Break Ups and Break Downs. In which I find my internal GPS.

Oh it’s funny how art imitates life.  The little fucker.  Just as I had romantically, poetically, lyrically ended things with Blogette and driven off into the sunset; just as I had watched out of my rear view mirror and told Self that those were not pangs of regret, but a dodgy piece of sushi; just as I had looked wide-eyed and I realized I had no effin' clue where to begin with this vast expanse of novel lit-scape to chart... there it came!  A dawn chorus!  Voices, melodic and mellifluous to my ear, a caramel-coated clamour that cut through the confusion.  It was as if my internal GPS had finally found it's satellites and could, at last, give me direction.  Recalculating...

I was merely putty in the palm of the Writing Gods.  Praise.  That’s all it took.  A little bit of praise.  A few echoes of “don’t go,” “we’ll miss you,” and a “what will I read in my bath tub on Sundays?” and my pace slowed.  Then, an almost annoyed, 

“Typical!  I just nominated you for the Best Blog in The Weekender!”  

You did?!  

And the final siren, flaring from the comments of my Break Up Blogette: “Ummm...is this a bad time to mention that we've decided to feature your blog as the NEPA Blogs Blog of the Week, to be shown on WBRE's PA Live! on April 16?”

After I had perfected a litany of swear words--perhaps in the manner of a deeply religious Tourette's sufferer, or my Dad--two very different but almost simultaneous notions, spaced by seconds in observation, crested my cerebellum.

First, that one little bit of praise, that just a smidgen of acknowledgement, can mean the world to someone ready to give up.  In my pink and perky world--no, my other job is not in porn--we are told all the time that most people give up when they are inches from success.  I didn’t really want to give Blogette up. I thought it would be a sensible thing to do.  I could save my verbage for longer verses.  And, I didn’t really think anyone would notice if I shut up for while.  

A writer friend tweeted that I should carry on blogging as it "keeps the writing sharp."  And it’s true, two weeks without Blogette and I can feel my little Walnut Whip of a Brain has atrophied.  My writing muscles are as sharp as a sock.  I don’t claim to be a literary best-selling author with an MFA and an 'in' with Oprah.  I just love writing, wordsmithery, creating images and committing acts of ungodly grammar.  I am a card-carrying Word Nerd.  Yesterday, I discovered this page of awesome obsolete words: 18-Obsolete-Words and I haven't stopped trying to use each and every one.  I mean, "jirble"!  It's even onomatopoeic!  It makes me want to take on a part-time bar gig just so I can jirble liquor whilst chatting in brogue to the fine folk of Scranton!  I digress, but writing, language, literature make my "beef-witted" brain tick and my pulse race.

Praise is a gift we can give and it is amazing what a simple nod of encouragement can do, in life, in artistic or scientific endeavours, and relationships.  I have thrown the romantic towel a few times over the last three years of Singledom.   If I had been given just a word of encouragement, praise of strengths rather than criticisms of my weaknesses, the Blogette might not have been the only break up that lasted less than a week.

Colliding into this positive bubble of empowerment and bursting it like an overworked grimy white balloon of gum, was the pointy, disapprovy finger of my conscience.  The pointy, disapprovy finger waggled furiously at me.  I was being swept away by the romantic ideals of readers wanting me back!  I was not staying the course, standing firm, I was not taking my own advice! 

Wasn’t it me who huffed and puffed a lot of guff about letting go and moving on; putting away what doesn’t serve you; donating it to the jumble sale and not looking back?  Aren't I the one that blusters, that verbally struts a wordy marmalade of saucy abrasiveness, that adds tang to one’s tongue and clears one’s senses?  Haven't I chastised dissatisfied partners from going back and expecting different results?  Yes, dear Reader, ‘tis I.  *Hangs head*

It appears in the light of breaking up, I can breathe through it, I can clench my teeth and bit down like any British bulldog, but when I hear the disappointment, when I see effort made, and praise given, how can I not lean into that palm for a scratch?  I hope that doesn’t make me a hypocrite, but rather a human who is learning what or who she wants.  Sometimes, it’s okay to change your mind, if you can be principled and honest and true to YOU without hurting others.  So JellyBe-ings, my point is, we are human and we have choices; everything we do is a choice: to put time aside to blog, or not; to spend time with someone and try to get to know their core, their chords, maybe even their cords, or not.

