Heartbreak Therapy

Wow--did I write this? No, but...wow. I could have. Heartbreak Therapy

by Sarah E. Hinlicky found at Boundless.org, published in 2001 http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0000392.cfm

You were doing just fine until someone broke out the kiwi-flavored seltzer water. Then suddenly you were transported back to that time when the two of you were in the grocery store pretending the kiwis on the shelf were baby mice making squeaky-voiced professions of love to one another, all the while passersby surreptitiously giving you disapproving looks. The memory transformed the innocent beverage into an instrument of cardiac torture, and finding yourself on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of The Simpsons, you excuse yourself for the safety of your own room, where you can indulge in a salty tearfest without any witnesses, except maybe for your roommate, who has learned by now to ignore you when you get like this anyway. At first your friends were helpful. They listened. They were outraged on your behalf. They declared your utter innocence. They gave helpful suggestions. They commiserated on the incomprehensibility of the opposite sex. By now, though, they've moved on past the slight tingle of disappointment they felt at the breakup. It's easy enough for them to stop thinking of the two of you in couple terms anymore, but you're not there yet. You don't feel like yourself without your — ugh — "ex" there anymore, but no one else is suffering from the same state of cognitive dissonance. You know it because they've given up plotting how to get your recalcitrant ex back. Gone are the schemes for the ultimate passionate reconciliation with your beloved, gone the blueprints of a deathtrap for the suspicious third party who might be the cause of all this woe. Now they're saying things like, "I never did like the way your ex..." and "You can do so much better." But you loved the way your ex did it, or you are not even remotely convinced that you can do better, or what "better" in this case would even look like. You defend your ex and your friends can't imagine why, so sooner or later you shut up. Your grief has gone from communal to isolated, and even though you no longer cry every day, you sort of wish you still could. In the stable moments it embarrasses you. You catch a glimpse of yourself looking good one morning and remember there's more to you than that other person. You laugh with old pals over a silly escapade that doesn't involve your ex at all. You find yourself enjoying the nice weather in a plain and simple way, and momentarily you're actually enchanted with the prospect of going it alone. You start to recognize your own strength again. You think you're getting somewhere at last. And then, as soon as you know what your worth is, you recall to mind the baffling fact that your ex doesn't love you in all your strength and uniqueness and wit and stories and memories. And what good are all the things that make up you, if you are unloved by this one particular person? Then you descend into the sap again. You write poetry and oh, it is so bad you can't even believe you let yourself mark up a piece of innocent paper with such drivel. You start listening to Carole King songs and marvel at her profundity. You reread every single email your beloved ever sent you, even the one asking if you had an extra one-cent stamp handy — you couldn't bear to delete it. You play "your song" over and over again, licking the tears off your face as the melody steamrolls through your heart and flattens it. You walk past the coffee shop where you had your first real conversation together, linger by the window, and dream up the imminent rainy night surprise rendezvous when you'll reunite. A happy couple comes out giggling; you reel back, as though physically assaulted, and then push on through the sunny day that seems to mock your misery. Then comes the big challenge. You have to face this person again, this person that you used to address by a whole dictionary of pet names and now is relegated to the bleak and empty category of EX. Just ex, the former, the past, the no longer, the never again. Ex marks the spot where your heart used to be. It's been long enough now that you can keep yourself together. Your chin doesn't wobble and your eyes don't well up. Then a little voice inside you whispers conspiratorily, Death to dignity! Impale your pride! Throw yourself on the ground and beg for reconciliation! Offer anything you've got, nothing is too valuable, give it all away for free, the more melodramatic the sacrifice the better your chances! But you're armed, thankfully, with that tiny bit of leftover self-respect that won't