I usually don't repost articles written by others, but this one on Quora touched me so deeply that I'm reproducing it here.
Is it possible to ever move on after breaking up with a true love?
Yes, it is. Here is my story. I believe the best thing I can do for you is present it as truthfully as possible, in some detail—including the miscommunications and misunderstandings and failed attempts, and all the time and effort and pain and frustration I had to go through before real reconciliation could happen. I don’t want to make it seem any simpler or smoother or easier than it actually was. Rather, I want you to give you a realistic picture, to give you hope that even if you are as flawed and immature as I was, even if your process of reconciliation is as slow and jagged and full of mistakes as mine was, you can get there. My own understanding of this story is still evolving, but I will give you as much insight as I am able.
“Jane” (not her real name) was my very first girlfriend. She and I went to a Midwestern college together, and began dating when I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. I don’t have time to tell you the details of how we got together, except to say that she took the initiative to make it happen. I was probably too timid at the time to have done so.
She was everything I wasn’t. I was a shy introvert; she was a charming, expressive extravert who could work a room like a movie star. I didn’t have many friends; she had hundreds, and she was always dropping the names of famous people she knew. She was a natural leader and a talented artist. You can see what I look like, but she was extremely pretty, with perfect skin, large eyes, and delicate features. I was depressed and lethargic; she seemed to have boundless energy and initiative. I was a disheveled, bohemian intellectual, wearing ragged clothes and listening to far-out jazz and reading existentialist literature. She was an ambitious social climber who went to operas and art galleries and read business magazines. Most importantly, while I suffered from crippling feelings of inferiority, she had incredible self-assurance and a sense of entitlement. From the stories she told, I got the impression that anybody, no matter how inaccessible to the rest of us, would give her anything she asked for. Just about every adult that we knew in common, including my parents, thought she was one of the most impressive people they’d ever met. She was very aware of this, of course.
Why she was attracted to me, I still don’t really understand. At the time, it seemed like an impossible dream come true. I had never experienced much emotional closeness or affirmation from any woman before, especially not the message that I was a desirable person. To get that from a “goddess” like her was an indescribable high, as addictive as a drug. For reasons I’ll go into more next time I speak, I became intensely, unhealthily, emotionally dependent on her. I was desperately afraid it wouldn’t last, and I tried desperately hard to make sure it would.
Things were great for a while. We spent many hours together, talking about our thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams. She wrote me very long, very affectionate letters, telling me how much she liked me. We talked about marriage a few times, though we never made any plans. She asked me to write a letter to her father, asking for his permission to court her, and I did.
But at the same time that I was starving for closeness, she felt the need for distance. I wanted more and more of her; she wanted less and less of me. After two or three months together, she started to pull away, in ways that were insensitive, misleading, and hurtful. She should have broken up with me. But instead, for reasons I still don’t understand, she led me on for a long time. Ladies, if you want to learn how to emotionally a weak, insecure man, take notes on this next section.
I would invite her to things again and again, and she would decline, usually saying she wanted more time with her roommate. Or she would agree, only to cancel at the last minute because she got a babysitting opportunity or something. When we would talk on the phone, she would make strange excuses to end the conversation. Frequently it would be two weeks at a time, or more, when I wouldn’t see her. Once, after a period like this, I said, “It’s been a long time, and I’ve missed you.” She said, “We should have breaks from each other more often.” And yet, there were times during that period, fewer and farther between, when she would be just as affectionate as before.
Once, I approached her in the hallway while she was talking to a friend. She continued her conversation for two or three minutes without acknowledging me, then turned to me, said “I’m late for something,” and walked away.
Many times, I asked her what was wrong, whether we still had a relationship, and she would always say, “Everything’s fine. I’m just busy, not avoiding you. We’ll get together more when I’m less busy.” But she never got any less busy. Over spring break, for example, we talked only once, for about 10 minutes. Once I asked her, “What do I have to do to spend more time with you?” She said, “You’re the man, so take more initiative!” That was confusing! It was clear that whatever we had would be entirely on her terms. I felt powerless. Like George on Seinfeld:
This went on for several months, and I got increasingly frustrated, to put it mildly. I should have realized it was over and moved on. In fact, I should have refused to accept such treatment and ended things myself. But I was too deeply dependent on her. I had never been in a relationship before and didn’t think I ever would be again. I was terrified of being alone. I had very little self-respect. I would have put up with almost anything, hoping she would change, hoping things would go back to how they were.
