It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (5 page)

“Oh, I’m just kidding, lighten up! I say go for it! You’re single, you’re smart, and you have nothing to lose.”

“Except my dignity.”

“Hah, dignity?” My dad finally spoke. “I think it’s fun as long as you don’t embarrass yourself, which I know you won’t. Go have a good time, just don’t fall in love.”

“Well, you know that’s the whole point, right?”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”

“I could go on the show and get engaged!”

“Yeah, let’s not start that crap,” he said.

With my parents’ approval, I called the producer and told her that I was in. Though I’d been sworn to secrecy, I couldn’t help but tell my sister and a handful of close friends including Sarah, Leslie, and Caroline. Word got around throughout my office, but I remained coy until my last day before leaving for the show, when I said goodbye to everyone, including Boss Ross. As I walked out the door, she said, “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Drive it like you stole it, honey, and don’t stop ’til you see blue lights in the rearview.”

“No other way to drive it,” I replied with a grin.

And with that, I walked out of the office and toward my next adventure.

I had the weekend to pack before I had to leave for Los Angeles. I probably should have looked at the suggested packing list I was supplied well before forty-eight hours prior to departure because, let me tell you, when I did, I was put into a total tailspin considering all it said was: IN TWO SUITCASES ONLY, contestants should pack the following:

• 
clothing for both cold and warm weather

• 
athletic wear

• 
bathing suits

• 
heels, tennis shoes, and sandals

• 
cocktail, long, and casual dresses

• 
heavy coats

First of all, how broad and thus useless is this kind of list? Why don’t they just tell you to pack your entire life? Oh, wait, they would, except you get only TWO suitcases. Somehow by the grace of God I managed to fit a couple of cocktail dresses, some workout clothes, one gown, and absolutely zero bikinis into the TWO suitcases.

Sunday evening arrived, and instead of my parents seeing me for dinner, they were driving me and my two stuffed suitcases to the airport. Though we were excited, we had such low expectations, that what I was about to do didn’t really feel like a big deal. After checking my luggage curbside, I gave my mom and dad a hug goodbye and walked toward the double doors that led to the terminal. Turning, I waved and shouted, “See you in a few days!”

“Maybe a week,” my mom optimistically replied.

“Or who knows? Next time you see me, I could be engaged!” I said, dangling my left hand in the air at my father.

He laughed. “Get the hell outta here.”

And off I went . . .

Oh to think, if I had just had the strength to resist the free drinks (that I ironically never got) I wouldn’t be here now. In fact, I would have never laid eyes on Number Twenty-Six, never fallen in love, never found out he was nothing like he seemed, and most of all would have avoided this heartbreak altogether. Where’s a time machine when you need it?

But if I’m being honest, I have to say that something far more powerful than alcohol really got me here: it was fate. Though I’m not one to believe that “everything happens for a reason” or “it’s all part of a plan,” in a time like this, it’s comforting to know that eventually those free drinks that led to a broken heart will lead me to yet another destination.

In the meantime, the first stop on the journey is Depressionville. Welcome! Here you’ll find an excuse to drink like no one is watching and eat like your jeans have elastic waistbands. Take advantage of this place! There’s a pity party going on here but you won’t be allowed to stay forever.

And along with some good food and wine, every party needs some killer music. Thus, I present to you your very own breakup playlist. Don’t worry, this list won’t send you into a tailspin but rather give your broken heart what it needs to get in the right mood and get over the blues (or at least keep them at bay for a few moments). From country to pop, to hip-hop and rock ’n’ roll, I give to you . . .

THE ULTIMATE BREAKUP PLAYLIST:

• 
“We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” Taylor Swift

• 
“Since U Been Gone,” Kelly Clarkson

• 
“Caught Out There,” Kelis

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“Break Up with Him,” Old Dominion

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“No Scrubs,” TLC

• 
“You’re So Vain,” Carly Simon

• 
“On to the Next One,” Jay-Z

• 
“Survivor,” Destiny’s Child

• 
“Nookie,” Limp Bizkit

• 
“Cry Me a River,” Justin Timberlake

• 
“So What,” Pink

• 
“Love Yourself,” Justin Bieber

• 
“Tubthumping,” Chumbawamba

• 
“Riding Solo,” Jason Derulo

• 
“Blank Space,” Taylor Swift

• 
“Love Don’t Live Here,” Lady Antebellum

• 
“Love Stinks,” J. Geils Band

• 
“Single Ladies,” Beyoncé

Time to jam out, sister!

Lesson learned:
Let’s get this (pity) party started!

E
veryone knows now.

This morning, I awoke to a phone call from our publicist telling me that later today she’d be issuing a statement confirming my breakup. I didn’t bother to proofread the statement she emailed me, considering just the thought of it makes me want to vomit. It’s strange enough to have a publicist, let alone have my breakup be “officially announced.” I feel like Khloé Kardashian right now, not in the lavishly rich and enviable way, but in a get-ready-for-everyone-to-judge kind of way.

The truth is, though our split may come as a shock to strangers, it’s been a long time coming. For the nine months we were engaged, I’d say four of them were blissfully happy, about three of them were filled with tense ups and downs, and the remaining two? Well, those two months were pure torture. We had gone from completely smitten and in love to hating each other. I guess that’s what happens when you’re in a roller-coaster relationship filled with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. My relationship changed so drastically in such a short amount of time, just like my life has.

