Breaking Up Is A Piece Of Cake
Or maybe I got that wrong, when you're breaking up you eat a cake -- or if you consider my clients -- who have this weird predilection -- it's Oreos.
But this is a seriously serious subject. Almost everyone I've ever met has been through this darkest of times. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, baby.
And how did I deal with it? I cried the first five days, five solid days. Suddenly, on the sixth day, I stopped. Don't know why, but I'd had enough. I'm not saying I never cried after that, but it was sporadic.
Then I called a whole bunch of psychics on Keen and asked them what they thought. Every one of them told me we were going to get it back together. I didn't believe even one of them. Trusted advisors that I would normally recommend to anybody (oh, yeah, occasionally we have to call someone cause when it comes to ourselves, we can't punch our way out of a paper bag), I had no faith in. I didn't believe in anyone or anything (even though they turned out to be right).
I was calling for someone to tell me things would be okay, and calling to hear it wasn't so I could give up. But the problem was, had somebody told me it wasn't going to work out, I'm sure I would have called someone else to reassure me that it was.
I would wake up in the morning at the exact time he did for a week. I couldn't sleep and when I did, waking up to the pain hit me smack in the face and would take my breath away.
I put everything that reminded me of him away in drawers. If I would happen to open that drawer by accident, I'd go into this weird state of altered consciousness, like shock. I'd go catatonic and stand there and stare, but I couldn't throw the stuff away.
My draft folder became my best friend. I wrote soooooo many letters, hurt letters, anger letters, I'd-like-to pull-your-testicles-out-through-your-nostrils letters. And then I placed them in my draft folder. Sometimes I'd even write the same one twice -- okay, three times, but don't tell anyone. But I never sent them.
I couldn't eat -- well, until I could, and that's when I ate my cake, or two. It lasted three months, and I think I might still have the remnants of that last cake on my a$$. My best friend says it was the hardest three months of her life.
But enough about me. Just wanted to show you that we've all been there.
I talk to people every day who are going through this. As I've stated before in another blog, my Grandma described it best with, "Nobody ever died of a broken heart, you just wish you would." It's true. I can think of few things that are as painful.
For a lot of people, it takes approximately six months to travel through all the aspects of grief. Some take less, some take more.
Here are my top five recommendations:
First of all, there's no easy way to get through it. It hurts until it doesn't hurt anymore. And please, if you trust me on nothing else, trust me on the fact that you'll get through it and it won't hurt forever.
Secondly, change your routine. Drive in a different direction to work, shop at a different store. It sounds simple, but it takes some brain power to negotiate yourself through the new path, and if it takes away your pain for even a moment, it helps. Plus you'll avoid reminders, such as "Ooooooh, last time we were here he bought the extra large size Preparation H."
Third, no, he did not walk out the door skipping down the garden path with the bluebird of happiness, whistling a happy tune. It is impossible to turn feelings off like a faucet, and unless he is a sociopath, he's hurting, too. Now doesn't that thought make you feel just a little better?
Fourth, don't wait. I know it's hard, but immediately start trying to move on past the relationship. Even if, like me, you call everyone under the sun and they tell you he's coming back, don't wait. Start trying to get past it and heal immediately as best you can. Don't worry about Mr. Dude. If he comes back in time, great. If he comes back and you're over it and past it, great. Who's the loser? He is. You win either way.
Fifth, get some really gooooood cake and some really gooooooood friends.
I had this great idea a while back. We check into a hotel where we're placed in an induced coma to last six months, and the time is passing painlessly, we have people come in and exercise and tone our bodies and adminsiter any plastic surgery of our choosing. We wake up refreshed, pain free and gorgeous. Now if anyone can think of how to make this work, I want a cut of the profits.
I promise you, you will get past this. You will begin to channel Annie again and start singing, "The sun will come out tomorrow," you'll put the fork down, throw the cake away, stop thinking every man is scum, and you'll look back and say, "What the hell was I thinking?" And you may just delete your entire draft folder.
If you're walking through the fire, give me a call. I'll not only tell you what I see coming up for you, but I'll commiserate, and even eat cake with you. Can you believe the sacrifices I'm willing to make for my clients?
Now excuse me, but I have to go check my draft folder.