It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (7 page)

After the show wrapped, we became even closer, largely due to the fact that we lived within ten minutes of each other. She soon became a friend for life, and I needed her now more than ever. She told me I could stay as long as I want to, but her generosity makes me feel pathetic and weak. My lack of motivation doesn’t help my cause, nor does the disconcerting realization that I am drowning my sorrows with wine. I’ve read enough self-help articles online in the past twenty-four hours to admit that when they say, “Don’t drink away your pain,” they’re probably right. But right now, I really don’t give a damn.

While I’m on the topic of self-help articles, am I the only woman who reads them and actually ends up feeling worse? A million articles pop up with every single Internet search I do of “Ways to Get over a Breakup,” but each of them spouts the same bullshit garbage. The top five:

1.
 Grieve

2.
 Accept

3.
 Believe

4.
 Don’t drink away your pain

5.
 Don’t stay in bed all day

Just once I’d like to read an article that tells the truth: “You are about to embark on the shittiest time of your life. Be prepared by stocking up on wine, girlfriends, and tissues. Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride, you train wreck, you.” Now
that
would make me feel normal.

Or, you know what would be even better? How about a self-help article to read
during
the relationship? Something that tells you, “Hey, there’s a major red flag, you might want to read into it a little more before you end up in heartbreak with a bunch of hindsight information you could have used . . . umm, like yesterday”?

I can’t help thinking if only I had read into the red flags a little more, maybe I wouldn’t be here now. Despite everything starting off perfectly, Twenty-Six and I had actually had our first fight while on the show, and though it never aired for millions of viewers to see, in hindsight I saw a fight that foreshadowed many of our future difficulties.

It had been five weeks since I’d met him. And in those five weeks I had made out with him an ungodly amount of times, and even enjoyed what can only be described as a magical first solo date with him in France. He’d written me a poem that said the next time he said “I love you” to a woman, she would be the woman he’d marry, and I couldn’t help hoping that I’d be that woman. He had shown me that it wasn’t just our kisses that made me swoon for him; it was the comfort and ease I felt whenever I was around him.

But then I found myself in Italy on yet another group date, with six men including Number Twenty-Six. The guys met me in the quaint countryside of a town called Monselice, where we walked around enjoying the annual food festival. He noticeably trailed in the back and stayed rather distant throughout the day, but I didn’t read much into it because I knew from experience how awkward the transition from a solo date to a group one could be. After the festival ended, I brought the group to a medieval castle and guided them into a dark, cold, stonewalled room adorned with spears, daggers, and other terrifying armory.

“So do you guys want to know what we’re doing in this war room?” I asked.

Cue the dramatic music as two Italian men dressed in suits appeared. As if the men in black and the surrounding weaponry weren’t intimidating enough, I informed the group that we would all be taking a lie detector test! Yay! The horror on their faces made the feminist inside me squeal with excitement. Now mind you, this is television, so odds are pretty high that our production crew scooped up two random men walking down the cobblestone streets, put them in suits, gave them a laptop and heart monitor, and told them they were “experts” for the day, but we did it anyway!

I decided to go first to prove to the guys that I was a team player and directed them to wait outside. I was nervous as I sat in the chair, but it took only a few questions to realize how janky this test was—not only could I hardly understand the questions through the “experts’ ” thick Italian accents, but the heart rate monitor had slid from my sternum to my waistline without any indication on the graph. Having feared the men would see this activity as completely psycho-girlfriend-worthy, I was actually relieved at how fake it all felt.

Next, it was each guy’s turn. The questions ranged from serious, such as “Are you ready for marriage?” to ridiculous, such as “Do you wash your hands after you pee?” and “Do you prefer blondes over brunettes?”

The guys waited outside before entering the dungeon, looking terrified. One after another, they exited with smiles of relief. After every man had bared his soul—or lied—the results were in, and we were all given the option either to read the results or “trust” each other and throw them away. The men immediately jumped at the chance to read mine. Knowing the sketchiness of the entire thing, I wasn’t concerned about what they’d see and didn’t feel that by reading my results they didn’t trust me. I, however, used this as my chance to “earn the men’s trust,” and opted to rip up their results and throw them in the trash. Okay, in all honesty, it wasn’t just to earn the men’s trust; it also made for some riveting television, and I knew would serve as an easy topic to get me through some of the more lackluster conversations. But the main reason I ripped up the results was that, despite my skepticism, I couldn’t help fearing that some of the guys had admitted to things I had wished they’d lied about. And when I say “some of the guys,” I really mean Number Twenty-Six. What if he answered that he preferred blondes? Okay, that I could totally get over because truth is, even though he has brown hair, I prefer blondes too. But what if he admitted that he wasn’t ready to get married, or that he wasn’t falling in love with me? I might not be able to handle those two answers. (And, truthfully, I’d have second thoughts about any guy who told the truth about hand washing.) With the results ripped up and in the trashcan, I figured, no harm no foul, right?

Ha! Wrong. That evening we had our usual cocktail party in which I mingled with each guy privately before it was time for me to get Number Twenty-Six alone. As we took our seat on a bench in the courtyard with a moonlit view overlooking the town, I could sense that something was on his mind. A little small talk, and I asked if everything was all right with him. And that’s when he unleashed his inner beast and began telling me how much it bothered him that I would make him take a lie detector test right after we had just had a great date where we talked about trust. I was surprised that he had he gone from laughing about it in front of everyone else to feeling upset. After all, it wasn’t as if I had planned the date in the first place, and
I
didn’t make him take the test, and come on, there was no way he actually thought it was serious! Oh, and let’s not forget the most important part of it all . . . I didn’t even read the results.

