, which means it’s time to move out.

So I decide to check out a few apartments around town. Those that I see are nice, really nice, in fact—affordable, in superb locations, and with plenty of space for a single girl. But I just can’t seem to sign on the dotted line. Even when I run out of excuses, I still can’t do it. Something doesn’t feel right. My reluctance gets me thinking that maybe the reason I can’t commit is that I’m not supposed to be here anymore. Not in this emotional state and not in the state of Georgia. I wonder if what I really need right now is to once again ignore the self-help advice and just
run.
Run far, far away. Run to a place where my past doesn’t haunt me with memories of my former relationship every time I pass a favorite restaurant. To a place that doesn’t carry with it the risk of running into my ex or hearing about his wild nights out. Run somewhere away from it all.

The fact of the matter is, I have no lease, no job, and no real life plan right now. It’s not fun to admit that, but when your world revolves around a relationship, and it doesn’t work out, that’s what happens. You find yourself lost. Yeah, it’s hard, but I have to face the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life and I need something to push me to figure it out, because right now, I can’t do that for myself.

And thus I’ve begun to think about moving to a new city where I can start fresh. It’s scary leaving behind not just my hometown, family, and friends, but ironically also the sad memories that this city holds for me. It’s hard, but necessary.

I think about where I can go, what I can do, and who I can be. The second two are far more long-term decisions (as Kelly would say, should be dropped into the long-term buckets). And in my still somewhat frazzled state of mind, they probably shouldn’t be answered right now. That leaves me with where to go.

I have always wanted to live in a big city like New York or Los Angeles, but found excuses not to. First, I wanted to stay close to home for college. Then I fell in love with law school in North Carolina. Then I passed the bar exam in Georgia, so I would stay there to practice law. The latest excuse was that Number Twenty-Six didn’t want to move to a big city. The fact was that
our
home was Atlanta, and while I could dream of living in a big city, he was right, it was just a dream.

The reality was that sharing a home extracted every ounce of independence I had. Growing up, I was pretty autonomous. Though my parents were always around and hands-on, there was a part of me that liked doing stuff on my own. I joined a sorority in college and was often asked by my “sisters” if I wanted to go grocery shopping or to the gym with them, but I never obliged. The very notion of the buddy system repulsed me when it came to things I could do much more efficiently on my own. And to this day, I still feel the same way. While I love being social with others, I love my independence equally.

But living with Number Twenty-Six had changed that. The longer we lived together, the more I was desperate to be alone. Every time I returned home from running errands, or traveling, or dinner with the girls, I would find myself overcome with anxiety. I wasn’t excited to walk in the door and shout, “Honey, I’m home!” but rather reluctant as I’d slowly turn the doorknob in hopes that maybe he’d be gone and I wouldn’t have to account for my whereabouts. Knowing this feeling wasn’t normal, I assumed it was my sense of independence that was the problem. But, normal or not, I was struggling.

It actually took a shopping spree, of all things, to make me realize just how much of myself I had lost. I remember vividly pulling into the parking space outside our home and looking over at the passenger seat to see the retail damage I’d just done. Without thinking, I reached into one of the bags, pulled out a new lacey bralette, took off my shirt, and layered the lingerie over the underwire bra I was already wearing. I reached into another bag, removed the new Rag & Bone plaid scarf, and ripped off its price tag before wrapping it around my neck. I continued pulling out various items from dozens of bags and condensing them into just two before tucking them behind the passenger seat. As I pulled the key out of the ignition, I glanced in my rearview mirror and asked myself: Who am I? Why am I hiding purchases I made with my own money in my own car like I’m a teenager hiding a handle of Mr. Boston vodka from my parents? Have I really become the type of woman I grew up despising, who was so scared of a lecture from her husband or fiancé that she is layering clothes on her body and hiding shopping bags?

That was then. Now I don’t have to feel that burden anymore. I’m single, and with that my dream of living happily ever after is gone, but it’s left room for the dream of a big-city life to swoop in. Silver lining, perhaps? Not gonna lie, it would be the ultimate fuck-you to Number Twenty-Six, right? Although it might also end up biting me and my bank account in the ass. Oh, well, I can deal with those details later. For now, I’m just dreaming about where I could go. Hmmm . . .

1. LOS ANGELES

Pros:
Sunny days all year round, sandals, maxi dresses

Cons:
The traffic, “industry” people

2. CHICAGO

Pros:
City life, summers, which I hear are to die for

Cons:
Winters, proximity to Number Twenty-Five

3. AUSTIN

Pros:
Bring on the weirdness, the culture, the weather, the hot cowboys

Cons:
Who the hell do I know who lives in Austin? What the hell would I do there? Why did I even write this down?

