GETTING OVER HEARTBREAK ON CHRISTMAS
December 26th 2011 15:38
My heartbroken friends have done all sorts of things. They’ve threatened to kill themselves, they’ve killed themselves, they’ve cried in their cars, they've cried in their rooms, they've cried in front of crowds, they’ve beaten people, they’ve gotten tattoos, they’ve signed up to ballroom dancing. And it's not like these actions were always predictable - there's something about being in the period of heartbreak that turns us into strangers, into people we never knew we'd become.
I’ve found that first heartbreaks are always the most scarring. Every heartbreak after that, although still painful, becomes less and less intense. I remember my first heartbreak: it was with a girl who was two years older than I was, and she left me for God. I vanished from the universe and didn’t return for months.
I’ve also found that there’s a certain breed of people who attract heartbreak. They don’t necessarily go out and look for it, but it happens. If they’re not cheating or being cheated on, they’re victims of some kind of violence, or they’re breaking up with someone, or they’re being broken up with again and again and again, and you can spot these people in the crowd: it’s in their eyes, it’s in the way they crease their foreheads and post their photos on facebook and drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes and respond blankly when you ask them a question.
I’ve also found that for many of these people, the heartbreak eventually ends. And it’s not time that mends their downward spiral – it’s pure luck.
“You do know it’s all your fault the receptionist left you.” I was having Boxing Day breakfast in Vail’s big home.
“I know,” I said. I had two hours of sleep and was slightly dizzy.
“But she does sound crazy, with the ex-fiancé and everything.” Vail poked last night’s leftover ham with her fork. She lifted a piece up a little before changing her mind and putting it back down. “Maybe it’s like, for the better?”
“Whatever it is, I want more alcohol.”
“You’re not getting more alcohol,” she said.
“I’m in pain. I’m in a terrible, selfish pain. Why can’t I get more alcohol?”
“Well, Dean,” she shrugged, “if you haven’t yet noticed all your vomit on my driveway, alcohol is bad for you.”
“These forks look expensive,” I said.
“They are expensive, Dean.”
I pushed my plate away. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. A lot of hurtful mistakes.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve made more mistakes than you have. But like, life goes on.”
I looked at her face carefully, at the way she responded to everything. “You’ve matured, you bitch!”
“So what?”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I ended our breakfast by raising my mug of coffee and smiling the worst smile anybody could ever possibly make. “Merry Christmas, Vail.”
She giggled and smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
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