I desperately wanted resolution. So I asked her, “Please let’s have a conversation. It’s very important.” My intention was to apologize for own offenses, have a real conversation about what had happened, and express to her how much pain she was putting me through. I asked to meet with her at a specific place and time, and she agreed. I spent several nights praying and emotionally preparing for this encounter. I thought to myself, “If I turn the other cheek, if I humble myself before her and admit my own part, if I treat her with as much civility as I am able... then things will go well, then I will feel better.” (Where did I go wrong with this? I still don’t fully know.)
And then, the night before our meeting, as she had done so many times before, she said, “I can’t make it; I have a meeting for a project I’m working on.” I felt very disrespected. Once again she had shown how low of a priority I was to her. So we rescheduled, and I told her, “Please don’t plan any meetings right before or after this, and please don’t bring your cell phone, because I want your undivided attention for a while.” She said, “You’re scaring me.”
We did meet. She did arrive late and leave early because of other meetings. But we did get to talk. I said, “I’m sorry for the times I’ve been prickly to you these last few months.” (Thinking to myself, “Girl, you’re lucky because you’ve only experienced about 1% of the anger I’m feeling toward you.”) And she said, “Yes, you have been.” I said, “Is there anything else I need to apologize for?” She said, “Yes—you remember that letter you wrote to me last month, expressing your thoughts on relationships and sexuality? I showed it to my mom and my girlfriends, and we agreed that it was inappropriate.” I was mortified. Then I asked her, “Why have you been so distant?” She said, “Well, I realized six months ago that I wasn’t interested in you anymore. I don’t know why you didn’t get the message.” This caught me completely off guard. I don’t remember what we talked about after that. I gave her some flowers I had picked as a gesture of goodwill, and I walked home in a daze.
To be fair to her, she didn’t say it in these words, but what I heard was, “Once I got to know you more deeply, I realized that you weren’t good enough for me.” I’ve read that arrogant people are much more susceptible to being manipulated by flattery, because they believe it. I suppose the opposite phenomenon is that people who see themselves as worthless will interpret every failure and rejection as a confirmation of that.
That night was the worst I’ve had in my life. None of my friends were there for me; all of them were busy doing something else. I was so desperate that I called my parents and filled them in on what had happened. They said, “It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll get over it.” I expressed how much she had hurt me, and they said, “She’s a great girl, so she can’t possibly have been that bad. You must be overreacting.” I told them how angry I was at her, how I was having thoughts of hurting her, and they said, “That’s sinful. You should repent.”
I went into the bathroom with a knife and started jabbing myself in the leg (though I was too wimpy to draw blood.) I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. It was an alcohol-free campus, so I drank a big dose of Nyquil. Nothing helped. I lay awake that night writing vicious letters to her (which I am glad to say I never sent). I don’t remember much about the next few weeks. I got through my classes, but I don’t think I was very functional otherwise.
After the shock and despair came a volcanic eruption of rage. I had no idea I was capable of being that angry and bitter at another human being. I can’t describe to you what I was feeling, except to say that when my wonderful, beloved grandfather died, I felt deep grief and loss. I cried a lot. But I would rather go through that ten times than experience this again. That time I was surrounded by other mourners, people who loved him and loved me too. This time I was totally alone in it. That time I had full permission to grieve, the assurance that it was the proper thing to do. That grief felt “clean.” This one was mixed with guilt and shame and anger—including guilt for being so angry, anger at myself for being such a chump that she would treat me this way, and shame for being so weak and unable to “get over it.”
Now that I think about it, it makes sense—to have someone you love die should be less traumatic than to have someone you love say, “I don’t love you, and I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” In both cases, the person is lost to you, but in the second case there’s the additional blow to your sense of self.
I’m very ashamed of how I treated Jane after that. In light of my subsequent behavior, I could no longer believe I was a nice person. I’m also at a loss for how to explain it. But this idea of a narcissistic wound helps. And I suspect that she tapped into a reservoir of rage that I had been storing up since long before I met her.
