Whenever you’ve had a breakup, there’s always a song. Have you noticed that? Some song that you hear and it just zings you right between the eyes, and fits EXACTLY how you’re feeling, all sad and angsty, and usually starts the tears flowing again.
Like:
“Don’t take your love . . . away from me!
Don’t you leave my heart in misery
If you go then I’ll be blue
‘Cause breaking up his hard to do . . . “
Sorry for putting that Neil Sedaka song in your head. But if it is in mine, then you must suffer along with me. It’s only fair, am I right?
One of my favorite bloggers, Fragrant Liar, wrote about breaking up today, after a short blogging hiatus. It certainly explained where she’d been, because goodness knows, a bad breakup can make you lose your writing mojo for awhile, if not permanently, if you let it. But you pick yourself up off the floor, dust yourself, and move on. A little sadder, a little wiser and a little more guarded.
Whenever you read of someone breaking up, it always takes you back to the last bad breakup you experienced. It’s funny (funny strange, not ha-ha) how when I read about her emotional pain that leaked through her lighthearted words like tears, I was instantly transported to the last time I was dumped.
It’s seriously easier to be the dumper than the dumpee. That’s not to say that being a dumper doesn’t have it’s drawbacks. Any time a relationship goes south, it hurts. However, it hurts less if you are the one initiating it, than being the one that is being told you are no longer wanted.
I’ve had two bad breakups in my life; the rest of the time I’ve managed to be the dumper and thus experiencing mostly a feeling of relief among the feelings of failure. The first one was when I was in college. I was 19 years old, and fell in love with a young baseball player named Chuck. He actually dated my roommate first, but when that didn’t seem to be going anywhere, he and I found ourselves hanging out more and more and eventually we started dating and fell in love. I had never been in love before, and I fell… hard. You know how it is with your first love. There is nothing sweeter. And nothing more bittersweet than when he broke up with me several months later.
It was not long after I’d gone home with him one weekend to visit his family. And his mother hated me on sight. I have no idea why. I pretty much knew it was doomed from that day forward, and while I was heartbroken, I wasn’t entirely surprised when he broke up with me a few weeks later. All the signs were there — the avoidance, the withdrawl, the refusal to make eye contact. I can barely remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember with painful clarity the moment he sat on my couch in my apartment and told me it was over. It was about 1978, I think. I listened to Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” over and over and over and bawled my eyes out. Yes, it was on a record, on a turntable. Yes I’m old. Sighs.
But it turned out well for him. He met and married his wife a couple of years after that, and I recently reconnected with him on Facebook. He’s still married to her after 30-something years, and they are happy and in love. I am very happy for him.
After that, I got married (1981) got divorced (1991); got married (1993), got divorced (1999). Then, in December of 1999, two months after my divorce was final, I met Harley Dude. On my other blog, I wrote a post about Harley Dude that was extraordinarily hilarious, and I wish now I’d not wiped out my other blog. Later, I’ll try to recreate that post. It was my most popular post on my other blog, for sure.
At any rate, I met Harley Dude in November of 1999. We met through a singles ad in the newspaper (this was before online dating was a big thing. In fact, this was before online ANYTHING was much of a big deal). At any rate, we quickly became a couple. He had been seriously burned by his second wife. I knew things would move slowly. We were compatible in many ways, but he had one serious flaw…. he could be a real asshole at times. He wasn’t nice to service people (waitresses/waiters, fast food workers, etc.). He was quick to laugh at you if you did something stupid and had no tolerance for idiots. He also was not at all affectionate, didn’t like holding hands or cuddling. I realize that I could not have had a long-term relationship with him; my skin is too thin and I need to have the loving gestures. But he loved people in his own way, he just didn’t suffer fools gladly. On just about everything else, we were perfectly compatible. We both loved the ocean, we loved taking weekend jaunts, our travel temperaments were in synch. He loved poking around in shops, he loved walking the beach. He had a Harley, and we spent many a happy weekend going somewhere fun, or even just riding around. The sex was… well…to put it bluntly, it was the best sex I’ve ever had, before or since, and probably ever again in my life. It was mind-blowing. It is another area in which we were in synch. It’s just too bad he is such an ass.
