It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (6 page)

Okay, so maybe not everybody has to worry about the tabloids, but think of it in terms of something we can all relate to: credit card debt. You’ve got loads of it when all of a sudden you learn that the fabulous pair of shoes you’ve been eyeing for months are on sale! If nobody knows of your financial crisis, you’re obviously getting the shoes. But let’s say a friend knows about your debt. You know damn well that the minute she sees you wearing those new shoes, she’s going to have something to say about it. So, you think twice, you feel accountable, and thus you avoid making a poor decision. The same goes with your breakup. It’s bad enough that people are going to ask you about the breakup, imagine what they’ll ask about the makeup.

It’s embarrassing.

You feel like an idiot. How could you actually think you had found your soul mate? You feel ridiculous for having been so happy. You were the picture-perfect couple—when others fought, you kissed. While your girlfriends complained about their significant others, you felt grateful. Now that it didn’t work out, you feel shitty, stupid, and self-conscious.

Trust me, I feel your pain. There are two things in life I hate most: delivering bad news, and embarrassment. And now, here I am doing both. I’ve never felt stupid for believing I had fallen in love on a reality show and met my soul mate in just eight weeks. Everyone predicted we would break up, and though we were hell-bent on proving the critics wrong, in the end they were right. I had been sashaying around for nine months with a giant diamond ring and a giant smile to match. I loved being able to show people how in love we were, because we actually were, and because I had never had that chance in my life. And now it’s all gone. All that’s left is the single girl, with no home, no fiancé, no future, and a dream ring that producers are going to ask me to return any day now. I’m ashamed it didn’t work out and now that shame is out there for everyone to know, laugh at, and judge.

But the truth is, the last thing you should feel over a breakup is embarrassed. Feel pain, feel hatred, guilt, remorse, whatever you want, but don’t punish yourself with shame. This is
your
breakup, and people will talk shit about you either behind your back, or behind a keyboard, but fuck ’em! They don’t live in your world, they don’t know what you’re feeling or what went on behind closed doors. Have you ever met a hater who was doing better than you? Yeah, me neither.

It’s identity theft.

The person I have become, the person people have come to know me as, is gone now. Nobody knew me as an attorney or a good friend or a loving daughter—they knew me as the chick on a reality show who got engaged and became the happiest fiancée in the world. Now, I’m another statistic, just half of another couple that called it quits. I am . . . “formerly engaged.”

And it’s not just the title that changes, it’s our way of life. When we get into relationships, we blend our life with our partner’s in so many ways that we don’t recognize the person we were before the relationship. Your friends become his friends and vice versa. Your weekend plans are joint plans; your lives intertwine into one. So when that joint life is taken away, you can’t help but question who you are now, right? Think of this identity theft as a gain, not a loss. It’s a fresh start; a clean slate. A chance for you to reinvent yourself, reevaluate the person who you want to be, the places you want to go, and the people who you want to be in your life. And though the reinvention takes time, take comfort in knowing that it awaits you whenever you’re ready.

It’s a failure.

You failed at choosing the right man, at making it work, at living happily ever after. I get it. I’ve never felt like such a failure in my entire life than I have during this breakup. I couldn’t make it work, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn’t be the person he wanted me to be, no matter how many concessions I made. I couldn’t be happy despite the privileged life I was getting to live. I failed at it all.

But why is “failure” such a bad word? Why do we put such negative emphasis on failing? It’s as if we are supposed to go through life having succeeded in everything we do. But the truth is, everyone fails! Nobody has the magic touch that turns everything to gold. I mean, think of all the successful people who have failed:

• 
Oprah: fired from her first television job

• 
Steven Spielberg: rejected by USC

• 
Thomas Edison: made 1,000+ light bulbs that
didn’t
work until one finally did

• 
Lady Gaga: dropped from her first record label

• 
Michael Jordan: cut from his high school basketball team

• 
Jennifer Lawrence: auditioned for
Twilight
and got rejected

• 
Bill Gates: dropped out of college

All of these people have one thing in common: they failed before they succeeded. I’m not saying you’re going to be the next Jennifer Lawrence or Bill Gates or Oprah, but if they can overcome their failures, so can you.

It’s wasteful.

You probably feel as though you’ve wasted your time, your energy, and your love on your broken relationship. And you have. You’re not getting that time back. Sorry. When I think about all of the things I experienced with Number Twenty-Six, I think of all the many “firsts” and “bests” I spent on him. Obviously, it was my first engagement, which I won’t ever get back. But it was more than that. It was the first time I’d felt love at first sight, the first time I felt as in love as I did. There were so many best dates, best moments. There were the first kisses, the first time he said, “I love you,” the first time I met his family, our first holiday together.

But here’s the thing, they are only firsts, not lasts. The lasts are what count! The firsts are starting points, you learn from them, so you can master the lasts. I mean come on, do you care about the first tooth you lost, or the last one that meant you were officially an adult. Do you care sixty years from now about the first kiss you had with your high school boyfriend, or the one you have with the love of your life?

It’s normal.

