Sit in the Pain of a Breakup
As seen in my newsletter.
I ended my new relationship 10 days ago.
I often urge my clients to sit in the pain of something. To let it marinate. To not run, mute, or avoid.
It's one thing to say it though, and another to be reminded of what the sitting actually looks and feels like. So here goes:
It physically hurts. My body is tired, my head fuzzy. Sleep is getting better but hard. I wake exhausted.
Even though this ending was my choice, even though I know it's the right decision, my head and heart are still searching for an alternate ending. What if I had done x? What if we had tried y? Maybe I should reach out to discuss this? Maybe I should write him a long email?
I want to talk to him. My brain occasionally thinks with the exact words, I will be able to dissipate both his anguish and mine.
I have pockets of pure joy, most often when I'm driving around running errands—music blasting, windows down, car weaving through green country roads. Moments when I'm proud of myself for making a hard decision and excited for what's to come.
And then I'm hit hard with deep moments of mourning. I'm mourning the part of myself, the habit, the pattern, the thing so deeply ingrained in me, that I must let go of in order to have richer, more genuine, more fulfilling relationships. The kicker is I needed this relationship, this teacher, to reflect back to me this part of myself that wasn't serving me. That awakening is bittersweet. I'm mad at myself. I'm sad for the hurt I caused him.
It is a conscious effort to stay in this space. And not even just stay, but really feel into both the death and rebirth of this part of myself and season of my life.
Yesterday during my tennis session, my doubles partner, Sarah, turned to me and said, "You should date Morgan!" Morgan meaning our 22-year old oh-so-tan instructor. "He's so sweet!"
I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind, but I also had to laugh, because I knew exactly what Morgan—or any tempting male distraction— really was. A way to turn off the pain for a bit, only to have it return with a vengeance.
I laughed and rolled my eyes, and then I whispered to Sarah "No! And besides, he probably doesn't know what to do with a vagina." (To be fair the last part is entirely my own subjective opinion, and likely a way to keep myself from wandering down a very unhelpful path.)
I hope you found some humor in that last bit because, good God, if we can't laugh these days, what do we have?
We're all sitting in some form of grief as we roll into September. Many far worse than the ending of a brief relationship. But if you are, I want you to know I see you. I want you to know everything you're experiencing is more than normal. I want to urge you to say the course, to feel into it fully, to not run. And most of all, to not expect your healing to be linear.
On Sunday night my mom made barbeque chicken. I sat on her back patio, a generous gin and tonic in hand, and gazed at my nearly 70-year old momma who doesn't look a day over 50. The birds and insects were like a symphony. Our next-door neighbor's dog surveyed the squirrels and my brother cracked a joke about capitalism. Part of me missed the person that had been my other half for most of the summer. Part of me was sad we wouldn't get to play tennis or cookout together the next day. But the other part of me felt present and at peace, grateful for the people surrounding me and the nostalgic comfort of my mom's backyard. I wasn't without sadness, but it also wasn't the only feeling present.