At any rate, I was blissfully in love…and blissfully in love all alone. I knew that he cared for me, but I also knew that he didn’t love me. At least he never said the words. I just figured if I loved him enough, he would come around. Story of my life, and which is one of the reasons I’ve been married three times. We dated for nearly three years. In September of 2002, I knew something was wrong. He began to act more distant. Canceled dates, even our standing Wednesday night date. He went to his hometown in Southern California suddenly, and didn’t invite me. He was even more distant than normal. He was broody. Moody. His words came back to haunt me . . . “I have eyes only for you (he’d say when I’d get weepy about how he never said “I love you”). The only thing you have to be worried about is if I ever find BF, my old high school girlfriend. She’s the one who got away and I would want to try again with her.” I knew he’d been on Classmates.com a lot lately, even organized a reunion of his old high school buddies. Sadly, Harley Dude was one of those whose glory days was back in high school, when he was (interestingly enough) a baseball hero. A blown knee (or was it elbow, or rotator cuff? something) ruined his chance at a pro career. I dunno what it is about me and baseball players.
My dad had just retired, and my parents were preparing to move from their large home in P-ville to a smaller place wayyyy up in the very top of California, close to the Oregon border. They were selling and giving away a lot of their things, and a couple of weeks after he’d made this mysterious trip to his hometown, we had planned to drive to P-ville with a U-haul truck to pick up several nice pieces of furniture that they were giving me. His son was going to go with us to help. We were going to drive up early — very early — on a Saturday morning. Harley Dude hadn’t invited me to stay the night with him the night before, which was highly unusual. My inklings that something was wrong was turning into full-blown worry. A klaxon horn of warning was going off in my head. The day before we were to go to my parents, I called him on the phone from my office, a little after lunch. He was even more distant than usual. I asked if I could come over and spend the night that night to make things easier. My heart was pounding in my chest. I had a feeling of dread. I knew something was wrong.
He paused just a little too long.
“Uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” he said slowly.
I felt my heart skip a beat, then resume beating, pounding against my breastbone like a drum.
“Why not?” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Still he hesitated. “Uh, nothing. I Just don’t feel like having company, that’s all.”
I could hear the blood whooshing in my ears. Something was going on, and I had to know.
“What is it, Harley Dude? What’s going on?”
“Let’s talk about it later after we get back from your parents.”
My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would come out of my chest. I could feel the heat in my cheeks as I began to flush, the adrenaline rushing through my system made my hands shake as they held the receiver.
My voice trembled, as I responded, “No, Harley Dude. Tell me now. I have to know now.”
Harley Dude expelled a breath. “I don’t want to get into it over the phone.”
“Tell me!” I demanded, knowing I was standing in the middle of the tracks, about to be hit with an emotional freight train.
A long silence ensued. I sat there, holding my breath, knowing what was coming but utterly helpless to stop it. And yet, one corner of my heart held out hope that it was something else, that he wasn’t going to dump me, that he would laugh and say that something had happened at work, or with his son and life would go on as I knew it. Time seemed to stop as he considered what to say.
He blew out a breath on the other end of the phone. “This just isn’t working for me anymore. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone!” he stated flatly, almost accusatory.
Even though I knew subconsciously it was coming, as those words registered in my head I felt like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. My ears began to ring, I felt dizzy. I gripped the receiver hard with my left hand and put my right hand over my mouth. My hand was ice cold, and my face was burning hot.
“What?!?” I whispered, gasping. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore. It just isn’t working for me anymore.” he stated. “I hate it that I hurt you, I didn’t want to do it this way, over the phone.”
My mind was spinning. I tried to think past the emotional train wreck. I still was having a hard time sucking air into my lungs. I finally knew what it was like to be sucker punched.
