SHIFTING GEARS

In this first month of being single again, I catch myself still leaning into the habits of when I was part of a couple, when I processed so much of every day with a certain someone in my heart and on my mind, even when an international border separated us. In a way, the distance kept him closer. Contact and communication didn’t just happen, a ho-hum, taken-for-granted, “You again.”

 

Sometimes our times together felt a tad too razzle dazzle, the equivalent to a kid’s weekend stay with the non-custodial parent. We hiked and biked and ate out aplenty. I’d like to think we’d have done these things just as much if everything had played out in a shared city but time can feel less special when the effort to see each other is only a half hour drive across town or double that in rush hour. Was it “un-real” in that regard? I don’t believe so. We may have cherished shared time more, but the dynamic also came with added pressure. It was more jarring when something might be off. With time so precious, a conflict could require tinkering with the itinerary. As well, a retreat to one’s own home to regroup was more than a short drive and, if chosen, exponentially more dramatic. 

Our hikes and road trips were great fun, but much of our best clicking came with the two of us sharing a sofa or sitting up in bed with morning coffee in either of our abodes, an easy stream of chatter going on and on and on.

Alas, my sofa is now for me alone. I never have coffee in bed. I scroll social media quickly, rotely. There is no one to lean into to show my screen and to share an anecdote triggered by a post. It’s all now literally unremarkable. This is but one example of the emptiness I now feel in something small that meant more because, for two years, it was shared. So often during every single day, it’s tiny things that prick me. It’s over. I wasn’t The One, after all.

These are some of the things that continue to require a mind shift:

·      I don’t need to mentally file away anything that happens in my day. There is no one to share it with on a FaceTime call before turning in. 

·      A building is just a building again. I try to blot out Art Deco from my vision, much like that mechanism on newer phone cameras that allows you to make a garbage can or a photobombing crow disappear.

·      I don’t need to note the location of Mexican restaurants wherever I happen to be. I’m not stopping in. There’s bottled salsa at home—not as good as at most taco spots, but it’s just me again and, really, I’m not that picky.

·      I don’t wear the coat he bought me. I can’t. Not yet. I loved it. He loved me wearing it. It feels like being cloaked in him. When he was my boyfriend, that was comforting. As my ex, it’s not helpful.

·      I listen to my boppy pop music whenever I want. I’ll still dance and lip sync along to the songs in my crazy way. There just isn’t a bemused witness. It makes me feel good; just not as good. 

·      I write or read in silence. I sometimes wish NPR were still rambling on and on in every room. Quick moments. They pass. Things are quieter as well on account of the lack of text messages. Ping! Ping! Ping-ping! My ex would fire off unedited texts in rapid succession. Used to make me smile but stressed me out, too. What is all that? Do I have to stop everything and respond? My friends rarely text. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve lost my number.

·      It took two weeks but I’ve stopped bracing for an instant blast from the overhead spout when I step in the shower. This is now at the top of my Good Things about Breaking Up list. It’s a sad list. 

·      I can push back any urgency in getting an extra chair for my living room. He wanted one and I still see the hole in my design layout, but I don’t need it. I’ve been unsubscribing to those weekly furniture emails. I may even like the open space.

·      When I pull out my phone and take a blendie (a selfie with the background matching what I’m wearing), I feel even sillier than usual. What’s it for? Who’s it for?

·      I don’t have to put gel in my hair after a late afternoon workout. I’m not going anywhere for the evening and FaceTime is no longer a nightly custom. Some version of bedhead now begins to take shape hours before I ever get near the bed.

·      I don’t have to give plant updates. The fact my Christmas cactus went through a bonus blooming period in recent weeks doesn’t matter to anyone other than the person who rejuvenated it. He’d say he “saved” it. (It’s true. Thanks!) I didn’t take a pic to send. We’re not texters anymore, even if my phone still has his contact at the top of the queue, ignoring alphabetical order so I see it every time I go there. I don’t know how to get rid of that once-handy feature. I did, however, figure out how to delete his photo. 

·      I need to stop glancing at visitors’ parking for my building. His car isn’t there. It’s never going to be there again. I also don’t need to check for empty spaces. I’m not expecting any other visitors.