A few months later, she sent me a friendly, casual e-mail. I think she wanted to resume contact, and she probably saw this as the first step in working toward peace. But I took this as an opportunity to express all the anger I’d been bottling up, and I fired back a furious, accusatory reply. I told her, “You put me through months of emotional torture. You lied to me. You violated my trust. How dare you act as if everything is OK?” Poor girl, that must have surprised her. As I saw it at the time, to respond with civility would have been to betray myself, to let her off the hook. I didn’t want to have a pleasant chat. I wanted her to pay—or at least own what she did and come crawling back to me. That’s called win-lose thinking, class. Raise your hands: how many of you think that the guy is going to get his wish, that Jane is going to do that?
She responded with some accusations of her own, things she said I did to her. I really didn’t remember them that way, so it’s possible that she was telling herself a story to feel better about how she had treated me. I don’t know. And she said, “God made it clear to me that we weren’t supposed to be together. It saddens me that you were unable to see that.” Today, I believe she was right. God really didn’t want us together, and I really was unable to see it. But in that moment, I interpreted her remarks as self-righteous and condescending, an attempt to take the high ground and avoid responsibility for her actions. I was pissed off.
This is when things got really confusing. One night, both of us went to a Christian worship service. People were washing each other’s feet. I approached her and said, “I want to wash your feet.” She said, “I want to wash your feet too.” It was a moving experience for both of us.
She must have thought we were reconciled, because whenever she walked by me she would smile. We had a couple of brief, friendly conversations. But soon I realized I was still very hurt and couldn’t bear to be near her. And as much as ever, I still wanted to punish her. I thought, “You’re not getting off that easily.” So for a long time, she would smile at me as she walked by, and I would deliberately, obviously refuse to acknowledge her.
The next fall, when we were back at school, she sent me a friend request on Facebook. Now, I felt, I could get some “hand.” I told her, “If I get an apology, we could be Facebook friends... And maybe even real friends.” She said, “I thought we had been through that, but sure, whatever you say.” And a couple of weeks later I got a card in the mail from her. It said something like, “I’m sorry you didn’t understand that our relationship was over, and I’m sorry your feelings were hurt. Have a nice life.” I immediately wrote back to her, correctly but very ungraciously, “I don’t accept your apology, because that was not a real apology. These are the things I want you to apologize for.”
That was our last interaction for a long time. I didn’t get any more smiles from her. For about two more years, I had to see her almost daily on campus, watching her flirt with other guys, reading stories in the student newspaper about things she was doing, overhearing people talk about how amazing she was. To me, it was a regular reminder of my own inadequacy. Every time I saw her or heard her name, even years afterward, it gave me a powerful physical reaction, something like a punch to the solar plexus.
It’s strange, though, that as much as I hated her, I still cared about her. During this time, she ran for student body president. Of course, I dreadfully wanted her to lose. To my great surprise, she did—by a large margin! (Explain that.) I heard through the grapevine that on the same day, she got some news of a family crisis. One of my friends told me she saw her crying that evening. My heart softened toward Jane in that moment. For a little while, I felt sympathy for her. But the old feelings soon returned.
Anyway, there was no contact between us for about three years. Neither of us had gotten what we wanted, but we had given up. It was a stalemate. During this time, I became mistrustful of women. I was in a couple of so-called relationships, but they were very brief and shallow and mostly physical, using each other. I might have become a “player” if I’d had “game,” but I didn’t, and I think I still had too much of a conscience. So I was mostly just lonely and frustrated.
A major priority in any sort of recovery is forgiveness, letting go of resentments. And of course, I had this gigantic resentment that I had never been able to let release, though I must say I had really tried.
One of the most influential people in my growth journey during this time was a woman named E. She’s someone I would describe as a mystic. We formed a deep platonic friendship as we experienced healing together. In some striking ways she’s the opposite of Jane: she’s more concerned with the inner life than with worldly things, she prefers a few deep friends to a lot of shallow ones, she’s a straight talker who doesn’t play games, she doesn’t use distancing tactics, she’s a loyal and dependable friend, she makes space in her life for contemplation, and she’s open about her own pain and weakness. Through many encouraging words and acts of love, she helped me rebuild my sense of worth and masculinity.
Also, I heard for the first time, “You were wronged.” This validated my feelings and allowed me to move forward.