Once upon a time, I was just a normal girl from Atlanta, Georgia, who’d been plucked from obscurity and put on a dating show. But now I was a “public figure” who has gone from single to engaged and back to single, but it’s not just my Facebook status that has changed, it’s my identity as well. For one, my social media has taken on a life of its own. I used to hope that the number of likes on my Instagram photos would hit double digits, now I just hope my thousands of followers don’t notice that I’ve used a filter to cover up my latest blemish. Secondly, I now have to be aware of those blemishes whenever I go out in public because I am always at risk of being snapped by a lurking paparazzi. I can’t even believe I’m saying the word “paparazzi” in reference to myself, but it’s true. Every so often, I’ll see a photo in a magazine of me and Number Twenty-Six grocery shopping, exiting a restaurant, or walking the dog. Sometimes I spot the shooter, but usually I didn’t even notice they were hiding in the bushes snapping away.

From strangers coming up to me on the street (or at the mall) to free meals and red carpets, all the notoriety made me feel uncomfortable. Though I was flattered that people were so supportive, I didn’t feel worthy of the attention. It wasn’t as if I was a person with talent to be admired, or performing a service to making the world a better place. Instead, I was just a random girl who had made out with multiple men on national television. That was it. While I struggled with the attention, Number Twenty-Six relished it. He thrived in the spotlight. This didn’t bother me at first. In fact, I had wanted it for him. I wanted him to have the spotlight that he had missed out on all of his life since his younger brother had gained notoriety as a college and then professional athlete. But, with the help of one reality television show and a very public engagement, he was no longer second fiddle, and I couldn’t have been happier for him.

We had agreed to balance our newfound fame by laying down some rules when it came to fans and photos. I guess I should say
he
decided to lay down some rules. Rule number one was that I was not to take photos with other men. Though I found this request a bit alarming, the fact that 99.7% of people wanting photos were young girls made it an easy rule to follow, along with the fact that I didn’t care about taking photos with men and had just gotten engaged before millions of viewers—the blinding ring on my finger serving as a convenient reminder.

Rule number two was mutually agreed upon: no photos at dinner. We decided that dinner was a time for the two of us to enjoy, and any fan photos could wait until after.

These rules worked for a while, but as our relationship deteriorated, I started to notice their enforcement becoming more lax. Photos of Twenty-Six with a bevy of girls began popping up on social media, and he had gone from a man preaching the value of privacy to a man who not only obliged photo requests during dinner, but went so far as to offer them. The more attention we got, the more I began to question what he loved most: the fame or me. My wish for him to have a spotlight had backfired and I questioned if his new status as a “celebrity” had changed him, or if this was the person behind that megawatt smile all along.

I guess I’ll find out now that our breakup news is out. In an attempt to avoid reality, I’ve decided to stay away from the Internet and all forms of social media, but as the moments pass, I suspect the announcement has officially gone public because my phone has begun blowing up! One after another, the texts and calls pour in. I’m actually worried it might catch on fire. Some of the calls and texts are from friends, others from acquaintances so distant I don’t have so much as their names stored in my phone. All of them asking if the rumors are true, how I’m doing, what happened, and who dumped whom. My closest family members and friends already know, but now it feels as though the entire world knows too. I can’t find the courage or energy to respond to the texts. What would I even say? I feel so incredibly embarrassed right now that I just want to get back into bed, curl into a ball, and hide under the fluffy down comforter.

As much as I wish this entire breakup could be handled privately, I know it can’t. I forfeited that luxury by getting to do all of the amazing things I did. And now I must pay the price, and that means I must get ready for some judgments and criticism. You’d think by now I’d be used to the insults strangers seem to constantly hurl my way, but I’m not. You can’t even fathom the things people in this world are willing to say, or should I say type and post on the Internet. I get it, “I signed up for it,” but I didn’t know that signing up for a reality show would essentially be like getting naked, tying myself to a tree, and being pummeled with cheap shots and jabs while not being able to let out so much as a squeal. They shouldn’t bother me, but they do. I can’t help it. And now, with this announcement, I feel tied right back up to that tree, too weak to break free.

And despite the publicity of this breakup, the truth is I feel the same things anyone does when it comes to this type of news. With every breakup, notable or not, comes the same common realizations:

It’s real now.

There’s something about your breakup going public that makes it feel so much more real. Whether it’s telling your friends and family, having to change your relationship status to “single” on Facebook, or in my case putting out a press release, the fact that it’s over doesn’t seem to hit you until someone other than you and your ex know about it. There’s no more hiding the fact that you are now—say it with me—“S-I-N-G-L-E.” And as much as it sucks that people now know about your new status, try to think of it as both a relief and a way to hold you accountable. It’s a relief because now that everyone knows, you don’t have to personally break the news to your entire list of contacts. They already know! Plus, it means you’ve gotten through the second hardest part of a breakup, which is the actual breakup conversation. Your recovery marathon has begun! Sure, you’ll endure a few miles of pain and anger followed by a second wind of reflection and revenge, but by the end, you’ll cross the finish line a brand-new person. Plus, don’t they say half the battle is just showing up?

Secondly, the “publicity” of your breakup will serve as a way to hold you accountable. You’ve gotten out of a relationship that clearly wasn’t right for you, but despite knowing that, it’s easy to find yourself (especially in moments of weakness) contemplating going back. But the last thing you want is for others to see that weakness in you. As much as I know how toxic my relationship became, at this moment, I miss it. I miss my ex. I miss the love we once had, the memories we made, and the security I felt. I find myself wanting to go back to those days all the time, forgetting about the bad times. But the fact that people know about the breakup makes me think twice. I can only imagine the field day the tabloids would have if I went from engaged, to single, to re-engaged.