·      When I see the same color and model of his car, my heart still skips. The plates say British Columbia, not Washington. That’s supposed to calm me, but I’m left concerned about that skipping heart. He dumped you. Hasn’t that sunk in? Good god, play some f#*king Alanis Morissette! Take a boxing class. Shred old manuscripts (by hand). Summon your righteous rage!

·      This morning I got a text from the library. A book I’d put a hold request on is ready for pickup. It’s a picture book about tacos. (No, not the super popular one. A knockoff, most likely.) I don’t remember requesting it. How long ago was that? Obviously, I did it for him. I’d show him. I’d read it aloud. None of that now. I canceled the hold. 

·      There’s no rest even when I sleep. I keep dreaming about his furniture and endless trinkets. I’m supposed to know where they go, how to arrange them. This connects directly with our breakup. I didn’t help him pack. I blurted a petty “no” when he first asked and then, after apologizing, he refused to let me help. Used against me, it felt punitive, a response uncharacteristic of my ex. Why did he shut me down? It still haunts me, literally day and night. I force myself to step away from the dilemma with a blink of my eyes. A moment awakened. The next night, the dream cycle resets. 

 

The list will shrink. Give it time. In another week or two months from now, Me Days won’t feel so lacking. I like my own company. It says something about how much I loved my ex that I allowed him to crowd in with Me, Myself and I. This transition was not my choice but, as with global warming, the discontinuation of Häagen-Dazs Bananas Foster ice cream and the constant threat of no more music from Selena Gomez (I do like my ditties), adapting is the only option.

 

The process takes time. I can’t pay a higher fee and make it a RUSH order. Yes…time. I seem to have so much of that now.

 

 

MUSIC THERAPY

I’ve been listening to music more than usual since the breakup. Once upon a time, the TV or stereo always seemed to be on, but I haven’t had a television since my as-yet-to-be-wall-mounted flatscreen flopped and smashed on the floor after an apparent wind gust from the balcony and music hasn’t been the same since I could play an album or CD on the stereo. (How much did the last part of the preceding sentence date me?) 

 

Somewhere along my life’s journey, perhaps linked to my first stint in a psych ward, I came to love the quiet. It calms me. It keeps me focused on writing, reading and thoughts that swirl during the in-betweens. Creative ideas, little snippets that may come off as random, provide personal entertainment.

 

I’m not in the mood for quiet right now. Swirly thoughts aren’t so entertaining. I need noise. I have to distract the mind.

 

Welcome back, steady music stream. It’s not just distraction. The songs I play offer a slow release of the confusion, the hurt and the WTF that still simmers under the surface. After other failed relationships, I’d been in the mood for strong, proud diva songs that mask a lost love’s sting with bravado, the basic message: Stupid man, you made a huge mistake but you’ll never have a shot with me again. Annotated playlist:

·      “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” – Taylor Swift

·      “Someday” – Mariah Carey

·      “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (of course!)

·      “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)” – En Vogue

·      “Irreplaceable” – Beyoncé

·      “So What” – Pink

 

Good stuff. Better than scream therapy or walking into a glassworks studio with a baseball bat. (Less expensive, at the very least.)

 

But that’s not where I’m at. I don’t feel hate or bitterness. That might make things easier. (Ariana Grande even has a brand new song exactly on point!) Given how lousy the circumstances of the breakup were, I should have no problem concocting some animosity to put whatever we had through a shredder, but I’m not there. Any anger that does seep in arises from the sense he rejected me in the end by diminishing how much I invested and how much I supported. He gave up on us.

 

Cue the first song on heavy rotation on my Breakup Soundtrack (2024): “Don’t Give Up On Us” by David Soul (RIP). Sorry, David. I can sing it, but the dude ain’t listening. He already did. Still, the song helps. David’s voice is so gentle. The song has that classic ’70s air of hope and happiness. How could his lover say no?

 

It’s a nice little dream, a recurring one. And I don’t have an in-person therapist Googling song blockers. My condo walls are thick enough that my neighbors haven’t knocked on the door, saying, “Please stop. Play that Rebecca Black “Friday” song or even “Macarena,” but no more Starsky. Or Hutch…Whichever.” (He was Kenneth Hutch, FYI.) 