I started seeing Jane in dreams. Very short ones. She was standing near me, and each successive dream she would be a little closer, until finally I was giving her a hug. E told me, “Don’t be hasty about acting on those. Be very careful. Protect yourself.”
At the same time, I was working through the Twelve Steps—something I would recommend to anybody else here who is a human being. They involve making a list of your resentments, acknowledging your character defects and your powerlessness over them, committing them to your higher power, and then working to make amends to those you have wronged. I wrote many pages on Jane. And the more I wrote, the more I began to see how much I was responsible for, how much my own flaws had contributed to what happened, how much I had set myself up for pain, and how unfair I had been to her. I had been self-centered, I hadn’t respected her boundaries or hesitations, I had ignored a lot of things she was trying to communicate to me, and I had given her actions the least charitable interpretation possible, making her out to be more of a monster than she actually was. If any of you had tried to tell me these things, I would have punched you in the face. I was in too much pain to handle this kind of criticism. I had to come to these realizations on my own.
Finally, it came time to make amends to her. She was in town visiting some other people for a short time, and I took the opportunity to invite her to meet me at a coffee shop. She accepted. I remember the encounter vividly. It was early afternoon on a warm day, and as I was parking my car, I saw her walk in. I had butterflies in my stomach. When I got inside, she gave me an awkward hug. I bristled and tensed up a little bit. I bought her a drink. The store was a small, crowded place, and we sat down at a tiny table in the corner. My sponsor had recommended, “Plan what you’re going to say, keep it brief, and don’t improvise.” So over the din of the other customers, I read her a brief letter I had written beforehand, apologizing specifically for how I had wronged her. Although she’s the kind of person who always projects a cool and unruffled countenance, I could tell she was affected by my words—uncomfortable, but also relieved. I gave her the paper. And she looked at me and said, “I’m sorry too. I know I treated you badly, and I know I hurt you.” Then (surprise) she said, “I’ve got another appointment very soon!” I thanked her and left. It was a climactic moment for my soul, and I wanted the scene to reflect that. I wanted to see doves flying around, or something. I wanted to hear orchestral swells in the background, not traffic noises. I wanted a big emotional release. Instead I felt calm and kind of numb. But when I got home I knew the resentment was gone.
If this were a short story, that would be a good place to end it. But life is anticlimactic. Several months later, she was in town again, and this time she invited me to have a drink with her. It was awkward. Although I no longer held a grudge against her, all of my defense mechanisms were still in full force, and I found it impossible to have a relaxed conversation with her. I was too inhibited to get many words out. And for a couple of weeks afterward, I became obsessed with her again, thinking, “Maybe we’ll get together again, and maybe it will be better this time.” (In case anybody thinks I’m a smart person, try to account for this!) I invited her to meet me again, and she declined, saying “I’m too busy.”
The last interaction I had with her was a little over a year ago. She asked me to drive her somewhere, about an hour away, so we had a conversation in the car. And this is when I finally realized it: she was broken too. Her issues were so different from mine that I had never been able to see them before, but now, with some more maturity and perspective, I could. She was narcissistic—she talked the whole way there about her abilities and her achievements and her powerful connections, and she barely listened to me at all. She needed to be the center of attention, constantly admired by others. Her identity was wrapped up in her accomplishments and performance. She had a very hard time admitting weakness. She wasn’t very self aware. She had to keep herself constantly busy. She had an “Avoider” attachment style and few long-term relationships. And then I thought back on our time in college, and some of the anomalies made sense. For example, I realized that not everybody had worshiped her, that there had been other people who were put off by her.
My feeling about her that day was, “Wow, you’re still gorgeous. And I definitely couldn’t keep up with you and all the things you’re doing. But even after an hour, I already find you obnoxious, and I don’t want to be around you anymore.” And strangely, that’s just what I needed to finally let her go. She had become so much less threatening, so much less godlike. She no longer made me feel so small in comparison. And then I was able to acknowledge her good qualities, too.
Not long ago, I heard through some mutual acquaintances that she was engaged. I don’t know much about her fiancé except that he’s a tall, handsome, high achiever. He’s probably a hotshot businessman. I’m sure he’s way cooler than I am. But I knew I had made progress, because I didn’t have a reaction. My stomach was fine. I thought, “Good luck to you, Jane,” and moved on.
