My vendetta against me

The last time I suffered from a broken heart, I had a personal vendetta against myself. It was March 2004 and I was a junior in college. N (the ex-boyfriend) came to me one night and said he didn’t love me anymore and doubted that he really ever had in the first place. My self-esteem was in the garbage and I had blamed my less than perfect body, ill-fitting clothes, and chronic depression on the reason for our breakup. I thought I had done something wrong to make him not love me. Was I too clingy, not clingy enough, boring, bad in the sack, ugly, unmotivated? What was it about me that make him not want to be with me anymore? Rather than focus on getting my life together, I turned to alcohol, sex with inappropriate men, drugs and the friends who could provide me with this lifestyle. It was fun, for a while, to get wasted at some college bar, go home with an equally drunk frat boy or punk guy, fuck, and drag my sorry, hurt self home at the crack of dawn, only to fall asleep and miss another Finance 100 class. This may seem like a sad existence, but my lowest moment was months later; I was living in Manhattan for the summer and I woke up on Memorial Day next to a naked, sweaty, snoring U.S. Marine. He was the second Marine I slept with in two days and as my bedroom began to fill with light, I realized that I have to stop sleeping with men who have the potential to poison my body with some unholy sexually transmitted disease. And so, for 10 months, I still partied way too hard, but I was much more careful when choosing sexual conquests.

My heart was broken again just this week. But things are completely different. I know, this time, that this break up was not my fault. Well, in a way, I guess both parties are somewhat at fault in break ups because, let’s face it, it takes two to tango. So the unbalance in a relationship has to do with the connection between the two individuals in said relationship, but I digress. Anyway, this break up, which is proving to be much more devastating to me than the last, is not completely my fault. I know deep in my core that I could have done nothing different; that J’s inability to grow and his insecurity in his feelings for me, are the underlying reasons for our premature demise as a couple. And so, while I am unhappy about our split and am physically hurting from this heartbreak, I am in a much better place. I am, after 10 years of hating it, finally liking my body; I am taking great strides to build my career as a communications professional and writer; my health is at its peak and my level of physical and mental fitness is finally stable; my friends are more than amazing, as is my family; and I am actually beginning to really love myself. J, if you don’t want me, if you don’t want this pretty darn awesome person, then someone else out there will be more than happy to take me on, I’m sure of it. I am not comfortable saying, “well, J, it’s your loss,” because it’s my loss, too, because in so many ways, he is great and I miss him. J’s and my connection to each other was strong, our compatibility was crystal clear and the sickening level of happiness we felt when we were with each other will continue to haunt me as the days go by and as we get farther and farther from October 12, a date which has become my D-Day. Luckily, compared to D-Day, things can only get better.