“Okay. Well. Wow. Um. Forget tomorrow, you don’t have to come. I’ll figure something out.”
“No,” he snapped. “I promised I’d help you. JB and I will be there at your house at 7am tomorrow morning and we’ll go get your stuff from your parents.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want you to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Karen,” he said, irritated now. “You can’t do that by yourself. I promised we’d help, and we’re going to help. And that’s that.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, utterly at a loss. I couldn’t even think clearly at this point. “I have to go,” I whispered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” and I hung up the phone without waiting for a response from him.
I knew there was no way I was going to be able to finish the work day. I had to go home. I was about to burst into tears, and once I started crying, I didn’t know if I was going to be able to stop. I sat there in my chair, in my office, trembling all over, shaking, eyes bright with unshed tears, one hand pressed to my stomach, which was doing flip flops and threatening to return my lunch to me, the other hand pressed to my mouth. I stood on shaky legs, and stumbled into my boss’s office. Fortunately, I was very close with my boss and he was extremely understanding. I stood in the doorway, shaking and near tears.
“I have to go,” I told him, voice quavering. “Harley Dude just broke up with me on the phone.”
My boss looked up from his paperwork and squinted at me, concerned. “What?!?” he exclaimed.
Oh God. I was going to have to say it again! I just wanted to go home, to bury my head in my pillow and pretend none of this had happened. I didn’t want anyone to know, I didn’t want to have to explain anything. I just wanted to exit the building as quickly as possible without humiliating myself. I knew that if I got any sympathy at all, I’d fall apart. I was holding on by a thread, and I just needed to go. I took a deep breath and tried again.
“Harley Dude just broke up with me on the phone. I need to go home,” I whispered. “Please?”
My boss’s eyes turned kind. “Go, go!” he said, shooing me. “I’ll see you on Tuesday.” Fortunately, it was a three-day weekend for us.
I rushed out of the building and as I was leaving, one of my best friends at work saw me in the hallway. She saw my face and she became instantly concerned. Later, she told me I was white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. As I mumbled something to her and tried to rush by her, she grabbed me by the arms and forced me to look at her. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, looking at me, very concerned.
That was my undoing. Her kindness and concern shattered what little control I’d had over my emotions. I began to sob. “Harley Dude just broke up with me. On the phone!” I wailed.
“Oh God.” she muttered. “That asshole.”
She pulled me into the nearest conference room and shut the door. She hugged me, just holding me and rocking me while I sobbed and sobbed. “Oh God, Marie! What am I going to do now? How do I survive this?” I could barely breathe. My heart felt like it was literally in a thousand pieces.
“I don’t know,” Marie said, “I don’t know.” She continued to try and soothe me.
Finally, my sobs subsided. “I have to go home,” I said, wiping the tears from my face uselessly, as they just fell as quickly as I wiped them.
“Okay” she said, reluctantly. “Call me if you need me.”
I ran out the back door and jumped into my car. I lived about 20 minutes from work, and it was the longest drive of my life. I thought I’d never get home. I was a single mom to two teenage boys, and they were not yet home from school. To this day, I don’t know how I drove home. I don’t remember one minute of the drive. It is a miracle I got there without getting in a wreck. I jumped out of the car, ran inside the house, and locked myself into my bedroom. I pulled off my clothes, left them in a pile in the floor and pulled on my most comfortable nightgown. Pulling back the covers on the bed, I fell into bed, pulled my pillow to my chest and broke down once again. I sobbed until my throat was raw. I could hardly draw a breath I was crying so hard. Even my first love didn’t hurt this much. My two divorces hadn’t hurt this much. I’d really given myself to this man, and he had handed my heart back to me, broken into a thousand pieces. I literally thought I would die from the pain. Finally, exhausted, I fell asleep.