impale your pride for anyone but God, and you hold out. You act carefree, lighthearted, cheerful, busy, ambitious. Your ex doesn't suspect a thing. You leave, having had the better of the situation, and immediately you convince yourself that your ex is as wounded as you inside and your strength has only made matters worse. You think you should've gone crawling back after all, but instead you really ruined your chances. Your friends see that look of doubt on your face and come to your rescue. It was a narrow escape. A few weeks slip by because you're so buried in work to ease the pain that you don't even notice the time passing. You think you should be recovered by now but you're not. Someone offers the helpful calculus that half the length of the relationship is the amount of time it takes to recover. That discourages you, because it means you're nowhere near through the grieving process yet. You try to deny your ongoing pain. You hide it well. You cry only in secret, only occasionally. You start burning the love letters, commenting on fresh possibilities, joking about your ex's character flaws the way your friends did at the outset. It feels kind of OK. You can put on a tough front to soften the knots in your heart. And then one day it happens. You crack. It hits you with the force of a revelation — all the things this person did wrong to you, all the lies, all the half-truths, all the leadings-on, all the hopes with no promises, all the promises with no fulfillment. You suddenly see that you have no vested interest in defending your ex's character and so you snap to the other extreme: You take that heartless spawn of the devil apart scale by scale, analyzing every error, scrutinizing every fault, until you have mastered the situation. You explode into rage, well-controlled and well-concealed rage. You almost laugh at the calm you exhibit in that person's presence, because all you want to do is reach for that tender throat and rip it out. You want to shout over the loudspeaker your catalog of every injustice committed in your whole relationship and the extraordinary cruelty of the breakup. Your ex can do no right, and after awhile your friends are the ones defending the helpless victim of your wrath, not you, and you get enraged at them too, even if you admit silently to yourself that they have a point. The rage flames hotly, brightly, and briefly. It can't sustain itself for very long. You exhaust yourself with the intensity of your hatred. Then all you have left is pity. You can't hate all those flaws and unkindnesses anymore; your ex is just too pathetic for that. You don't have the energy to despise. You wonder, with the slightest itch of condescension, how this miserable creature is going to make it through life and love in that state. In a rare moment of altruism, you wish you could help. Then you realize you can't. You don't really care. Just as suddenly as you found yourself dumped, just as suddenly as you became angry, just as suddenly as you started to pity, now suddenly you find yourself indifferent. All right, there are those pangs of jealousy whenever you see someone else moving in on your former territory. The kiwi still makes you a little depressed. But your ex — you're OK with saying that now — has lost the claim to your heart. It's your own again. You can see your ex walk by without the desire to breathe poison in that direction; you can flirt with someone else without feeling guilty. Despite the occasional regressions, you know you've moved on. More time passes. You can rationalize the hurt a little better now. You summon up all your faith to your aid and teach yourself all over again that this is in the Almighty's hands. God's will be done, and if in the long run that means someone else for you, so be it. You marvel a little at a world where love is rejected and goes to waste. You wonder if it'll ever be redeemed. You remember all that business about taking up the cross, how glorious and courageous it sounds on paper and in church, and then you realize that you're doing it now and it's not glorious and it doesn't require courage because you don't actually have a choice about it. To make the best of it, you reflect on all the lessons you've learned. You know something new about communication, something new about the opposite sex, and something new about yourself. You don't regret it, you say again and again. You'd do the same thing all over again, it was totally worth it, no remorse. But you know in the secret depths of your heart that no one could pay you enough to go through it again, and you won't do it again, and you'll keep your heart safe this time. And you wonder how much longer things have to go on like this.

