My Worst Break Up

There's an envelope somewhere. Full of photos. Photos I took out of photo albums, and covered with new memories. Covered the words, covered the smiles, covered it all. Wiped it away. The envelope's full of letters too. Letters I wiped clear from my email account, but knowing that someday I'd want to read them again. Just like how someday I'd want to look at the photos again.

But I can't find the envelope.
I've been thinking about it lately, that envelope. And just now I ravaged my closet for it. Knowing it has to be up there somewhere! I'd seen it, another time, when I didn't want to. And reminded myself it was there, for some later date when it felt right. Maybe for when I'm much older.
For some later date when the grief was gone?

But that never happens. The grief never goes.
I know that because as I was looking for the envelope, in those high up spots of my closet where all the things I simultaneously want to hold onto and want to float away are kept, I had to move around those bags full of photos in frames. They never got torn out or written over or shoved into a small envelope. They take up more space, a little more dignified, a little more ohhhhh it's ok to sometimes think about that. It's ok to take the chance that someone else might see those. I mean, those are from a marriage! Not just some long ago thing that lasted less time and didn't produce children or anything like that. That world is still kind of here--the marriage world--cause I see it in my children all the time.
Mostly it kind of haunts me. But that's for another post.

There's an envelope with all that stuff I'd like to find. And no, it's not from just one other life I led...it's from two. But only one of those pains me. The other one is lighter and takes up far less space in the envelope--if I recall correctly--because it takes up far less space in my being. A snippet from that part actually showed up in a pile of photos my mom had! I saw it again the other day, as I looked through that pile. The grief from that other life was just a prep for later, it was just an initiation. I got through it.
Other grief we don't get through. I'm sure you know that.

I've been thinking about this envelope so much lately. It's been sitting inside me getting bigger and bigger and bigger and BIGGER, all these thoughts about it. So that's why I went to find it just now. Maybe if I could find it and open it and pour over it it wouldn't feel so big inside me anymore. And it'd help me write this. That's what I've been thinking.

But I couldn't find it. And instead of cleaning up the mess I just made, instead of finding something to distract myself from the deep feelings of sadness and loneliness and hopelessness of it all that sometimes get bigger and BIGGER inside me (don't they?) I decided to just sit down here. And spill it out.

My worst breakup.
Sounds kind of trite, doesn't it? Like some girly book about how to get over it. How to laugh it off and sass it up and move ON!
But I'm sure you already know that's not what this is gonna be. Cause sometimes worst breakups leave a hole, or remind you of a hole, or accentuate a hole that only stays a hole just always. Just always. Just always. And when the time is right, we fall in it. Cause there's never really a cover on it. No one and nothing goes and fills it in permanently. It just stays a hole.

Something opened that hole recently, mostly just something I've been reading, and so that's why I've been thinking of the envelope. I'm going to climb out of the hole a bit and go back to the place before I had it--or at least before I knew I had it--cause we all have holes no matter what. Just sometimes we're not conscious of them, and they don't pulsate so wildly.
But that time, that time before I really knew I had it, was maybe 19 years ago.
I'm going to climb out of that hole, and then I'm going to fall back in. Since I've decided to write about it.

I had this boyfriend. I'm pausing here as I type, because I don't know if I can even type his name. Because I just don't know if I can. And part of me wonders if I should, you know, for privacy and all that. So I'll just call him Z. And I'll just tell you there's a character in Ninjago with the same name. I know that cause recently my son got a Ninjago book out from the library and I had to read it to him all week at bedtime and I had to say that name that I'm not going to type right now.

Way back 19 years ago I had this boyfriend named Z and he was lovely. He was kind, he was smart, he was cute, he was cool, he was quirky, he was sweet, he was mine. It grew from a high school thing to a let's both go to college in Seattle so we can stay together thing to a spend all our free time together thing. It spanned three and a half of my very formative young adult years. And yeah, I'm sure we've many of us had something similar. Are you thinking about it now? That time? That person? It's kind of nice, isn't it?

As is often the case in these relationships, it's not just with the person, it's also with their family. Z had this cute little house in Olympia, an old house with creaky wooden floors. It was really cold in the winter (so perfect for snuggling up under a blanket and "watching a movie" in his room while his parents watched TV upstairs), it had old furniture and interesting rooms where people didn't actually hang out, and interesting rooms where people did hang out. His parents were lovely too, and he called them by their first names. I always thought that was weird, cause I'd never encountered it before. Maybe it's an only-child thing? (Nah.) Z was an only child. He had a mature kind of relationship with his parents, where there really seemed to be mutual respect and understanding. They treated him more like an equal, and less like a son. In a good way.

His mother was a social worker who often helped people in end-of-life care. And his father did something else, I can't remember what. But they both suffered from depression. And Z mentioned that often. And he mentioned his worries about that. Overall I didn't notice it, only to say that there was a kind of hum-drum feel to the cozy house. A kind of hum-drum feel to the dynamic there.