And I realize I have been harsh, with the dating world and with Self.  I saw it all so clearly, in high contrast: he is making an effort; he is not making an effort, and, if the latter, life is short, so click your heels, take flight and hope to land upon something more conducive to your ideal.  I have been plagued, in writing and dating, with these ideals.  I have not been able to look beyond the inflated monochrome visions in my head: that prospects should be judged lacking if they are not the exact agent, publishing house or fella, I have imagined.  

However, just because we have envisioned life a certain way, doesn’t mean it can’t be just as good, or better, with something or someone else.  And I have, I realize, been weighing my options with some pretty funky weighing scales: not based on actual enjoyable interactions, but some snooty ridiculousness that rated a reputation and pressed suit over good manners, effort and kindness; that mistook attention as love, not control; that thought a divorce, or a not-ideal living situation, or a pair of beautiful children too much baggage to fit into my head compartment.  Aren't the unplanned, improvised bits always the best anyway?

So, I’m back.  Thanks for not giving up on me.  I’m a writer, so I’ll write.  I’m a romantic, so I’ll keep trying.

Dumping Etiquette. Or, How to Avoid Relationship Roadkill.

Relationships: when they are good, they are great; when they are bad, they are horrid.  To this we can all attest, but huzzah, yahoo, chocs away, cut the cord, thank God we live in a day, an age and a society, when we can choose who we want to be with, and, if it is not working out as we would like, we can say "Adieu."  

What is tough, is when the cord is wrenched, ripped untimely and we are left, bleeding, bruising from beneath, battered by implosions of hope; when we have been driven to the edge—sometimes thinking that we are going on a nice little road trip--only to be pushed from the speeding vehicle and thrust off the Scenic Look Out Point.  So long cosy town called Relationship. Welcome to Rejection, Population 1.

It’s an ugly state, none of your friends understand why you visit; you are perennially beaten when you go there, after all; you hate yourself for not reading the map, seeing the signs; you always proclaim that NO ONE will ever take you to that rotten fucking place again... and yet, here you are!  Ta dah!
FUCK.

 Whether expected or not, being dumped and left for dead in the town called Rejection, is one of the brutal aspects of dating.  It’s inevitable.  Or is it?  I think when one or other parts ways and drives away, there is a way to do it without relationship roadkill.  

I was reminded of this recently as I watched, in glorious technicolour and bioluminescence, Yann Martel's The Life of Pi brought to life by the superb Ang Lee.  The screenplay is slightly different phrasing from the novel--the novel verbose, the script succinct--I think both are valid here.  

"What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell...It is important in life to conclude things properly.  Only then can you let go.  Otherwise, you are left with words you should have said, but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse."

From the movie--typed furiously undercover in the black out of the movie theatre: "Life is made up of acts of letting go.  What hurts is not taking a moment to say goodbye."

The Face to Face Goodbye

This is the bravest form of relationship termination, because the reaction is always unpredictable.  It takes a steady, even, well-brought up Dumpee to keep his or her cool.  It takes a thoughtful, kind Dumper to tactfully put forth all the many and varied reasons why their journey is over.  The Dumper knows that he or she may be on the receiving end of a melt down, perhaps a few “But Why(s)?”  But then it is done.  Hollywood, Jerry Springer, or Taylor Swift autobio-songs may spice it up a bit with an ice-pick, some suit alterations with a pair of sharp pinking shears, or boiling poor innocent bunnies, but REALLY, REALLY, don't most intelligent people just take it on the chin and walk away?

The F-to-F break-up can be honourable.  It can be kind.  In this disappointment in person, face to face, voice to voice, there can be a finality between former fond friends, flames, lovers or partners.  A final look, an acknowledgement of what was, perhaps a kiss, a last embrace, one last glance of what could have been.  And perhaps then both can take heart that once they shared a closeness: memories, comedy lines, pet names, songs and jokes that will never mean the same when explained to anyone else.  

The Telephone Goodbye

Alexander Graham Bell, has a lot to answer for: namely, inventing the conduit that facilitated my own 17 year-old heart to be pulverized, pummeled and pulped; when Tom Long told me that “he just wasn’t into relationships.”

I clenched the receiver in my right hand, my knuckles so taut they went white; I curled the twirly cord around the fingers of my left until they pulsed purple.

Breathe.

“Oh.  That’s okay.  That’s fine.  Fine!  You know, I’m not really a relationship type person either.” Came the voice from the pole-axed teen, desperate to save face while her heart was imploding.  I could hardly believe it was my own, so calm, so at odds with the voice inside screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 I don’t know what he said after that.  Maybe that he’d see me at army cadets on Friday, or that he hoped I’d make it to the rugby match on Saturday.  I only know Mum had to wrestle the receiver from my grip, the handset blaring audibly from the hall to the kitchen, that it was off the hook.  He was off the hook.  My poor pulmonary was not.