54 Minutes

I was on the phone with someone for 54 minutes last week, and 54 minutes was all I could take. At some point during the conversation, the person said, "I'm working on being a better listener. Sometimes I have to be reminded, though. So, you can tell me when I'm talking too much." And I thought, "No, I can't.

"There's no point in it. When you do pause in your monologue long enough to ask me something, you don't truly seem to care about my perspective on it. You're digging for information, then relate what I've said to something that applies to you, and the monologue resumes."

During the 54 minutes, I got my kitchen cleaned up, took the trash out, checked Facebook, etc. And then, I was done.

"Okay," I said abruptly. "I'm gonna go do some other stuff." The person then asked questions about my life; I answered them briefly, said goodbye, and ended the conversation.

A while later, I was listening to a podcast in which the teacher happened to be talking about being quiet enough to listen to God. We tend to prattle on and fill our lives with spiritual and emotional noise, and really just need to [shhhhh] and wait on Him.

And...I got it. He doesn't want to just tolerate us--for 54 minutes or longer or shorter. He doesn't want to have to interrupt our thread in order to say something important from Him. We'd probably miss it anyway, because we're still too focused on our own thing. He wants us to want relationship with Him, to want to listen to Him, to think that He may say something interesting or important.

Thanks for the lesson, my 54-minute-friend!

Lessons

I emailed him last week.

You would have done anything for me. What changed? You don't have to answer that. I just had to ask.

And he responded.

What I got from his message was that he didn't have a peace about us. He had started to withdraw, but hoped that feeling would go away. It didn't. I noticed its effects. When I asked about them, his explanation led to our breakup.

So if I'm reading him right, it's not that there was anything wrong with me (he was sincerely complimentary in his message; it's contrary to his nature to be insincere, which was something I loved about him)....and there wasn't anything wrong with him. But God...didn't ordain us.

And...I get that.

When I was a kid and wanted to do things, Mom at times declined my request. When I fought her, she sometimes had a lame excuse and other times explained, "I just don't have a good feeling about it." It sounds strange if you haven't experienced it, but I had a nudge from the Holy Spirit that said something like, "Respect this." I _knew_ I shouldn't push her on it. And often, later, I found out that it would not have been good if I had done such activity. I've had those same "feelings," myself. They're not "feelings" in terms of my own wanting to do something, but feelings that come from "nowhere" and that I have a supernatural confidence in.

God had been prepping me before "the" conversation with Gimli. I don't know if it was a "this relationship is not to be" feeling, or a "he's not going to go through with this" feeling. If it was the former, I didn't want to believe it. If it was the latter...I didn't want to believe that, either. So in the last couple weeks, I started praying. "God, if you don't want this relationship to be, please break it off. Have him break it off, because I can't."

So when he wrote in his message about not having peace, I understood--at least to the point of not being able to go forward with something one doesn't have peace about...not about why we weren't "right."

The lessons part:

• If you don't have peace about something, pray pray pray about it! What's causing the unrest? And, firstly, face that unrest. Take it to the King. Better, sooner.
  

• I love Gimli more after his email than I did while we were dating. That probably sounds twisted, but I respect him for putting his desire for rightness with God before his affection for me. I also think about his actions--how he was respectful to me as a woman, and how he, even withdrawing, still treated me better than...any other boyfriend.
  
  
• Why..._not_ us? It was an honorable relationship. Christian brothers and sisters thought we were perfect for each other. We integrated well with each other's families. I gave him the reins to co-lead my Bible study, and we fell into roles we were designed for; he talked us through the message and cross-referenced Scripture, and I was the administrative assistant. We were reaching out to international students/colleagues to whom he was connected; this fulfilled my need to reach out to those who don't fit in. What...what...?
  
• I realized today that I hadn't been writing. Maybe because everything was so peachy, maybe because the stuff that bothered me wasn't something I could put out publicly on a blog, maybe because I could just tell him all the goods and bads, maybe because I was lazy. But I am...meant to write. And I've had a hard time this past semester just sitting and being quiet. This post was prompted by a rather vehement letter from B, who voiced her protectiveness toward me and jerkiness of Gimli. (He's not a jerk, B. I probably made him sound like one, and for that I'm sorry. It was his further explanation that clarified things. But I love you for caring and for being angry for me!) I figured I should give an update, so here it is. Rarely have I sat so long, so quietly in my beautiful apartment. Restlessness...it, also, keeps me from writing. Perhaps I need to conquer that, commit to writing, and then...?
• It took about three months of a lot of togetherness for me to want to include others in my hang-out times with Gimli. Maybe three and a half. Mostly that was because I didn't want us to be isolated. But really, I was content with just him. However, _that's_ not what I'm called to. Perhaps God has given me this singleness to ensure that I reach out to those I have always had a penchant for--the abused, neglected, and misunderstood. I need a mate who is as committed to outreach to that arena as I am/should be. And Gimli did that when I hosted a movie night in my building...but when the movie was done, I didn't have any huge urge to converse with the others. I did little community-building that night. Gimli was my refuge, and I looked forward to being in his arms. I didn't feel the needs of the others because I was looking toward mine being met. Ouch.
  
  
• I cried on the floor to God. "Teach me what You want so I don't have to go through this lesson again!" I am amazed at how one so stubborn can be so weak.
  
  
• I miss Gimli.
  

Guess I Needed That Stud Finder After All

My Bible study had our White Elephant Christmas Party last week. I drew first, and got a studfinder. Handy. And on the back was a picture of one of our guys. He's not the most "ladies' man" as far as descriptions go, which made his gall even funnier. One of the other members of our group "stole" the gift, but I was later able to "steal" it back.