4. NEW YORK

Pros:
Living in the best city on earth, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw, the ultimate fuck-you

Cons:
Living in a shoebox, getting eaten alive

Making this bucket list and a list of places to live makes me feel something I haven’t felt in months—motivated. It’s the first thing I’m actually excited about. Life in a new city! Though it’s still just a dream, I can at least envision it coming true. What if, at the end of the day, it wasn’t a man or the search for love, or even my little Operation Revenge that was the key to my happiness. What if it’s all just a bunch of signs pointing me in the right direction to my final destination?

Now all I’ve got to do is follow through with these genius ideas. Anywho, Valentine’s Day weekend is here, which means I’m off to Chicago in the morning, so hey, who knows, maybe I’ll just stay there for life.

Stay tuned . . .

Lesson learned:
Take advantage of having nothing and no one tying you down.

I
’ve just gotten home from Chicago and I might as well have taken acid (which I’ve never done in my life) because that was quite a trip. It was my first time in Chicago, and like an idiot, I chose to go in the middle of winter. Let me tell you, people are not lying when they say the cold is effing brutal there. But sitting at home alone on Valentine’s Day was out of the question, so I probably would have gone to Siberia just to avoid feeling any more like a loser than I already do. But it wasn’t the cold that made it a shitshow, it was Number Twenty-Five.

After taking me to my first-ever hockey game, Christy and I decide to meet her friends at a local bar. No big deal, right? In a dimly lit dive bar with Maroon 5’s “Sugar” blaring in the background, I found myself on my second vodka soda of the night, when all of a sudden, who walks in the front door with a gaggle of his bros? Drum roll please . . . the asshole himself, Number Twenty-Five. I swear, this guy is like a case of herpes that won’t go away. Just when you think the agony is over, there’s another flare-up. (Not that I know from personal experience, mind you, but it’s such a fitting analogy that I can’t resist.)

Before you judge my harsh name calling, let me just say, I feel as though I have good reason to call him an asshole. He did, after all, ruin what was supposed to be one of the happiest nights of my life. It was the live finale, which meant it was time for the world to finally know that I was happily engaged to Number Twenty-Six and very much in love. We’d been living our relationship in secrecy for two months, and I couldn’t wait for everyone to know that I had chosen him. But, before that could happen, I had to jump one last hurdle: a live televised conversation with the last man I dumped, Number Twenty-Five. We hadn’t spoken since the day I said goodbye to him in the Dominican Republic, and I had no idea what he would say, though normally, the runner-up cries a little bit, asks why it didn’t work out, gets his closure and leaves single but with the sympathy of millions of viewers. And while I hoped this would be the way it went down, something in my gut warned me I wouldn’t be so lucky.

Number Twenty-Five was the designated villain of my season, whom nobody really cared for, so I didn’t expect him to go down without a fight. Plus, he had tried multiple times to confront me prior to this live finale, including once when I was with my then fiancé in Mexico on one of our secret rendezvous and once when he “unexpectedly” showed up at the reunion he wasn’t invited to. Each instance had been on camera and felt like an ambush, thus I declined to speak with him, knowing this time would come and there’d be no shying away from a long overdue confrontation.

As I walked onstage to greet him, a wicked stench pervaded the room. I gave him an emotionless hug and sat on the couch next to him. I could instantly see in his eyes that he meant business, and I braced for impact.

Instead of the typical “what went wrong” question, he began mumbling. And then there was a long pause. I knew something bad was coming, but I couldn’t stop it. It was like I could see the car stopped ahead of me, but my foot just wouldn’t hit the brake. I couldn’t stop what was coming, I was frozen. And that’s when he asked, on live television, “Why would you make love to me if you weren’t in love with me?”

The audience gasped. My heart stopped. Everyone was stunned. The bomb had been dropped and no one had time to make it safely to the bunker. This motherfucker! Really? You want to confirm to the world what they probably already know, which is that two consenting adults who had been dating for seven weeks spent the night together without any cameras and whaddaya know, had sex? Not that I cared that people knew I wasn’t a virgin, but I could have done without my grandmother, and more importantly my father and all of his golf buddies, having it waved in front of their noses. But it was, in my opinion, a subject that shouldn’t have been talked about so publicly without the other’s consent.