I love heartbreaks. I know. Sounds crazy. It wasn't always that way, but after navigating through quite a few, the experience has not just settled with me, but also settled me. There's something beautiful that happens when I have my heart broken. Or, as a result of it. I feel raw and open and my whole being wakes up. Not that I'm subdued, or on auto pilot other times, it's more like my life is set up and organized to follow a certain path, on which there are both highs and lows...but then, when there is a heart disturbance, it's like someone slammed their breaks right in front of me without warning. I get jarred out of my space and need a time out. I nurture myself a bit more than usual, and that's always good. And by the way, my heart hurts almost just as much when I break up with someone as when they end things.
I suppose one could say I'm good at heartbreak. I'm good at taking a disappointment in love and turning it into an opportunity to feel and think and communicate and grow. Like making lemonade. I love love, and tend to jump in with no hesitation, like jumping out of a plane. I love to explore and connect and play and see what happens. I love feelings. The whole wide range. Happiness, sadness, fear, anxiety, joy, pride, and even anger. So I love living on the edge of my heart. It riles me up. It makes life interesting, and surprising, and full. Makes me feel alive and vibrating. Sometimes I have the most extraordiary trysts, relationships, flings, affairs, and heart connections.
And, sometimes it all blows up in my face, and usually because I've ignored warnings from concerned and supportive friends. They can hear the ticking, but I'm not done until I SAY SO. And then it happens. BOOM! The funny part is, I'm always so shocked, like I didn't see it coming. After the initial blast, I gently down shift my gears and get to work. Regroup. Think. Investigate. Reach out to friends. Communicate. It's never about reaching a conclusion or getting a question answered, but instead about dwelling in that beautiful place of vulnerability, trying to distinguish the ego bruise from the heart bruise, and finally, after enough has been said, getting to the final piece.
The golden nugget. The reward of the whole experience; a better understanding of myself and my heart. That part always happens with friends, and I'm fortunate to have collected some of the most insightful, supportive and loving friends through the years. Friends who can hear it in my voice when I call, and quickly tell me I am super hot and desirable, take me to the movies, or get me drunk on mojitos. Or, friends who can hear it energetically, and check in on their own, bathing me in sweetness and love, until I'm happily drunk on that.
After that I usually tweak my "what I want" list. Sometimes it's completely shallow, like I decide "he" has to be taller, or not have an accent for things to work. Sometimes it's something simple but important, like "he" tells me I'm beautiful. Sometimes it's more serious, like "he" should probably not be addicted to a substance or that really kinky behavior.
My new favorite is the "two-hour heartbreak," a phrase recently coined by a beautiful friend during a very funny conversation. It's when someone tells you it's over, and you get surprised, because you didn't realize you were going out in the first place. And your heart gets a bit bruised but it's really mostly ego, not actual heart. How you know you're having a two-hour heartbreak is, two hours later, you can't remember what you were so upset about.
I didn't always see the opportunity in heartbreaks. They used to mess me up for months and months. The first really big one happened a few months after I had arrived in LA, so I was about 22. His name was Tony and he was my age. I hesitate to write too much about him because he had a somewhat difficult life before we met, and it feels a little strange for me to air all that out. I bring it up only because it explains some of the more destructive behavior that happened later. What I will say is, Tony was the first in a long slew of beautifully troubled men that have made their way into my heart.
Tony was creative and artistic and hilariously funny. Handsome and manly, with a body that was quite addictive. We met at something Jewish, he wore a red shirt, and I couldn't stop staring or desiring or crushing, or whatever it's called when you meet someone and you know. You know there is a mutual "like" or attraction, and not much needs else to be said. There is an understanding that at some point in the near future, alone time will be had, and most likely spent staring, talking, exploring and connecting. So we did.
We became an item quickly and spent quite a bit of time together. He lived in a guest house in West LA but had a studio where he worked on his art, just down the street from Santa Monica College. He took me to the shooting range on one of our first dates, and the kissing afterwords was explosive. (Pun intended.) He introduced me to the TV show "Kung Fu," and I introduced him to Swedish pancakes. I found him fascinating, especially the broken part, and wanted so much to heal him, fix him, and just love him up. So I did. For a while.
I became aware of some of the darker parts of his personality, and some vices too, but it was such a slow and gradual process, that it occurred like just a few little things here and there. Had I added them all up, I would have understood that this was probably not going to end lovingly and amicably. But I was blinded by love I suppose. And 22. And newly arrived in the United States.
I think this was before cell phones. Because I remember calling him at home and leaving a message on his machine, confirming our plans. I was supposed to come over to watch a movie. I didn't hear back, so I tried again a half-hour later, and this time he picked up. He sounded really strange and I got worried. I asked if everything was alright and he was cold and rude. And in hindsight, clearly on something. I drove over because I was worried, like a good Swedish, innocent girl.
Tony didn't answer the door, although I could hear he was home. I can't remember if I waited there, and how long, but I remember that there was another car parked behind his, so it was clear he had company. I drove home and probably had some sense of what was coming. It came the next day. He called me and told me that his friend so-and-so had been over and given him head, like it was no big deal. BOOM. I had no idea what to do or what to say, but it was clear to me this relationship was over, and I remember losing my breath for a moment, and then getting that panicked feeling. It spread all over my body.
I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I felt death and panic and devastation inside, and in fact, like I wanted to die. I knew I couldn't handle this and death seemed like an easier, more viable option. My heart was pounding, I was breathing faster, I needed help, I was nauseous, I was losing my mind, terrible thoughts were going through my head, and I was clear that my life was over. Thinking back to this time is hard even now. I remember not being able to go to school for a couple of days. I remember not being able to eat, or sleep, or get a full sentence out without bursting into tears.
I remember being nurtured, taken care of, nursed and comforted by my room mate Rachel Kramer. She was an angel, although I suspect she had seen the writing on the wall, as she had known Tony a bit longer than I had. I laid on the floral couch in the living room of the apartment we shared on Stanley Avenue, and cried for what seemed like months.
It didn't take me long to find my break-up album. Because every heartbreak has an album connected to it, at least for me, and certainly during this time, before iPod shuffles, Pandora and XM Radio. Sade's "Love Deluxe" had just come out, and I spent my days crying while listening to her soulful voice and fitting lyrics. It seems a bit cliche like now, but then, I really felt like every word was true for my experience with Tony, and written for me. And like a Pavlovian dog, whenever I hear any of the songs from this album, I think of Tony and the floral couch which soaked up so many of my tears.
I gave you all the love I got
I gave you more than I could give
I gave you love
I gave you all that I have inside
And you took my love
You took my love
At some point, life got easier, as it does with heartbreak. I slowly got my appetite back, and my ability to sleep returned, although there were panic attacks sprinkled into my existence about this for months to come. A while later, after things had settled, Tony and I tried again, but it wasn't the same. My innocence was gone, my sweet adoration and respect for Tony had dimished almost completely, and all that was left was sadness. The sadness you feel when you try to re-create an experience that isn't available to you anymore, simply because you know better. I wanted to feel the same delirious exhilaration when we kissed, but I didn't. And that was perhaps the best thing that could have happened, as it helped me move on completely.
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