In spite of this early telephonic rejection, I generally think telephone dumping is good for all involved, because, as Dumpee, you can retain your pride if you want, (and hopefully not cut off your circulation); and if you are the Dumper, you can save yourself the risk of being stabbed in the eye with a fork.  However, it is kind in its way because it means you care enough to listen to the Dumpee’s response.  That’s important folks.  Everyone wants to feel special.  Everyone wants to have their opinion count, to mean something.  If you have any common decency, as a Dumper, you have to give the Dumpee a chance to say their piece too.  It is considerate.  It doesn’t mean you are going to like what they say, but suck it up, Buttercup!

The Voicemail Goodbye

      On what planet is this acceptable?  It is the cheat.  The easy way out.  It is the medium that allows a one-sided conversation.  Not even a conversation, it's a con.  The rug pulled out from under your feet, landing you flat on your back, winded and breathless, with nothing but the ghost of your relationship ruffling the curtains and rippling the shutters on it's way out.

      

       The Dear John Goodbye Letter, Post it or Email

       A letter is hardly the popular method of communication these days, but I love to receive a handwritten epistle.  The last letter I received was from an ex-boyfriend thanking me for being such a lady during our sad break-up scene.  You know, that showed real class.  He acknowledge I had broken it off with reason and honour, but that when we had been together, he had "always felt like the luckiest man in the room."  I treasure his kind words and his acceptance and release.  He marked himself as a gentleman.  However, a letter written to break-up with someone?  A “Dear John, it’s not you, it’s me…” and then all the many reasons why it was not meant to be…?  Oh please!  And telling me that the Dumper has taken extra time and effort to unite pen with paper, is bullshit.  That’s like trying to convince me that all-natural, reduced-fat peanut butter tastes good.  It doesn’t, however you package it, whether it is healthier and took months to organically churn it, it still sucks.

      Email is, I expect, more popular a form of dismissal, but is no more thoughtful.  Less so, because it is more convenient.  At least the Writing Dumper has bought a stamp.

And a Post It?  A written one-sided goodbye, but without the effort of full sentences or monogrammed paper?  It’s all so effortless.  It's so disposal.  It’s the McDonalds break up choice: cheap, full of bloated lips and arseholes, that are swallowed fast, the wrapping balled up and thrown away.  Done.  Forgotten.

A text is almost as bad, but at least Dumpee can decide whether or not to reply.

"The Mother Fucker's concise."  Yes, Samantha, but sometimes, you deserve an explanation.

Slow Fade

Are we children?  Terminating relations simply by not responding leaves so much unresolved.  It is rather gutless not to tell someone it is over, isn't it?  I mean, the Dumper is just trying to avoid dealing with the shituation.  Man up!  I know it's not fun, but at least acknowledge the end.  There doesn't have to be tears and fanfares.  But disappearing without a bye or leave is just not cricket!

I have been the Dumper.  I have been the Dumpee.  Neither is easy.  Hurting someone, unless you are, in fact, Dr Crippin, is never, never nice.  I have cried more tears over hurting someone’s feeling than I have mourning my own.  Watching or hearing someone cry and look into your eyes and ask “why?” is probably the most awful, gut-wrenching, puppy-killing kind of experience. 

So Dumpers, People, be kind!  Don't fling your former flame from the moving vehicle, or push them out like the rubbish, to plummet from a great height.  Release them gently back into the Dating Sea, maybe a little breathless, and gaffed from the insides, but they will recover.  Allow your castaways to swim off like Esther Williams sans plastic swimming cap.  Do them the courtesy of watching them clamber out of the water in their polka dot bikini, bronzed legs slightly wobbly as they get to their feet; have the heart to appreciate them as they suck in their stomach, stick out their chest and sally forth, teeth-clenched into a smile as they wave to you from the other side. 

Don’t slink off like a spineless mutant.  Communicate.  End it with respect.  Do it in person, or pick up the phone.  Read the reply.  Return the call.  Whatever, but SAY GOODBYE!  She/he will think much better of you.   We are sentient beings--most of us--we cry, but we survive.  We are vertebrates—most of us--we are supposed to have a backbone, so show it.   Stand up straight and look people in the eye.  We are mammals, one of two species in the animal kingdom who mate face to face.  So, here’s my thought: if you fuck face to face, the least you can do is say a friendly “fuck off” face to face. OR, as Carrie says:

Now, where's my champagne?