And the latest chapter in the story is sharing it with others. There are still some things I left out because they’re too hard to admit. But every time I return to these memories, I am a little more comfortable with them, a little less reactive. This allows me to be more objective and insightful about what really happened. Thanks for reading.
“Jane” (not her real name) was my very first girlfriend. She and I went to a Midwestern college together, and began dating when I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. I don’t have time to tell you the details of how we got together, except to say that she took the initiative to make it happen. I was probably too timid at the time to have done so.
She was everything I wasn’t. I was a shy introvert; she was a charming, expressive extravert who could work a room like a movie star. I didn’t have many friends; she had hundreds, and she was always dropping the names of famous people she knew. She was a natural leader and a talented artist. You can see what I look like, but she was extremely pretty, with perfect skin, large eyes, and delicate features. I was depressed and lethargic; she seemed to have boundless energy and initiative. I was a disheveled, bohemian intellectual, wearing ragged clothes and listening to far-out jazz and reading existentialist literature. She was an ambitious social climber who went to operas and art galleries and read business magazines. Most importantly, while I suffered from crippling feelings of inferiority, she had incredible self-assurance and a sense of entitlement. From the stories she told, I got the impression that anybody, no matter how inaccessible to the rest of us, would give her anything she asked for. Just about every adult that we knew in common, including my parents, thought she was one of the most impressive people they’d ever met. She was very aware of this, of course.
Why she was attracted to me, I still don’t really understand. At the time, it seemed like an impossible dream come true. I had never experienced much emotional closeness or affirmation from any woman before, especially not the message that I was a desirable person. To get that from a “goddess” like her was an indescribable high, as addictive as a drug. For reasons I’ll go into more next time I speak, I became intensely, unhealthily, emotionally dependent on her. I was desperately afraid it wouldn’t last, and I tried desperately hard to make sure it would.
Things were great for a while. We spent many hours together, talking about our thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams. She wrote me very long, very affectionate letters, telling me how much she liked me. We talked about marriage a few times, though we never made any plans. She asked me to write a letter to her father, asking for his permission to court her, and I did.
But at the same time that I was starving for closeness, she felt the need for distance. I wanted more and more of her; she wanted less and less of me. After two or three months together, she started to pull away, in ways that were insensitive, misleading, and hurtful. She should have broken up with me. But instead, for reasons I still don’t understand, she led me on for a long time. Ladies, if you want to learn how to emotionally a weak, insecure man, take notes on this next section.
I would invite her to things again and again, and she would decline, usually saying she wanted more time with her roommate. Or she would agree, only to cancel at the last minute because she got a babysitting opportunity or something. When we would talk on the phone, she would make strange excuses to end the conversation. Frequently it would be two weeks at a time, or more, when I wouldn’t see her. Once, after a period like this, I said, “It’s been a long time, and I’ve missed you.” She said, “We should have breaks from each other more often.” And yet, there were times during that period, fewer and farther between, when she would be just as affectionate as before.
Once, I approached her in the hallway while she was talking to a friend. She continued her conversation for two or three minutes without acknowledging me, then turned to me, said “I’m late for something,” and walked away.
Many times, I asked her what was wrong, whether we still had a relationship, and she would always say, “Everything’s fine. I’m just busy, not avoiding you. We’ll get together more when I’m less busy.” But she never got any less busy. Over spring break, for example, we talked only once, for about 10 minutes. Once I asked her, “What do I have to do to spend more time with you?” She said, “You’re the man, so take more initiative!” That was confusing! It was clear that whatever we had would be entirely on her terms. I felt powerless. Like George on Seinfeld:
GEORGE: [to Jerry] No, everything is not going good. I’m very uncomfortable. I have no power. I mean, why should she have the upper hand? Once in my life I would like the upper hand. I have no hand—no hand at all. She has the hand; I have no hand... How do I get the hand?
...
GEORGE: You can’t break up with me, I’ve got hand!
NOEL: And you’re gonna need it.
This went on for several months, and I got increasingly frustrated, to put it mildly. I should have realized it was over and moved on. In fact, I should have refused to accept such treatment and ended things myself. But I was too deeply dependent on her. I had never been in a relationship before and didn’t think I ever would be again. I was terrified of being alone. I had very little self-respect. I would have put up with almost anything, hoping she would change, hoping things would go back to how they were.