I woke up a couple of hours later, when my youngest son banged on the door, wanting to know what was for dinner. In those first few moments, before I came fully awake, I didn’t remember what had happened. Then, in an instant, it all came flooding back, and the memory slammed into me, like I had been hit with a sledgehammer. My heart stopped beating, then began to pound, painfully, in my chest.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I croaked, wondering how I was going to even get out of bed, let alone fix something for my boys to eat. I began to cry again, and it took several minutes before I could pull myself together enough to get out of bed. When I opened the door, my youngest son was standing there, who had just turned 15 the week before. He looked at me, concerned. “Are you sick?!?” he exclaimed, looking at my blotchy face, swollen eyes and wild hair.
I let out a noise that was half sob-half laugh. “You might say that.” I said. “Harley Dude and I broke up.”
“Oh!” he said, his eyes softening with concern. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
My eyes filled with tears, as they did at any sign of sympathy. “Thanks, Son.” I whispered.
“So, what’s for dinner?” he asked.
Fifteen-year-old boys can be very single-minded.
I told him that I didn’t feel like cooking, but would he mind fixing macaroni and cheese for him and his brother? He agreed, and began cooking. He’d done this many times and I was grateful that he didn’t mind.
I stumbled back into the bedroom. I don’t remember much more about that night, except it was a cycle of crying and sleeping, waking up, crying and sleeping some more. I was a mess.
The next morning, Harley Dude and his son came by my place with the U-haul truck. We all squeezed into the cab, and spent a very awkward 3-1/2 hours in the truck on the drive to my parents house. We got to my parents house, loaded up the furniture and headed home. We decided to stop at In-N-Out to eat. Or rather they did. I knew I’d never be able to choke down a single bite of food, but Harley Dude insisted that I eat something. I’d not said more than one or two words to him the whole time. My entire world had been shattered by this man, and having to be polite to him was more than I could bear.
The 3-1/2 hour drive back to my place was pure hell. I wiped silent tears from my face the entire trip. Harley Dude’s son was sympathetic and sad for me. We finally arrived back at my house, Harley Dude and his son and my sons unloaded the furniture as quickly as possible, and they drove off. My sons helped me arrange the furniture, I set up my new-to-me mattress and box springs, headboard and foot board, bed frame, and dressers, then put sheets on the bed. I closed the door, fell into bed, and spent the rest of Saturday night, all day Sunday and all day Monday in bed. I only got out of bed to drink some water and use the bathroom. I didn’t shower. I didn’t eat. I did nothing but cry, sob, wail, hug my pillow and sleep. It felt like he had died. I was absolutely devastated.
Finally, Monday evening, I surfaced. I felt exhausted, like all my limbs were heavy. I could hardly move. But the initial storm had passed. I felt wrung out, like I’d had a really bad case of the flu. But for now, the tears had stopped. The heaviness had lifted somewhat. I knew that life could go on. It wouldn’t be the same, and I still had some losses to grieve. For the next several weeks, I’d take two steps forward, one step back. Thanksgiving and Christmas were particularly difficult that year. I spent most of them crying in the bathroom, because unrestrained emotions are not allowed in our house. Everyone is to put on a happy face and pretend, so the rest of the family isn’t sad. Yep, that’s how we roll in my family.
Harley Dude and I had some more discussions in the weeks following, in which I realized my worst nightmare had happened — he reconnected with his old girlfriend BF from high school. He’d gone down to his hometown to see if there was something there — and sparks flew. They flew in a way that they never had with me. A couple of years later they married, and are still happily married to this day. I’m glad for him. I knew deep down that he and I weren’t meant to be together long-term. He didn’t meet my most basic emotional needs and I was too sensitive for his rather cruel tongue. I miss the times we had together, the companionship, the Harley rides, the trips to the coast. The sex. Oh God…I miss the sex. But I don’t miss his misanthropic point of view.
Interestingly, I can’t recall the name of the song that I always identify as my “breakup song” from Harley Dude. I recognize it, though, when I hear it on the radio, and it still makes my heart skip a beat and brings back a little jolt. Music really affects me that way.
So what is your break up song and/or story? 
Ta ta for now!
