I've read practically every article on the internet about why you should be thankful for your significant other breaking up with you because I was desperately searching for any scrap of positivity in what seemed like a very bleak existence. I was sixteen and in love for the first time (what I thought would be the only time) and only valued myself because he valued me and was petty, jealous and clingy and couldn't fathom why someone so incredible could ever love me. And then one day he wasn't sure if he loved me anymore and I wasn't sure how to move forward.
I was stripped bare. My identity had been linked to him. I filled his 6'2" void with other boys and played with their feelings and hurt a lot of people. I wrote a collection of vignettes about how he broke my heart and read it in front of an English class full of my peers, some of whom laughed at me sharing my still fresh pain (even though it was nine months later). I dated someone else.
I tried my best to get over him.
It still baffles me that someone could wake up one day and just not want to be with me but it's been two years now. I don't miss him but I miss having someone. I miss catching glances meant only for me and sneaking kisses at stop lights and interlacing fingers.
As much as I may miss those moments, however, I wouldn't trade them for the person that I have become.
In having to redefine myself without him, I found self-confidence, identity, and purpose. Yes, I'm still insecure, and yes, I still tend to base my self-worth off of other people's opinions of me - but it's an improvement. I grew as a feminist and took the time to educate myself on what being a feminist meant and did my best to inform other people. I started ordering food for myself...I'm not kidding, I had a hard time doing that! Senior year of high school requires a lot of decision making and I can't honestly say that proximity to my boyfriend wouldn't have been a main factor in choosing a college. I chose Holy Cross for the right reasons and couldn't be happier. I don't even recognize the person I was two years ago and I think I'm happy about that. I have strength of character and self-realization that I don't think I could have had without having my heart broken.
I think those articles about why you should be thankful for "that person who broke your heart" are missing the biggest point: being alone allows you to confront yourself, do a little soul-searching, figure out who you are. Yes, you will learn that life goes on, you can love again, that you are strong enough to get through it - but if you search enough, you'll find yourself in the rubble that is your broken heart.
[So, if you ever read this...thank you.]
Monday, January 11, 2016
Sunday, January 3, 2016
"The Opposite of Loneliness"
I've always had a passion for reading. I love how authors draw you in to a story that becomes your reality for a few hours; I identify with the characters and underline the phrases that speak to me and cry at the end of practically every book, no matter if the subject matter is sad or not. Books have offered me an escape and a promise - there are always new worlds for me to discover and there are characters to greet me with familiarity and tenderness each time I reread a favorite.
I'm not discriminate about what I read, I love anything from mysteries to non-fiction essays - I've even picked up my brother's Magic Tree House books in desperation for something, anything to read. The book shelf in my bedroom consists of one row entirely composed of John Grisham's legal thrillers, mostly purchased for a dollar apiece at the local Goodwill, another of coming of age novels featuring strong female protagonists mixed with anthropological works...an interesting assortment to say the least, a collection of my companions for the past 19 years - Anne of Green Gables, Francie from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, crime-fighting medical examiner Kay Scarpetta, the inhabitants of Ford County, the girl with the dragon tattoo, Hassan, José Arcadio.
Today I started (and finished) reading, The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan. Her writing is so poignant, clear, and witty even. At the age of 22, she writes in a way very accessible to a 19 year old college student like myself. I am in awe of Marina Keegan's talent, but felt a keen sadness while reading the book. The friend who recommended this book to me, as well as the foreword, informed me that Keegan actually passed away a few days after her graduation from Yale University. Every essay and story was therefore tinted by this knowledge. The title essay was written regarding her impending graduation from Yale University, and about what she feels being at Yale -- the opposite of loneliness. In this essay, she writes, "We're so young. We're so young. We're twenty-two years old. We have so much time." I couldn't help but think about how her time was cut short.
One of my favorite pieces in the book was actually just an excerpt from a poem of hers, "Nuclear Spring."
So what I'm trying to say is that you should text me back.
Because there's a precedent. Because there's an urgency.
Because there's a bedtime.