I desperately wanted resolution. So I asked her, “Please let’s have a conversation. It’s very important.” My intention was to apologize for own offenses, have a real conversation about what had happened, and express to her how much pain she was putting me through. I asked to meet with her at a specific place and time, and she agreed. I spent several nights praying and emotionally preparing for this encounter. I thought to myself, “If I turn the other cheek, if I humble myself before her and admit my own part, if I treat her with as much civility as I am able... then things will go well, then I will feel better.” (Where did I go wrong with this? I still don’t fully know.)
And then, the night before our meeting, as she had done so many times before, she said, “I can’t make it; I have a meeting for a project I’m working on.” I felt very disrespected. Once again she had shown how low of a priority I was to her. So we rescheduled, and I told her, “Please don’t plan any meetings right before or after this, and please don’t bring your cell phone, because I want your undivided attention for a while.” She said, “You’re scaring me.”
We did meet. She did arrive late and leave early because of other meetings. But we did get to talk. I said, “I’m sorry for the times I’ve been prickly to you these last few months.” (Thinking to myself, “Girl, you’re lucky because you’ve only experienced about 1% of the anger I’m feeling toward you.”) And she said, “Yes, you have been.” I said, “Is there anything else I need to apologize for?” She said, “Yes—you remember that letter you wrote to me last month, expressing your thoughts on relationships and sexuality? I showed it to my mom and my girlfriends, and we agreed that it was inappropriate.” I was mortified. Then I asked her, “Why have you been so distant?” She said, “Well, I realized six months ago that I wasn’t interested in you anymore. I don’t know why you didn’t get the message.” This caught me completely off guard. I don’t remember what we talked about after that. I gave her some flowers I had picked as a gesture of goodwill, and I walked home in a daze.
To be fair to her, she didn’t say it in these words, but what I heard was, “Once I got to know you more deeply, I realized that you weren’t good enough for me.” I’ve read that arrogant people are much more susceptible to being manipulated by flattery, because they believe it. I suppose the opposite phenomenon is that people who see themselves as worthless will interpret every failure and rejection as a confirmation of that.
That night was the worst I’ve had in my life. None of my friends were there for me; all of them were busy doing something else. I was so desperate that I called my parents and filled them in on what had happened. They said, “It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll get over it.” I expressed how much she had hurt me, and they said, “She’s a great girl, so she can’t possibly have been that bad. You must be overreacting.” I told them how angry I was at her, how I was having thoughts of hurting her, and they said, “That’s sinful. You should repent.”
I went into the bathroom with a knife and started jabbing myself in the leg (though I was too wimpy to draw blood.) I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. It was an alcohol-free campus, so I drank a big dose of Nyquil. Nothing helped. I lay awake that night writing vicious letters to her (which I am glad to say I never sent). I don’t remember much about the next few weeks. I got through my classes, but I don’t think I was very functional otherwise.
After the shock and despair came a volcanic eruption of rage. I had no idea I was capable of being that angry and bitter at another human being. I can’t describe to you what I was feeling, except to say that when my wonderful, beloved grandfather died, I felt deep grief and loss. I cried a lot. But I would rather go through that ten times than experience this again. That time I was surrounded by other mourners, people who loved him and loved me too. This time I was totally alone in it. That time I had full permission to grieve, the assurance that it was the proper thing to do. That grief felt “clean.” This one was mixed with guilt and shame and anger—including guilt for being so angry, anger at myself for being such a chump that she would treat me this way, and shame for being so weak and unable to “get over it.”
Now that I think about it, it makes sense—to have someone you love die should be less traumatic than to have someone you love say, “I don’t love you, and I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” In both cases, the person is lost to you, but in the second case there’s the additional blow to your sense of self.
I’m very ashamed of how I treated Jane after that. In light of my subsequent behavior, I could no longer believe I was a nice person. I’m also at a loss for how to explain it. But this idea of a narcissistic wound helps. And I suspect that she tapped into a reservoir of rage that I had been storing up since long before I met her.