"What do you need a studfinder for?" someone asked. "You've already got your stud!"

As it's turned out in the past few days, I don't.

I lose Gimli, I lose one of my best friends, and I lose my favorite boyfriend ever.

I am...a loser.

Maybe God's working on me with a pride issue. I lose face, along with the guy. How do I explain my newly reacquired singleness after four and a half months of amazing compatibility? How do I tell everyone who thought we would get married that...I wasn't enough for him? That he couldn't make a committment to me, so he decided to walk away before he took my heart in further?

What...is wrong...with me?

My pastor mentioned "young women in love" this morning, and what he hears sometimes at premarital counseling. He'll ask, "Why do you want to marry him?" and a woman will respond with, "He completes me," "He makes me happy," etc. The pastor winces. He won't always make you happy; he can't complete you.

As the pastor talked about that, I assessed my relationship with Gimli. He has made me happy...but moreso, I liked who he is. I liked his trustworthiness, generosity, protectiveness, easy-goingness... I liked his godliness and his striving toward a closer relationship with the King. I liked who I was when I was around him.

The pastor then said that one point of marriage is to grow in the Lord--*And,* he laughed, *to learn to love unconditionally--even when that person doesn't seem lovable!*

And I...had gotten some of that, in my time with Gimli. I could commit to making it work.

But he...can't.

A while ago, a friend posted a link to the blog of someone I went to school with years ago. He had cystic fibrosis, and his mother had a brain tumor. The blog, at the time I subscribed, detailed their health battles and steadfast faith. Both died during the month of November, and I grieve for the young man's widow, and for his sister and her husband.

The young man's funeral video was posted online. I had known the sister's husband in college, so I paid special attention when he spoke. He related athletic competitions he had had with his brother-in-law, and then his voice started breaking when he tried to move on to the crux of his narrative. I had a trained urge to pause the video to let it load...then realized that such an action would have no impact on the sound quality.

You don't get to pause grief, let things load, then go on without breakage. Voices break. Hearts break. You just listen through it...and deal.

Smiles

Ever find yourself scared to believe in something? I watch a lot of "Frasier" and "The Nanny..." and nothing right ever happens to them. (Well, Fran ended up with Mr. Sheffield, but that took years.) Maybe that's skewed my perspective on hope.

And then along came Gimli.

He's like...no one.

When I got back from my summer in The Big City, Gimli showed up at my Bible study. I didn't give him much individual attention; he was some guy who had come in quietly, and I wasn't looking. It was nice to have him as part of our group, but I was really done with guys.

After listening to his comments at study for a few weeks, I started to realize that this guy thought before he spoke--and when he spoke, he was worth listening to. He was knowledgeable but only shared if he thought it would benefit the group--not to prove what he knew. When we started planning a group movie night, I realized how important it was for me to have him there. During the planning, we mentioned upcoming local football games. The next day, I found a message from Gimli in which he asked me to one of the games. I wrote back that I really wanted to go watch my students play that night, and that he was welcome to join me. I cautioned him that my students, their parents, and my coworkers would all be watching us and surmising things. He commented on how that was such a stellar invite--then asked when we should meet. Thus, things started.

I can't even go into everything--how sweet he's been--but he's made me feel cherished in so many ways. He's done normal things like repot plants with me and hang pictures in my new apartment for me. We've taken our friends' young son to a movie together and curled up under blankets on a chilly hayride together. He's led Bible study for me on weeks when I've been too stressed and tired to do so, and when he does, his thoughts are interesting and show the depth of his spirit. His touch is gentle, his eyes are kind, and his grin when he looks at me makes him so adorable.

We were shopping together the other day, and I asked Gimli if he thought the baby we had passed a few aisles earlier had had white paint on his face. He said he didn't know, hadn't noticed. "I was probably looking at you then," he said. Cheesysweet. I laughed in delight at his wonderful cover-up line.

Delight. Not TV; delightful reality.

I had grown accustomed to invisibility...but you're pulling me away from the wall.

I was settling into me, and now you've come along. Expecting change, no doubt--not in bad ways, but in "you're another human with your own history and future" ways.