But the dog, I'll name him, the dog Al lit up all their faces. He was a little Yorkshire terrier. I never really like that kind of dog, but Al grew on me.

Anyway, I spent a lot of time there. At Z's. I mean, if I'd invited him to my place there wouldn't have been any under the blanket snuggling, that's for sure! My parents would've had their eyes on us the whole time, I'm guessing. So, before we moved away for college, or when we were home from college for summers, we always hung out at his house.

In high school we'd go see our friend's band play Ska music. We'd go bowling, go to movies, drive around, get food, ponder over the Blockbuster or Hollywood Video choices. Go swimming. Make out on trails down to the water. That kind of thing.

In college we'd stay over in each other's dorm rooms (mostly his). We'd go to parties. We'd eat out at restaurants. We'd watch movies. Get ice cream. Take walks. Drive around.

Z had a silver Ford Taurus. And one of those tree things hanging in it to make it smell good. (He didn't need it.) And we'd often listen to Led Zeppelin or Sublime. And sometimes he'd smoke cigarettes. But I didn't mind. He had a lighter that said, "Too much coffee, man". He'd drink coffee. He wore one of those wallets with the chains on it, and saggy skater pants. But he wasn't a skater. He couldn't sing at all. He didn't play any instruments. But he could draw. I remember that. Somewhere in there was an artist who didn't know what to do with his artist-ness, I think.

He treated me so well. I really don't remember drama between us, fights, nothing like that. In fact, early on I broke up with him three times cause I just wasn't sure I felt a spark! But that was for other reasons. And after that third time in the first few months, we were solid.

During college I admit I spent way too much time with him. I relied on him too much. I didn't spend much time with friends during that period, and I didn't get very involved in college life. I even avoided doing an overseas course because I didn't want to be separated from him! Which now seems like such a bad choice. But, you know how it is. Hindsight.
I did my coursework and all that, but I felt lonely, and I felt best when it was the Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday that we always spent together. Each Thursday like a sweet reunion. Each Sunday approaching with darkness, into another week.

Late into our relationship Z got an apartment in Ballard, near the Ballard Locks. No more living in student housing! I loved visiting him there, and feeling like a real grown up couple. We'd cook together! This was my first time making stir fries, oddly enough. This was when I decided to become a vegetarian--with him. So we'd make stir fries with tofu. We'd smell up his cute hardwood floored apartment and then eat and clean it up and watch things like Saturday Night Live, like some kind of sitcom couple. Like some kind married, grown up couple. We'd take walks nearby, stuff like that.

His parents were planning a trip to Europe that summer, and had invited Z and I along. So we were saving up and getting excited for that, the plane tickets had been bought, it was going to be a long trip. A month or so, or more. I saw my future with him. There was no other way, in my mind, that it would be. That's how it is, isn't it? Especially when we're young.

But I never went on that trip. He did, later, with his parents. But not me. And he didn't live in that Ballard apartment long before things started changing between us. I didn't really notice them changing, but they were. I know this because one day driving in his silver Ford Taurus he brought up--seemingly out of nowhere--that maybe we should see other people, take a break, that kind of thing. Even typing it now gets my stomach going. I remember where we were, in the car driving, when he said it. We were right there on my Seattle Pacific University campus, near where there was a shooting a few years ago, and he said that stuff to me. And I think I threatened to get out of the car and that I'd just walk the rest of the way home. I was shocked, and angry, and sobbing, and begging, begging for him to change his mind. And I think we went to his place after that. I didn't walk home. We went to his place to talk about it more, so I wouldn't just get out of the car like that. Because at this point I think he realized how hard this was going to be--this breaking up business. Something he'd rather not face.

Cause back at his place we continued the conversation. And I sobbed, I begged, I wailed. I was absolutely possessed, I remember it clearly, thinking his neighbours must be hearing this, and I was holding onto him like I would never, ever let go. Puffy faced, snot nosed, hopeless, helpless pain like I'd never felt before.
We've all been there, right? Right???!
And to be on the other side of that kind of begging and wailing is painful too. None of us really want to hurt each other. I mean, maybe sometimes revenge is shortly satisfying, but if we've got that empathy wired in us like we should, well none of us want to hurt each other. None of us want to see each other hurt. And no I'm not just naive.

So that night we didn't break up. We "put a pin in it", I suppose. Only, I didn't realize that at the time. I just thought maybe it was settled and we'd be ok. Only, deep down I knew we wouldn't. Cause the seed had been planted.

Those next few days or weeks or whatever it was were coloured by that event. I couldn't shake it. His car, his apartment, the stir fries, him, nothing was the same.