A few months later, she sent me a friendly, casual e-mail. I think she wanted to resume contact, and she probably saw this as the first step in working toward peace. But I took this as an opportunity to express all the anger I’d been bottling up, and I fired back a furious, accusatory reply. I told her, “You put me through months of emotional torture. You lied to me. You violated my trust. How dare you act as if everything is OK?” Poor girl, that must have surprised her. As I saw it at the time, to respond with civility would have been to betray myself, to let her off the hook. I didn’t want to have a pleasant chat. I wanted her to pay—or at least own what she did and come crawling back to me. That’s called win-lose thinking, class. Raise your hands: how many of you think that the guy is going to get his wish, that Jane is going to do that?
She responded with some accusations of her own, things she said I did to her. I really didn’t remember them that way, so it’s possible that she was telling herself a story to feel better about how she had treated me. I don’t know. And she said, “God made it clear to me that we weren’t supposed to be together. It saddens me that you were unable to see that.” Today, I believe she was right. God really didn’t want us together, and I really was unable to see it. But in that moment, I interpreted her remarks as self-righteous and condescending, an attempt to take the high ground and avoid responsibility for her actions. I was pissed off.
This is when things got really confusing. One night, both of us went to a Christian worship service. People were washing each other’s feet. I approached her and said, “I want to wash your feet.” She said, “I want to wash your feet too.” It was a moving experience for both of us.
She must have thought we were reconciled, because whenever she walked by me she would smile. We had a couple of brief, friendly conversations. But soon I realized I was still very hurt and couldn’t bear to be near her. And as much as ever, I still wanted to punish her. I thought, “You’re not getting off that easily.” So for a long time, she would smile at me as she walked by, and I would deliberately, obviously refuse to acknowledge her.
The next fall, when we were back at school, she sent me a friend request on Facebook. Now, I felt, I could get some “hand.” I told her, “If I get an apology, we could be Facebook friends... And maybe even real friends.” She said, “I thought we had been through that, but sure, whatever you say.” And a couple of weeks later I got a card in the mail from her. It said something like, “I’m sorry you didn’t understand that our relationship was over, and I’m sorry your feelings were hurt. Have a nice life.” I immediately wrote back to her, correctly but very ungraciously, “I don’t accept your apology, because that was not a real apology. These are the things I want you to apologize for.”
That was our last interaction for a long time. I didn’t get any more smiles from her. For about two more years, I had to see her almost daily on campus, watching her flirt with other guys, reading stories in the student newspaper about things she was doing, overhearing people talk about how amazing she was. To me, it was a regular reminder of my own inadequacy. Every time I saw her or heard her name, even years afterward, it gave me a powerful physical reaction, something like a punch to the solar plexus.
It’s strange, though, that as much as I hated her, I still cared about her. During this time, she ran for student body president. Of course, I dreadfully wanted her to lose. To my great surprise, she did—by a large margin! (Explain that.) I heard through the grapevine that on the same day, she got some news of a family crisis. One of my friends told me she saw her crying that evening. My heart softened toward Jane in that moment. For a little while, I felt sympathy for her. But the old feelings soon returned.
Anyway, there was no contact between us for about three years. Neither of us had gotten what we wanted, but we had given up. It was a stalemate. During this time, I became mistrustful of women. I was in a couple of so-called relationships, but they were very brief and shallow and mostly physical, using each other. I might have become a “player” if I’d had “game,” but I didn’t, and I think I still had too much of a conscience. So I was mostly just lonely and frustrated.
A major priority in any sort of recovery is forgiveness, letting go of resentments. And of course, I had this gigantic resentment that I had never been able to let release, though I must say I had really tried.
One of the most influential people in my growth journey during this time was a woman named E. She’s someone I would describe as a mystic. We formed a deep platonic friendship as we experienced healing together. In some striking ways she’s the opposite of Jane: she’s more concerned with the inner life than with worldly things, she prefers a few deep friends to a lot of shallow ones, she’s a straight talker who doesn’t play games, she doesn’t use distancing tactics, she’s a loyal and dependable friend, she makes space in her life for contemplation, and she’s open about her own pain and weakness. Through many encouraging words and acts of love, she helped me rebuild my sense of worth and masculinity.
Also, I heard for the first time, “You were wronged.” This validated my feelings and allowed me to move forward.
I started seeing Jane in dreams. Very short ones. She was standing near me, and each successive dream she would be a little closer, until finally I was giving her a hug. E told me, “Don’t be hasty about acting on those. Be very careful. Protect yourself.”
