There is nothing quite like a failure in romance to transport me instantly into being a teenager experiencing the first flush of disappointment. The sense of nihilism that you will feel like this forever, that you won’t be able to stop thinking about them, that they will move on quicker than you will, that you will see them on a street holding hands with another person and your heart will seek to escape through your mouth.
But as bad as it feels, somewhere in there is a sense of pride that I tried, that I yet again put myself out there even though it’s hard, as well as an immovable knowledge that however much my heart aches, that I will be okay, and will thrive and be well. This is not how I felt when I was a teenager, and certainly not in my twenties.
With age comes hard-earned wisdom, however, it’s still not easy. If I want to angst or agonise, I have to look no further than my phone, which holds their voice, and the timeline of our first meeting to now.
But then again, when people want to angst, they’ll find a way regardless. When I was a teenager, if I wanted to agonise over a crush or ex, I would have to try and bump into them at the school gates, perhaps throw a mix-tape of love ballads at their head.
In my 20s there were nights out that ended up crying to Celine Dion (How Do I Live Without You) and many drunk unanswered phone calls and rambling voicemails to various paramours – which often had no impact apart from deep embarrassment the next day.
Although I no longer call or message people while drunk – I’ve somehow grown a booze monitor goblin who sits on my shoulder and tells me to wait until the next day - even with all of the experience of my 43 years, I’ve been recently experiencing the kind of mental gymnastics that even my 20-something self would have been embarrassed about.
I’m emerging from a situation, where I’ve fallen for a man, who is a great human being. There are circumstances as to why we aren’t together, and to mitigate any well-meaning cries of Doesn’t He Know How Amazing You Are, let me assure you he is a brilliant communicator, I wasn’t led on, and things ended amicably. But, the unavoidable rub is that it was his choice for us not to be together, not mine.
We’ve agreed on no contact – it’s easier in the long run and primarily because we don’t believe in being friends with people we’re no longer romantically involved with. And while I know it’s the right decision, fuck me, it’s tough. Not just because I miss him and the universe seems to be playing a daily joke of making me come across things that I know he’d find funny or share commiserations. But because there are multiple narratives and influences making me question things.
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When I have spoken to people briefly about this situation, the most common response is to ask if we have had any contact in the last month. When I say we haven’t, and that I haven’t messaged, the common response is surprise. When I asked a friend why they reacted that way, they replied: “Well, because most people would have cracked and messaged by now.”
That set off a spiral. Should I message? What if a beautifully crafted text changed his mind and I was WASTING TIME being a coward? And then sanity set in and I remembered no, this isn’t the plot of a film. This is real life, my life.
It made me reflect on the endless whataboutery around texting someone you have a romantic interest in, and the excuses we give, the lies we tell ourselves, the desperate belief in the narrative around romance that perhaps a message could change the outcome of something. The many hours I spent, ever since I got my first mobile phone at the age of 18, debating whether or not to text someone, crafting a message that I believed could make them want to be with me.
In my 20s, my heart was pure fire. I believed that my words could change someone’s mind because hadn’t I seen it role modelled to me endlessly on TV and in film? If someone was bad at replying or ghosted me, I felt I needed to pour my emotions into their device, because perhaps they didn’t know how I felt, and if they knew, they would instantly fall in love with me too. (It never worked).
Then, standing in the embers of a dying relationship wondering if my texting was the spark that burned it all down. Did I say too much? Did I say too little? Were my jokes not to their liking? Should I have pretended to play it cool? Not knowing, in those early years, that any relationship so fragile that could be toppled by a poorly worded text, would never survive the bigger things anyway, such as jealousy, illness, conflicting political beliefs and bad taste in shoes. And that you should never contort your wonderful, unique personality into the narrow view of a small screen to make yourself more palatable.
Although I hate feeling the old, familiar pain of wanting someone I can’t be with, it is worth taking stock of what has changed for the better since my angsty teen days.
Somewhere along the way, I experienced love which taught me that the kind I want, is love that exists alongside serenity. That it isn’t perfect but there are no mixed messages. That I wouldn’t be left wondering about the reciprocity of feeling. That I would feel safe and comfortable in sending my messages, without worrying whether it would convey something about my personality that would make someone fall out of love with me. Having experienced many situationships that made me question my worth, I know the compass point of sanity.
I also realised that as a woman, other women can sometimes be terrible at giving you advice around texting. Our softness to each other can sometimes be to our detriment. We make excuses for bad behaviour, we invent timeframes ‘oh it’s only been three days? That’s still within a reasonable period’ and we create reasons as to why a person hasn’t messaged back – because we don’t want to break our friend’s heart.
We plant seeds of hope when we see unbearable sadness in their eyes – maybe they’ll message at a later point, maybe you’ll be able to be friends – when it is infinitely harder to keep that door open, wondering what they are doing, even descending to the corniest lows of looking at a moon, gibbous or full, and wondering if they are somewhere on a garage roof, a corner of a garden, a street filled with summer blooms, looking at it too.
My male friends are much harder in their delivery but I appreciate their honesty. Why would you text someone who has said they can’t be with you? What would you have to gain from it when the only person who can undo those words, is them?
That doesn’t mean I am a cynic. There is a part that will always believe in the magic of a love story. Where love triumphs over adversity. Where a message can turn the direction of something.
But I no longer believe that I am the solo author of this. And I no longer believe that a relationship is about sacrifice or being filled with all-consuming fire, but rather about someone quietly choosing me, not once, not twice but every time as I would do for them.
When a younger woman asked me about whether dealing with the disappointment of a failed romance gets easier, I said it does and it doesn’t. Any meaningful connection requires vulnerability, and so when it ends, it will always feel crushing and sad. And although it’s hard to appreciate in the moment, it is a sign that your little heart can feel, and you would never want to wish that away.
But it does get easier because you get better at asking yourself the right questions, and demanding an honest answer. Why do you want to message them? What are you hoping to get out of it? Is it that you just want to know it meant as much to them as it did to you? And when you can be radically honest with yourself, you can see that a lot of the time, you are not the architect of your own destiny especially when it involves another person and their heart. You should never have to convince someone you are worth taking a risk on, when you’ve already offered them entry into the solar system of your life.
As a writer, I am acutely aware of the power of my words. I know my words can be beautiful, that they have moved people to tears, have changed the course of a life. But I also know that words cannot shape or manipulate what is not meant for me.
As for what the future holds – I am not sure. There is a part of me that wants to believe in romance and something coming to save the day. But even if it does, I doubt it will come via a text. And certainly not one of my own crafting.
“the desperate belief in the narrative around romance that perhaps a message could change the outcome of something” … oh my god yes. I’ve done my fair share of this over the last few years. Even in my most recent break up, which wasn’t quite as amicable as yours sounds Poorna, but there were complexities and I do believe he really cared for me. I miss him and I decided to tell him via a simple one sentence text a few months ago. I questioned why I was doing it but I came to the conclusion that I just wanted to put that emotion out into the world - it needed honouring, and yeah maybe that was nothing to do with him and just for me, but because of the circumstances in which we split, I felt I wanted to share that love with him. It wasn’t read or acknowledged which I found hurtful but it also gave me the information I needed to move on. Heartbroken again at 51, fuck it’s tough. Like you - I believe in staying open to it but for now (again), I’m spending time loving myself. Here with you in the healing space and sending love and solidarity xxx
Well Poorna, we are in similar situations. But I’m only learning this 12 years later than you - so you are way ahead of me 😊. At the moment we are staying friends and he is supporting me though some challenging first months of a new job. I’m not sure what the future holds but it will not be with someone who does not chose me as I chose them 👏🏻 🤗