 

Okay, I can get more real. Given up on. Whatcha gonna play now, Mr. DJ?

 

For several consecutive nights, I went to sleep with “You abandoned me, Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” playing in my head. Rose Royce version, though Madonna’s remake is almost as good. Never even had to stream the tune. I’d awaken, not to songbirds or seagulls or even the clunking trains on the tracks a hundred feet from my loft, but to Sheena Easton’s “You Could Have Been with Me.” New day, same state of mind. 

 

The practicalities of being “Alone Again (Naturally)” get acknowledged in Michael Johnson’s “Bluer than Blue” (“After you go, I can catch up on my reading. After you go, I’ll have a lot more room in my closet.”) and a throwaway line of Hall & Oates’ “She’s Gone” (“one less toothbrush hanging in the stand”). The songs remind me I’m not special. This happens to other people, too. Even if it was my ex who fixated on closet space.

 

The standouts on my present playlist include: Natalie Cole’s “Someone that I Used to Love,” a song that relentlessly sabotages any normal brain activity multiple times every single day (“Wish it was enough for you, All the love I had to give”); Dido’s “White Flag” as a point of pride, knowing that I’d given everything and hadn’t shied away from the possibility (and reality) of further rejection and humiliation, “going down with the ship” by conveying I still wanted to find our way back to us; and Calum Scott’s “You Are the Reason” which seems to spin in place, just like me, deemed irrelevant yet still wanting more.

 

Other songs in my discards pile:

·      “Dancing on My Own” – Robyn or Calum Scott; why not mix it up a little?

·      “Say Something” – A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera (crushing…)

·      “Knowing Me, Knowing You” – ABBA(!)

·      “(Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away” – Andy Gibb

·      “After the Love Has Gone” – Earth, Wind & Fire, a song from my early teens which I loved but, when it came on the radio a couple of weeks ago, I realized, damn, it’s a breakup song

·      “Evergreen” – Omar Apollo

·      “Someone You Loved” – Lewis Capaldi

·      “Manhattan” – Sara Bareilles (always, always, always)

·      “Walk on By” – Dionne Warwick

·      “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine” – Lou Rawls (okay, more than a tad diva-ish)

·      “It’s Too Late” – Carole King (a freakin’ classic, now nudging me too hard)

·      “She’s Out of My Life” – Michael Jackson, if only for the voice-cracking ending, but I’m able to move on; what did MJ ever know about love?

·      “No More I Love You's” – Annie Lennox, adding a welcome Annie quirk

·      “Rocket 2 U” – The Jets (not a breakup song but it was already on my jogging playlist and it playfully dismisses some of my ex’s reasoning for the breakup; teen-beat therapy)

 

That’s an abridged list. I needn’t reveal how extensive the list is. I do love pop music. And therein lies a silver lining. I’m not wallowing all day. This post just makes it seem that way. The thing about listening to songs on YouTube—which my ex found maddening—is I control and constantly change the playlist, sometimes clicking on a suggestion, often letting my own ideas intercede. I can follow my umpteenth listen of “Someone that I Used to Love” with Natalie Cole’s exuberant “This Will Be,” lyrically no longer relatable but oh so bop-worthy. I still play Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman,” typically when I shave which continues to amuse me. And, weirdly, I’m giving Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” repeated listens. My therapy doesn’t have to be embedded in sanity.  

 

For humor in a breakup, I always rely on Dionne Warwick’s “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” Thank you, Hal David, for lyrics to help me smile through humiliation:

What do you get when you fall in love?

A guy with a pin to burst your bubble.

That’s what you get for all your trouble;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you kiss a guy?

You get enough germs to catch pneumonia.

After you do, he’ll never phone you;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you fall in love?

You only get lies and pain and sorrow,

So for at least until tomorrow,

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

Bless you, Hal David! (And RIP to you as well.)