And I...I don't quite know what to do with you.

This Just in from eHarm

"Meet Seamus, someone as unique as you are."

Is that not...contradictory?

Seen and Not Heard

Whirlwind trip to Iowa to see the grands before they resumed their journey home to Virginia; back early to receive a spare bed from my summer roommate and keep it from inconveniencing her dad since it took up space in the back of his pickup; back early also to make it to a church service planning meeting.

Coming into town fifteen minutes ahead of schedule for meeting my friend's dad, I pulled onto the off ramp and realized I had enough time to make it to DQ for a thin mint Blizzard (limited time only). And then, there he was by the stop sign--a scruffy-looking guy in a T-shirt and jeans, scraggly hair and cap, glasses, and holding a cardboard sign.

I don't remember what the first part of the sign said, but it ended with "IN JESUS' NAME." The cynic in me responded with, "Wow--way to play the God card." But he didn't look like he was shooting for a guilt trip. And he didn't look lazy or scary...just sad.

Five bucks...five bucks...just give him five bucks...

But the cars ahead of me were moving, and there was traffic behind me as well. Not enough time to find my wallet and sort out a five. Besides--I'm a single female. I passed him and prayed.

Blizzard was bought and enjoyed, bed was delivered and stored, and off I went to my meeting at church.

The team evaluated the last two weeks' worth of sermons and service elements, then went on to the upcoming Sunday. Highness will be preaching from James, which includes, in chapter two, verses on having not just faith but deeds as well. We discussed songs that would fit (my suggestion was Petra's "Seen and Not Heard") and anything else that would contribute to the message. Conversation swirled about, a bit of which included taking meals to shut-ins.

And _he_ came to mind. His scruffy hair and cardboard sign. And the Petra in my head was louder than the team discussing around me.

They've heard the story, they've heard the lines
But talk is too cheap to change their minds
They want to see some vital signs

You could take him some money, take him some supper.

Convictions - in the way we live
Convictions - not a narrative
Actions speak a little louder than words

Fine. It's stupid for a single female to approach a panhandler alone. I'll wait until the meeting is done and see if one of the others will go with me.

Seen and not heard, seen and not heard
Sometimes God's children should be seen and not heard

But I couldn't brainstorm and I couldn't contribute and I was almost sick as I realized that I was foregoing an opportunity of the very sort we were talking about.

There's too much talk and not enough walk
Sometimes God's children should be seen and not heard

I didn't know how to excuse myself gracefully, but something came up that I had a comment on. That led to my blurting that I had to go put into action what we were just talking about--and that I really had to _go_. One of the team asked for clarification, and I explained about the man at the off ramp. I left with the caveat, "You'll know where to start looking if I die!" And Highness, who gave his mother's eulogy yesterday, called out, "Say hi to Mom for me!" (It was truly one of the best lines in our worship team's history.)

The spedometer read higher than it should have as I made the drive across town. I started rehearsing what I'd say to whatever officer pulled me over. "Will you come with me to feed this homeless guy on the other side of town?" What I really wanted was for someone with a uniform to take over the duty. No such luck, and I reached a street with a speed limit that was more in line with the speed of my car.

I rehearsed what I'd say to the man: "I don't feel comfortable giving you a ride or giving you money, but can I go buy you some supper?" Ever-conscious of safety, I dug around for my pepper spray, made sure my doors were locked, and evaluated how far open I could leave my window without giving someone access to reach in and grab me. And then, _then_ I prayed. "God, You know what the deal is. You know how to protect me. Please do." And I knew, whatever happened, it would be okay.

My eyes were busy scanning as I approached the overpass. There--was that him? No, a sign. There? Nothing. I slowed, looked down the off ramp, ahead on the highway, and turned around. I looked down the on ramp, and down both sides of the interstate.

Nothing.

Gone.

Quarter after six. Was he being fed? Did he have a home for the night? I wouldn't have offered him _that_, but maybe a supper delivery and snacks for the next day would have brightened his mood and made the night not so hopeless.

Gone--the man, along with the opportunity.

I'm sad that I don't get to experience the joys of reaching out. I'm chastised that I didn't follow through with the opportunity when it was first presented. But I am convicted that when God calls us out, He _does_ equip.

Be strong--and courageous!
--Joshua 1:9