Let's Talk About Heartbreak
What's really going on when we ache and break?
I spent the summer of 2002 cracked open by heartbreak. It wasn’t my first, but it was by far my most surprising. Despite the fact that I was 38, this wasn’t a marriage, just a one-year relationship, and no children were involved. I was the initatior. Plus, I’d been single for most of my thirties, so how hard could it be to return to a soloist life?
The physical-emotional unraveling shocked me (and the people around me). I cried multiple times a day for nine months. I played solitaire in bed and listened to the radio well into the night, as a way to keep myself from calling the ex. I sobbed in my car driving around town, playing country music and relating to every word and twang; I cried in the grocery store while reaching for the singleton’s skinny quart of milk. I walked my neighborhood stooped over because my heart-chest area felt so heavy with grief, it weighted me down.
I was in graduate school, halfway through a low-residency MFA, and spent that semester writing endless breakup poems. My mentor was extremely compassionate. The normally healthy appetite disappeared and I forced down soft beige foods like pasta, bread, and ice cream sundaes. By August, after wearing the same halter top nonstop, my dad remarked that my shoulder blades were getting boney and offered me money for clothes.
“I don’t know what you’re going on about,” my Dad said in his neutral way one day on the phone. “He wasn’t that great.”
I bristled, then chuckled (after the phone call). My dad had a point. But it didn’t help ease the growing panic around WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME? In some ways it felt like the breakup was the opening to a giant ladle dipping into a well of sadness and pulling up every bit of loss/grief/regret that I’d ever experienced and making me look at, and feel all of it.
I felt out of step with my friends who were in marriages or relationships; I felt out of step with the strong(ish) person I thought I was. My family didn’t know what to make of me or how to talk to me.
There wasn’t a lot of literature on heartache 20 years ago. (Maybe still.) Yes, plenty of “how to get over” a breakup, but nothing about what the mother🤬 was going on in the body-mind system when someone you loved was suddenly gone. One friend described a breakup as “shocking” which I thought was apt.
One of the best pieces of advice was from my friend Jill who repeated during our runs together: “Remember: You miss it, not him.” The “it” being the relationship container, having someone in my life, or as the one book I could find on heartbreak described it, the “background object.” I missed having someone in my life who, no matter where I went and what I did was there. I missed my stinking background object.
But there was beauty in that grieving, too. Omniscient, persistent, expanding my mind and spirit and exalting the senses, beauty was there, keeping the itchy-achy pain company. I said YES to every invitation, and became a people-loving extrovert. I got to know more of my condo neighbors. What kind, sweet people these retirees were! What interesting lives! Some of them brought me jam, others took me for walks.
When I strolled the lakeside streets of my neighborhood I was grateful for every passing smile and greeting, every kid who had a tantrum at my feet, every dog who jumped on me. I loved the tall elegant smooth-barked trees, the water’s lapping edge, the cranky ducks, the packed beach, the floating dock covered with young bathers and high divers. I loved every barista who asked me how my day was going, and I answered with unprecedented enthusiasm and asked about their days, even lingered to chat (not my usual way). I spoke to anyone—joyfully—who wanted to engage in a conversation with me.
On one hand I felt broken; on the other hand I felt in love with the world and its beauty, and thankful for people’s kindness. Heartbreak kicked me out of myself in a way that was freeing and refreshing.
The weather forecast that summer was for cool temperatures, overcast, and rain. And yet: we had blue skies peppered with clouds and lots of sun. The lake warmed. I swam in it every day. A couple evenings a week, I rode my bike four miles to Seward Park, swam with a group, and rode back feeling my wild animal self.
One evening after my bike-and-swim outing, I sat on the dock in the late-day sun with my friend Mary Jane. We stretched out on towels and looked over Lake Washington.
“How are you doing?” Mary Jane asked, rather seriously.
“Oh,” I said, caught up in the warmth of the sun, high from exercise endorphins, temporarily forgetting about my broken heart. “I’m great. I’m having the best summer.”
There was a pause as I smiled dreamily, until I met Mary Jane’s confused expression; she’d witnessed my despair and had given out a lot of hugs. Then I remembered: Oh, that’s right, I’m sad. I caught myself and we both laughed hard at my forgetfulness. By nightfall I returned to being sad again. And feeling the beauty of the world. Over the course of months, I started walking straighter; traded in beige food for vegetables, grew flesh around my shoulder blades. One day I didn’t cry at the sad part in a movie, and felt the mourning bird in my chest fly away. I had grown so used to it, like a pet, that when I felt it pick up and leave I had a brief reaction of: Oh, don’t go…
Crazy, right?
I’ve been thinking about this time in my life because I’m reading science writer Florence Williams’ excellent Heartbreak: A Personal & Scientific Journey. The book takes a curious, deep, and cellular look at what the hell happens when a person is reeling from the trauma of a loss. It’s an important book because there’s no escaping heartbreak: our own or that of people we care about. It’s important that we know what’s going on with ourselves, our friends, neighbors, and family.
Heartbreak came about after Williams’ husband left her, when she was almost 50, and had never been heartbroken. Her own physical unraveling, which included some unprecedented health issues, left her so shocked and unprepared that she went to a variety of scientists, neurologists, doctors, psychologists, and other experts to figure out what was happening to her. She wanted to know how she could recover and build her resilience ASAP. She embarks on a 30-day solo raft trip to speed up the process (Williams is the author of The Nature Fix).
One cool point from this book is the role that beauty and moments of awe play in building resilience and shepherding us through tough times. When we’re experiencing awe—like watching a sunset, listening to a favorite musician in concert, or in the presence of a spirited child we love—our brain is scrambling to make sense of what the hell it’s looking at/experiencing. In that moment we are free of ourselves; we’re connected to something greater, feeling a holy connection you could say.
Years ago someone said to me in passing, “these hearts are made for breaking.” I tucked this line into my back pocket and pulled it out for comfort. At the same time, our hearts have limits, and it’s good to know how to take care of them. This book helps. People help. The natural world helps. Art helps. Turning toward beauty helps. Railing, yelling, playing loud music and talking to a crowd of ducks at the lake could help too
That summer, 20 years ago I left my running group (the ex was there) and in my extroverted try-anything state of mind participated in a lake swim event, which led me to join a Masters swim team. I woke up at grotesquely early hours (4:23 am) and met a whole new group of friends, a loving community and eventually, through this connection, my husband.
Life can hurt like hell—while taking us somewhere glorious, providing beautiful moments along the way, and, eventually, transformation💥🐬💫
Here’s a great interview between a Seattle favorite author (and one of my mentors) Claire Dederer and Florence Williams.
Drop-in coaching on Tuesday
Through June I’m offering drop-in coaching sessions on Tuesdays. You might be standing on the starting line of a new chapter or project, and you’d like someone to explore uncharted territory and see new possibilities with. For starters, let’s blow up the untrue thoughts/beliefs that are holding your feet in the quick sand (there’s no quick sand).
One hour, $200, you + me + Tuesday = waking up from the slumber and coming alive, again.
Email me at tatyana@everydaycreative to inquire/schedule.