Then one night in the bedroom of my ugly student housing apartment, one I shared with three roommates (two might even be reading this story!) he and I were on the phone. Z and I. Talking about what, I don't know. Had it started as a serious conversation? I don't know. Were we merely talking on the phone because it wasn't Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday? Or were we talking on the phone because we were having issues? I don't know.

I do know that during that phone call Z broke up with me.

I begged, I cried, I wailed, I pleaded, again. But he couldn't see me. We were on the phone. Breaking up on the phone. Even though he only lived about a 10 minute drive away.

And that was that. Someone hung up. Probably him, because why would I have hung up? Definitely not. Especially if I'd known what was going to happen next.

They say when we lose a loved one, when we have a break up, we go through the same kind of chemical experience that someone goes through if they have an addiction, and they are trying to get clean from the substance. That is why often after break ups there are get-back-togethers, or it's a slow burn, or we tempt fate, or we talk it over some more, or we try again. These days I guess what people do is they stalk each others' social media too. Mess around with blocking them on their phones, only to un-block and then break the seal again. Relapse. I mean, ripping the band-aid off more slowly is still painful, but really, it doesn't sting nearly so bad, in the moment. I know cause I've been married.

This wasn't slowly, this was pure rip-age.
I wanted to talk to Z again, I wanted reasons, explanations, I wanted to negotiate, I wanted to have some kind of closure, some kind of dignified "good-bye", I wanted I wanted...well I mean I WANTED for it to not be happening, this break-up. So I tried calling him. Even that very night. And many other nights, and days, and mornings.
No answer. Over, and over, and over, and over. I tried emailing him. Even that very night. And many other nights, and days, and mornings. Over and over and over and over and over.

Now some of you might be thinking wow gee this girl's a psycho! No wonder!
But I wasn't. I was just desperate, at that point. I wanted answers. I wanted to be acknowledged.
But I didn't get any of that.
All I got were nightmares that I was trying to call him and he wouldn't answer. Nightmares that I was trying to call him and I had the phone number wrong.
All I got were no answers.

And I still have those nightmares.

I checked my email all the time, hoping for some kind of something from him. But nothing. Ever.

It was like he'd died suddenly.
Only, he hadn't. He'd just completely rejected me. After a few years of us loving each other.
I remember thinking it would've been better if he'd died. Cause at least then I wouldn't have felt that other pain.

Without social media to stalk him, I'd sometimes drive by his place. That's all. Just drive by it, like I was going to take a little walk around the Ballard Locks. Only, I never did that walk. I'd just drive by his place hoping maybe I'd see him, or see something that would give me answers. If I could just be close to where his body was then maybe that'd assuage some of my pain. Maybe I could relapse a little bit rather than have to do this awful awful awful cold turkey shit. Sounds so trite. It was worse than it sounds.

My bike! Yes, I'd left my bike at his parent's place a long while back. I'd have to get that from them, I'd realized. Maybe they'd answer my phone calls. Maybe he'd be on a visit to them when I came for the bike! So I arranged it with them, and they had such apologetic tones to their voices, and no answers for me. I went there hoping his presence--even if not actually there--could somehow cover my own, overlap with my own, comfort me. But it didn't. He wasn't there. Only my bike was, and his parents' hands sympathetically up in the air, questioning.
Al had gone. He'd died one night a year or so prior, and the three of them had all sat on their couch with their hands on him as he passed.
I knew that kind of sadness now too.

The jam jars they used for water and milk at meal times were still there, though, as was their new Yorkshire terrier. She was a girl, and I can't remember her name. Only her fresh face, less depressed than Al sometimes seemed (ran in the family I guess / ...he was just old). We sat down and had some water or something. Me, and his parents. And him not being there hurt so badly. Where was his jam jar? Where was our Blockbuster rental? All that was there was quiet, empty, hands in the air sadness.

I know I know I know. It's just a break up. We've all had 'em.

It's just, this one has sat with me all these years. And will till I'm done here, I know that. Because some things you really can't let go. They just sit up in that closet, till something reminds you of them, or they sit up in that closet but they oppress you a little bit every day--high up there, looming over you or in you. I thought writing about this might make it better.
I also thought writing about this might make it worse.
I'm writing about it and I'm not sure what's happening.

But I'll finish it.

That summer of the break up was the worst summer of my life.
I moved to a new apartment--college summer housing--one that he'd never been in. That he'd never be in.
I went to work nearby, came home during my lunch breaks to watch TV and try to eat, I'd get into bed and each night I'd pray pray pray pray pray pray to that whoever up there out there to please watch over Z, to please bring him back to me, to please bring me some answers. I'd really focus. I was disciplined in my prayer. Careful with the words I chose. Every night. It was a comforting ritual, like I was DOING something, controlling something. Much better than just painfully swimming against the current of each day.