Lastly, and most important, remember that you are not the first person to go through a breakup, nor will you be the last. I promise. Think of the countless celebrity couples who have broken up, even the ones with their own super-couple nicknames: Bennifer, TomKat, Tay-Squared to name a few. Yes, you and I are just like them! Trust me when I say you are not the first person to cry in the shower so nobody hears you, or call in sick for work because of an ailing heart. You are not alone in feeling angry, regretful, or just plain bummed out. It’s one of the few times where feeling unoriginal actually brings you solace.

So know that everyone may seem to care now, but let ’em gossip away. You may be the hot topic today, but someone else’s fuck up will be the latest juicy news tomorrow.

Lesson learned:
Anyone who says a breakup isn’t embarrassing is lying.

I
went to sleep last night crying only to awake this morning to tears streaming down my face. How is it possible to literally wake up crying? I haven’t been awake long enough for any thoughts to make their way into my pounding head, thanks to my new best friend Mr. Cabernet (which I desperately needed after yesterday’s official breakup announcement), and yet I’m already bawling. I just can’t seem to control it, not with a box of tissues or with every ounce of my depleting determination. They just keep fucking flowing! How does my body even have this much water in it? It seems both scientifically and physically inconceivable to shed this many tears. I mean, I learned in fifth grade that humans are 80 percent water (though at the moment about 5 percent of that is currently red wine), but still, this seems impossible, not to mention completely unfair.

Through my puffy wet eyes, I glance over at my nightstand to reach for the same thing I reach for first every morning . . . my phone. It’s sitting amid an embarrassing amount of used tissues next to a blinking digital clock. Shit! It’s 11:47. How did I sleep this late? Next to my phone, I discover a wine bottle. I pick it up and immediately notice it’s rather light. As I peer into the bottle, I can see straight down to the bottom, solidifying that I finished it all by my lonesome self last night . . . Double shit. That would explain why the room is spinning.

Where am I in life right now? Am I already the girl who polishes off a bottle of wine and awakens mere moments before noon with tears rolling down her face? Dear Lord, this
really
is going to be rough. I know it’s only been a few days since the end of my nine-month engagement, but I’m ready for this pain to go away already. It doesn’t help that my days consist of waking up no earlier than 11:00 a.m. (crying), and the first thing I do is reach for my phone and check social media. At which point, I cry some more as I scroll through everyone’s posts showing off their “awesome” lives, followed by afternoons filled with pouting around in unwashed pajamas, making some lunch, which will include bread to soak up the wine I drank the previous evening, and watching several episodes of
Judge Judy
On Demand until 5:00 in the afternoon when I will undoubtedly pour a heavy glass of wine.

Some schedule, huh? Thank the good Lord above that I am currently “funemployed,” because I don’t think I could handle having to go to work and actually come face-to-face with human beings. I have to admire those girls who show up to work days after a breakup and manage not only to be productive but also stay dry-eyed the entire day. They deserve a damn diamond-encrusted medal and a sexy young pool boy as a reward.

Since I have nothing on the agenda today, I decide to wash my leggings and V-neck and change into some fresh clothes, but then I remember I have no fresh clothes. They are back at Number Twenty-Six’s place, aka our old home we shared, and there is no way in hell I’m going over there to get them looking like this. Instead, I rummage through Kelly’s laundry room, find some Febreze, and douse myself in it. I’m embarrassed that I just admitted that.

Thank God for Kelly. She was the first person I called after we broke up. At that moment, I knew I should leave our home immediately, but given that it was close to midnight, I told Kelly I would just sleep on the couch and head to her place in the morning.

“Umm, are you fucking kidding me? You’re not staying there. Come over immediately,” Kelly instructed.

“It’s fine, it’s almost midnight, and I don’t want to put you out.”

“Stop. There is no way in hell I am letting you stay there!”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not even an option. Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“Okay, thanks! I can drive. Be over soon.”

It took me only ten minutes to arrive at her house, but that was long enough for her to open a bottle of wine and have a glass waiting for me when I walked in the door.

Kelly had recently moved into a mansion with her fiancé just down the road and had room to spare for a pathetic and now homeless single friend like myself. She has become one of my closest friends even though I pretty much despised her the very first time I met her, which was on my journey to find love with Number One more than a year ago. I was the last girl to arrive at the mansion, and when I walked into the house to meet twenty-some-odd other women, the first person I saw was Kelly, a tall, thin brunette dressed in a floor-length red Nicole Miller that showed off her ample curves and tiny waist. I recognized her immediately because we had both been featured in a local Atlanta magazine as some of the city’s most eligible singles. And though we lived in the same city and ran in the same social scene, we had never officially met. She was intimidating in stature, and with her thicker and daintier Southern accent, ruined any chance I had at playing the Southern belle card. Of course I immediately saw her as a threat but, it took only about two days for me to realize that she had zero chemistry with the lead (and she knew it), was wicked smart, and had a salty sense of humor I found utterly hilarious. This quickly moved her off my “Threat List” and onto my “Friend List.”