 

The first tears finally came on Day 26. I’d stumbled upon a suggested song by exes Katy Perry and John Mayer and my mind went to Mayer’s “Dreaming with a Broken Heart,” a song I loved for a while—objectively pretty and sad but nothing I’d personally connected with during a prolonged period of singlehood. As the song played, the lyrics opened with, “When you’re dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.” That was it. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Eyes watered, cheeks caught the overflow. Suddenly, survival became acute. Not about getting through a breakup; just let me make it through the song. 

 

I did, thanks in part to a lyrical tangent about roses. I could connect but it would take a bit of work and, hell, I wouldn’t go there. Close the floodgates. Disaster averted.

 

The closest I’ve gotten to a music-enhanced release and a glimpse I will move on is the song “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus. I’ve been doing the Miley, buying myself flowers. It’s a bit of a hollow gesture. He wasn’t the flower buyer, I was. I loved showing up at his place each time with something fresh-cut; not roses but some stems that had an architectural quality to them or fit his color scheme. I was buying my own gerberas pre-relationship and throughout our two years. I’ll continue to do so. Not quite redemptive when it’s the status quo. I suppose I could dance around my condo in my underwear like Miley does in the video but that would only underscore how I’m not at all like Miley, after all. Grab a shirt. STAT!

 

For now, my song list still feels fresh. I’m a long ways from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” but then I never want to return to that delusional reincarnation of “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” As The Beatles say, it’s a long and winding road. I ride on, two hands on the wheel for now, trying to glimpse a little less in the rear-view mirror. Radio on, of course.

 

DUMPED IN DENVER

It's the 15th, Denver.
Can I help you yank this down?

There’s never a good time to be dumped but, I’d have to say, some times are worse.

 

Christmas. (Eve or Day.)

 

New Year’s. (Same as above.)

 

Valentine’s Day.

 

Guess which one I just experienced.

 

He didn’t!

 

Oh, yes. He did. 

 

I’m on record as saying I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Gotta say, I like it even less now. 

 

The day before had been rocky. One of the tough parts of long-distance relationships is that communication while apart is always somehow lacking. Texts can be misread, the tone unclear. Calls are better but there are distractions. FaceTime is my preference, but it’s always clear you’re still apart. 

 

Something had been off in the morning phone call, a laugh meant to convey lightness and support misinterpreted as uncaring and a suggestion dismissed with irritation. He was stressed, I told myself. He had reason to be. 

 

When I FaceTimed in the evening, he didn’t answer. He quickly message instead: 

Can’t talk now, sorry

 

A little later, a flurry of texts, an unexpected attack. He needed to focus on himself. And, incidentally, I was deficient…in many ways. 

 

It felt so wrong. An assault on my character. Little things were suddenly everything. I know I’d disappointed him a few weeks ago and, what I’d thought had been resolved was now the equivalent to that pesky spinning rainbow on a computer screen. It would not go away.

 

A FaceTime followed. More character assassination. He depicted my view of our relationship as narrow, self-serving and a total letdown. Where was this coming from? It was exacerbating. Slanted. Absurd! I hung up. 

 

A few more texts came, more of the same. I let them go. What was the point of arguing—even defending—when the point of view had gone so dark?

 

Feeling shaken and wounded, I immediately faced more confusion. I was supposed to fly to Denver the next day for a two-week stay, my first visit at his new place, a chance to help him settle in and for us to feel out our new U.S. base. Was I still welcome? 

 

I didn’t pack. I managed a couple of hours sleep but mostly the night passed slowly as a pillow fight, solitaire edition. When the alarm sounded, I felt both relief and dread. No more agonizing tossing and turning but now I had to face the day. Where were we? Were we even “we”?

 

I texted:

You’re my partner. I would like to come today—to

see you, to be with you.

 

Is that okay?

 

And immediate response:

Yes. Happy Valentine’s.

 

Okay then. What had been the significance of yesterday? Anything? Nothing? 

 

There had been times when our evening chats had involved misunderstandings but, in each instance when Evan had been harsh or moody, he’d texted an apology immediately the next morning. His ability to say sorry, quickly and genuinely, had always been one of the things I most admired about him. 