Because when the world ends I might not have my phone
charged and
If you don't respond soon,
I won't know if you'd wanna leave your shadow next to mine.
I could read that over and over and it would resonate with my every time. Almost ironically, her time was so unexpectedly short, and apparently she understood that with life, with everything really, there is this urgency and uncertainty and things change in a split second. Please believe me, I know how cliché this is shaping up to be, but there is a certain factuality to it, is there not? What if that boy never knows how much I really cared because I didn't want to seem too interested and I waited too long to show him and now it's too late? What if I go to bed angry with my family and someone doesn't wake up? There's an urgency. There's a precedent. There's a bedtime.
In the notes section of the book, Anne Fadiman (a professor and friend who helped put together Marina's work for publication) prompts the readers to think about what the opposite of loneliness is for them. I was particularly struck by this essay, and I think for me reading is the ultimate opposite of loneliness. When I am immersed in a book, I feel exactly what Marina Keegan was trying to define - it's knowing that for a few hours I get to be a part of whatever I'm reading, safely woven into the text on the pages of a (usually worn) paperback. The characters and the beauty of the way the author can string together seemingly disparate words from the English language to tell a story so well allows me to feel connected to something greater than myself; I feel the opposite of loneliness.
I'm not discriminate about what I read, I love anything from mysteries to non-fiction essays - I've even picked up my brother's Magic Tree House books in desperation for something, anything to read. The book shelf in my bedroom consists of one row entirely composed of John Grisham's legal thrillers, mostly purchased for a dollar apiece at the local Goodwill, another of coming of age novels featuring strong female protagonists mixed with anthropological works...an interesting assortment to say the least, a collection of my companions for the past 19 years - Anne of Green Gables, Francie from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, crime-fighting medical examiner Kay Scarpetta, the inhabitants of Ford County, the girl with the dragon tattoo, Hassan, José Arcadio.
Today I started (and finished) reading, The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan. Her writing is so poignant, clear, and witty even. At the age of 22, she writes in a way very accessible to a 19 year old college student like myself. I am in awe of Marina Keegan's talent, but felt a keen sadness while reading the book. The friend who recommended this book to me, as well as the foreword, informed me that Keegan actually passed away a few days after her graduation from Yale University. Every essay and story was therefore tinted by this knowledge. The title essay was written regarding her impending graduation from Yale University, and about what she feels being at Yale -- the opposite of loneliness. In this essay, she writes, "We're so young. We're so young. We're twenty-two years old. We have so much time." I couldn't help but think about how her time was cut short.
One of my favorite pieces in the book was actually just an excerpt from a poem of hers, "Nuclear Spring."
So what I'm trying to say is that you should text me back.
Because there's a precedent. Because there's an urgency.
Because there's a bedtime.
Because when the world ends I might not have my phone
charged and
If you don't respond soon,
I won't know if you'd wanna leave your shadow next to mine.
I could read that over and over and it would resonate with my every time. Almost ironically, her time was so unexpectedly short, and apparently she understood that with life, with everything really, there is this urgency and uncertainty and things change in a split second. Please believe me, I know how cliché this is shaping up to be, but there is a certain factuality to it, is there not? What if that boy never knows how much I really cared because I didn't want to seem too interested and I waited too long to show him and now it's too late? What if I go to bed angry with my family and someone doesn't wake up? There's an urgency. There's a precedent. There's a bedtime.
In the notes section of the book, Anne Fadiman (a professor and friend who helped put together Marina's work for publication) prompts the readers to think about what the opposite of loneliness is for them. I was particularly struck by this essay, and I think for me reading is the ultimate opposite of loneliness. When I am immersed in a book, I feel exactly what Marina Keegan was trying to define - it's knowing that for a few hours I get to be a part of whatever I'm reading, safely woven into the text on the pages of a (usually worn) paperback. The characters and the beauty of the way the author can string together seemingly disparate words from the English language to tell a story so well allows me to feel connected to something greater than myself; I feel the opposite of loneliness.
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