At the same time, I was working through the Twelve Steps—something I would recommend to anybody else here who is a human being. They involve making a list of your resentments, acknowledging your character defects and your powerlessness over them, committing them to your higher power, and then working to make amends to those you have wronged. I wrote many pages on Jane. And the more I wrote, the more I began to see how much I was responsible for, how much my own flaws had contributed to what happened, how much I had set myself up for pain, and how unfair I had been to her. I had been self-centered, I hadn’t respected her boundaries or hesitations, I had ignored a lot of things she was trying to communicate to me, and I had given her actions the least charitable interpretation possible, making her out to be more of a monster than she actually was. If any of you had tried to tell me these things, I would have punched you in the face. I was in too much pain to handle this kind of criticism. I had to come to these realizations on my own.
Finally, it came time to make amends to her. She was in town visiting some other people for a short time, and I took the opportunity to invite her to meet me at a coffee shop. She accepted. I remember the encounter vividly. It was early afternoon on a warm day, and as I was parking my car, I saw her walk in. I had butterflies in my stomach. When I got inside, she gave me an awkward hug. I bristled and tensed up a little bit. I bought her a drink. The store was a small, crowded place, and we sat down at a tiny table in the corner. My sponsor had recommended, “Plan what you’re going to say, keep it brief, and don’t improvise.” So over the din of the other customers, I read her a brief letter I had written beforehand, apologizing specifically for how I had wronged her. Although she’s the kind of person who always projects a cool and unruffled countenance, I could tell she was affected by my words—uncomfortable, but also relieved. I gave her the paper. And she looked at me and said, “I’m sorry too. I know I treated you badly, and I know I hurt you.” Then (surprise) she said, “I’ve got another appointment very soon!” I thanked her and left. It was a climactic moment for my soul, and I wanted the scene to reflect that. I wanted to see doves flying around, or something. I wanted to hear orchestral swells in the background, not traffic noises. I wanted a big emotional release. Instead I felt calm and kind of numb. But when I got home I knew the resentment was gone.
If this were a short story, that would be a good place to end it. But life is anticlimactic. Several months later, she was in town again, and this time she invited me to have a drink with her. It was awkward. Although I no longer held a grudge against her, all of my defense mechanisms were still in full force, and I found it impossible to have a relaxed conversation with her. I was too inhibited to get many words out. And for a couple of weeks afterward, I became obsessed with her again, thinking, “Maybe we’ll get together again, and maybe it will be better this time.” (In case anybody thinks I’m a smart person, try to account for this!) I invited her to meet me again, and she declined, saying “I’m too busy.”
The last interaction I had with her was a little over a year ago. She asked me to drive her somewhere, about an hour away, so we had a conversation in the car. And this is when I finally realized it: she was broken too. Her issues were so different from mine that I had never been able to see them before, but now, with some more maturity and perspective, I could. She was narcissistic—she talked the whole way there about her abilities and her achievements and her powerful connections, and she barely listened to me at all. She needed to be the center of attention, constantly admired by others. Her identity was wrapped up in her accomplishments and performance. She had a very hard time admitting weakness. She wasn’t very self aware. She had to keep herself constantly busy. She had an “Avoider” attachment style and few long-term relationships. And then I thought back on our time in college, and some of the anomalies made sense. For example, I realized that not everybody had worshiped her, that there had been other people who were put off by her.
My feeling about her that day was, “Wow, you’re still gorgeous. And I definitely couldn’t keep up with you and all the things you’re doing. But even after an hour, I already find you obnoxious, and I don’t want to be around you anymore.” And strangely, that’s just what I needed to finally let her go. She had become so much less threatening, so much less godlike. She no longer made me feel so small in comparison. And then I was able to acknowledge her good qualities, too.
Not long ago, I heard through some mutual acquaintances that she was engaged. I don’t know much about her fiancé except that he’s a tall, handsome, high achiever. He’s probably a hotshot businessman. I’m sure he’s way cooler than I am. But I knew I had made progress, because I didn’t have a reaction. My stomach was fine. I thought, “Good luck to you, Jane,” and moved on.
And the latest chapter in the story is sharing it with others. There are still some things I left out because they’re too hard to admit. But every time I return to these memories, I am a little more comfortable with them, a little less reactive. This allows me to be more objective and insightful about what really happened. Thanks for reading.
-Anonymous