 

No sorry this time. I packed. Was “Happy Valentine’s” supposed to make everything better? I spent the day traveling, still confused and wounded. I knew we’d have a difficult conversation. I knew we’d get through it. 

 

I took the train from the airport to Union Station where he picked me up. It was a fifteen-minute drive to his place. We broke up before we arrived. 

 

What was going on? Why did he keep casting me in a negative, dismissive light? I could have rebutted everything and defended my character. I made a few points, but, as startling as it was, I knew nothing I said mattered. 

 

He’d made his case and said it. He’d dumped me. He’d freed himself from the apparent awfulness of me. 

 

He mumbled a couple of times, “This is a great Valentine’s Day.” I will begrudge him this. As the dumper, he needed to keep his mouth shut about that. His choice. I was the dumpee. That was my line. True, not a great VD for him either, but I’m the one who didn’t want this. I’m the one who spent the day traveling for a greeting that plays back as “Hello, I’m dumping you” on the highlight reel.

 

As the drive continued he gave me a tour guide’s narration of things along the route. It felt so tone deaf. Random buildings didn’t matter when I didn’t matter. I stared at the glove compartment, trying to will my mind to go numb, waiting for him to change course, to glance at me, to see me for me again, to see the man he fell in love with, the guy he spent the past two weeks repeatedly saying how much he missed. Nope. The tour dragged on, even as we walked the block to his place after parking.

 

I went through the motions looking at his place. I tried to offer a positive comment or two. My heart wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t mine anymore.

 

Two weeks here? He floated the friends concept. We’d be better as that. 

 

I sat and focused on my phone screen. How much to fly out the next day? How much for a hotel? The costs were high, but I saw no other options. I did not want to be where I was not wanted. I could not flip a switch and become friends with someone who’d just portrayed me as too much, not enough and wholly unappealing.

 

I should have Ubered it to the hotel. Instead, I asked for a lift. I suppose he owed me that. We drove mostly in silence. We got lost. I was relieved to have the GPS voice fill the space between us. 

 

Still stunned, I kept thinking he’d recant. He’d remember how we gel instead of perseverating on how we’re different. He’d come to his senses. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

Hello, nondescript hotel room. It was eight o’clock at night, eleven hours after I’d left my home, a single scone to sustain me for the day. I needed food but I knew you don’t ask for a table for one on Valentine’s Day. Couples don’t want a sad single dude, freshly dumped no less, in their periphery as they thank god they no longer have to eat Lean Cuisine on February 14^th. 

 

As with many downtowns, Denver doesn’t have a big offering of grocery stores. I walked half an hour to Whole Foods, passing many restaurants loaded with couples. Not fun. The streets were quiet as I slogged back to the hotel with my banana and guac, passing the occasional love birds spilling out of a diner, clutching bouquets and boxes of flowers. Still not fun.

 

Before turning in, I checked my phone yet again. No calls, no messages, no regrets. 

 

In the middle of the night, it became crystal clear, his resolve would not relent. Our relationship ended three weeks short of two years. Rest in peace, or something like that. He has a clean break in a new home, free of any memories of me or of us. I get to return to a home where the presence of Evan is everywhere, reminders I can’t pack away in a closet. (Maybe I’ll buy a tarp and turn the balcony to an indefinite storage space.) 

 

He’d frontloaded all his thinking about ending us. He’d had time to think about us shifting to friendship. Maybe even plenty of time. Had it only been a few weeks? Had he flirted with thoughts of freedom at Christmas? Did doubts set in last summer? He’d often gotten caught up in our differences and, to be sure, some of them are pronounced. I’d repeatedly said, You be you. I meant it. I don’t think he ever got his head around that when it came to me. 

 

He’d held off and didn’t say it until he was ready. Why then would he recant? He’d said it. He’d freed himself. Hello, relief! 

 

A little reminder, courtesy the
City of Denver.

I checked my phone first thing in the morning. I still hoped he’d express regret. A big mistake that’s all. Stress and sickness had made him turn against me, the easiest target for doubts, frustration and distraction from other big changes in his life. Alas, the only thing on my screen was a notification from Duolingo, suggesting it was time to practice Swedish. 

 

Plenty of time, as it turns out.