Those lunch times at home, though, watching TV, all by myself because everyone else had something better to do, those were terrible. I'd eat my lunch and watch The Wonder Years re-runs. If you know me you know I'm not much of a TV-watcher, and watching TV in the daytime is equivalent to depression, for me. For the most part. So. Yeah, it was awful. So was going back to work afterwards.

I walked around like an open wound. Everything reminding me of him. Every place. Every thought. Every night. Every morning, when I'd wake up maybe from a dream that it hadn't been real or maybe from a dream that I was still trying to call him and he wouldn't answer, or maybe from a dream that we were back together and then and then and then I'd have to remember that we weren't. And then the pain would throb in front of me as I fought through another day. Minute by minute. I was working in a childcare centre at the time, and I remember singing the song, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey, you'll never know dear, how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away. The other night dear, while I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms, when I awoke dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried" to a little boy as he was falling asleep for his nap. Not really thinking about the words until it was too late and I was crying.

He never called me. He never emailed me. He ended it on the phone that day, as I sat in my room. He changed his number! I wrote him so many times. To nothing. I did not exist anymore.

Then late in that summer of grief I was home for a weekend, visiting my parents and my friends there, partying a bit, drinking too much and making out with weirdos (probably) and then one night I saw him. He was in a bar, downtown Olympia. A friend told me first, that she saw him. So I found him. And we talked briefly. He was skinny and gaunt in his face, and he told me he'd been depressed and he'd been trying things like cocaine. I'd never known him to be interested in drugs.
And then he left, and then my friends and I went to the same party he'd left to. I mean, we all knew the same people, it was a small crowd.

By that time I'd had far too much to drink. And you know how alcohol basically amplifies whatever emotions you're already feeling? Well he was at that party, and somehow I got close to him and we talked again and then something like he had to go and then something like I was on him, on his lap hugging him and smelling him and crying into his neck and he was holding me helplessly and looking at me so sadly and I had more snot and tears than I maybe ever had in my life and I was sobbing his name and begging for answers, for love, for something...but he pried me off and left.
And his friend was standing right there, he'd seen the whole thing. And I will always remember that sad consoling look he gave me. You know how it is when you wish you could fix something for someone else? But you just can't? And it's awful? That's how he looked. And I'll never forget it. He maybe even hugged me. He took that awful pain that was ripping at me and he put a little blanket on it.

You know, time heals. It does. And I gradually got though the pain. Sometimes it'd get worse again, like when I found out my cousin was getting married. And he came over early that fall to tell me about it and I was so jealous and so pained because I wasn't the one getting married, I'd just been broken up with.
But I was far better than I'd been that summer, and I was far better than I'd been that late spring, when we broke up during finals week and I had to still try to focus on all my cumulative exams and projects. I was far better than when I used to drive by Z's place like I was gonna take a walk at the Ballard Locks. Maybe find him there or something. Maybe feel better knowing I was possibly near where he was.

Time heals. I fell in love again a year or so later, and got married a bit after that, even. Pushed Z farther and farther back there in my mind. That's what we do! Because these things happen and these things help make us who we are. And no, I don't have secret dreams that one day we'll be together again, or anything like that. I don't NEVER find men who can even compare to him, or anything like that. I don't pine away for him.
I just still feel that pain. And still wonder why, what happened?

Right after my honeymoon we went to some restaurant in Seattle's U-District. Pretty much our first day back in Seattle--after Italy--as a married couple. And in that pizza place that I'd never been before, and never went to again, right across the room I saw him. I saw Z.
And we locked eyes for a few brief but forever seconds.
And he bolted out of there.

I still have those dreams, you know. Where I'm calling him, or someone, and he won't answer. And I try different numbers and wonder if I have the wrong one. Cause no one answers.
I wonder about his family.
I wonder about his life. I heard he's married, maybe has a kid. Did some IT work in Seattle, after studying political science and computer science (so practical!).
He probably looks the same. Just older. Nothing too drastic. He probably looks good.
Maybe struggles with depression? It runs in the family and all.
Maybe he wonders about me. Maybe he's haunted too, by it. By all my emails. Did he read them? All my pain? Did he feel it too? All that wanting to relapse, wanting to close it up in a dignified way, wanting it to maybe just work out. Did he feel all that too?

We were young. It's ok.
Only, the pain doesn't leave. Cause some holes can't be covered up.
But if I could find those lost love letters I sent him, if I could find the photos of us smiling and driving  (and none of them were perfect cause they were FILM!) and if I could just say to him, "Hey, how are you? How's life? Remember that happened? Remember me?" and he could say something back, well maybe the hole wouldn't be so deep.

I've been wondering how I might feel, writing this; I think I feel better.
So, I guess it was a good idea.

Maybe I don't need to find the envelope tonight after all.
But, I like knowing it's there somewhere.