But what shocked me the most was his tone. He was aggressive and combative, playing the victim and practically asking, “How dare you make me prove my honesty?” And though he was obviously careful in his words as the cameras rolled, no amount of restraint could hide the look in his eyes. It was a look of disgust and rage. This was a side of him I had never seen, or even knew existed. There I sat, stunned. It wasn’t the merits of the fight that had jolted me but the vision of this person not being the same man I had already begun to fall in love with. The conversation settled down, and without really solving the issue, we somehow moved on and subsequently got back into our normal state of smooching and laughing. But the damage was done. I had seen a vision of my perfect love story becoming the biggest disaster of my life.

Although the conversation ended with kisses and groping, this fight rocked me harder than any past arguments with boyfriends. When I arrived back at my hotel room, I crawled into my bed and cried as the argument played over and over in my mind and I recalled the look in his eyes and the anger in his voice. I felt as if this relationship with him was over before it ever officially started. I had built him up to be this perfect man, and as a result I forgot to look out for any flaws as well. I had let my feelings blind me, prompting infatuation with one man to get in the way of the possibilities with the other men, and all for what? Unfounded accusations about a stupid game? There I was, undoubtedly the luckiest girl in the world as I sat in my sprawling Italian hotel room with a floor full of suitors beneath me, but one man, one fight, had put me in a complete tailspin.

The next morning I woke up still grieving but had to go on a date with a different contestant, this time a one-on-one in Verona. Luckily I was meeting my date there, so I had time to try and regroup during the long drive. I rode in the back of the van, along with three producers, and peered out the window at the beautiful Italian countryside. With headphones on, I listened to the saddest songs I could find on my iPod as I obsessed about last night’s fight and sobbed.

I could hardly pull myself together, but my date didn’t know it. I felt numb and exhausted from the night before, but most of all I felt guilty. My mind was elsewhere when it should have been on a guy who deserved someone better than me, someone attentive to him—basically he deserved anyone else but a puffy-eyed woman still devastated over a fight with another man.

And though I had seen the way Number Twenty-Six fought, and I didn’t like it, like any girl smitten, I turned a blind eye. Plus, it wasn’t as if we were operating under the most natural circumstances. Having done the show before, I knew the stress that weeks cooped up in a house, with no access to the outside world, could put on a person. And despite our little fight, I still had strong feelings for this man. Hell, the fact that I was even concerned about it showed me the strength of my feelings. I decided this fight was to be a mulligan for us. The ones that followed, though, not so much.

I guess there’s no point beating myself up over missing the significance of that first argument. I am where I am now, and though thinking about the red flags don’t change that fact, I’m not going to lie, they do make me feel a little bit better.

As for now, I get it. I
should
put my big-girl thong on, suck it up, and address my feelings in a sober and rational way as I begin to grieve the loss of my relationship. But that’s easier said than done. It’s day five, I’ve just gotten out of an engagement, I’m single, homeless, and depressed, and the only thing that makes me feel better is feeling nothing at all—and the only times that happens is when I’m asleep or buzzed. It could be worse: I could be popping Xanax like Tic Tacs, dancing on bar tops, or spreading my legs for anything with a penis, right? Plus, it’s not as if I plan on staying in this bed forever; Kelly is bound to get sick of me at some point. For now, my bed is my boyfriend, Mr. Cabernet is my best friend, and no self-help article is going to persuade me otherwise.

No amount of pretending to be strong is going to rid me of these shitty feelings that accompany heartbreak. Sorry, it’s true. I’m not about to start sugarcoating it for you now. This is the brutal period, when you realize just how much heartbreak BLOWS. It is likely the most pain you have ever been in and possibly (hopefully) will ever have to be in. Truth is, heartbreak weakens you; it literally hurts you, from the inside out—and right now in these first few days, nothing will change that. People can try and cheer you up, and they will, because they care, but it won’t help. You can find some upbeat quote on Pinterest to cheer you up, but no amount of pretty cursive font and gold stripes will be enough for you to actually believe whatever it’s saying. All of that will come later, I promise! For now, you are still in survival mode. Do whatever you gotta do to stay afloat. Besides, how many of those “self-help” authors are actually in relationships anyway?

Lesson learned:
Stay away from the self-help, but don’t stay away from the red wine.

I
’m still feeling an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and sadness from the public announcement, despite it having happened days ago. I’m trying to stay afloat, I really am, but this shit is hard! I figure, things can’t get much worse than this, so I might as well bask in the misery. Thus, I’ve called the closest Chinese restaurant that delivers and ordered the sesame chicken lunch special, which is one hell of a bargain. Did you know that for $8.95 you can get sesame chicken, fried rice, an egg roll,
and
a fortune cookie? It’s perfect for a day like today, which I plan to spend engulfed in a marathon
Scandal
binge. It’s long been my favorite television show, and I’d be lying if I said the phrase “It’s handled” isn’t part of my daily vocabulary. I make it through the first episode when the doorbell rings and my Chinese food arrives. Opening up the fortune cookie first, I add my traditional “in bed” to the end in order to make myself laugh. This one isn’t that great: “Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises . . . in bed.”
Booooo!