Break Up

Memoirists dive into a million nitty gritty topics. Anne Lamott talks about her abortion to a Christian audience. Then she dedicates a chapter to her insecurities about cellulite and the way that she feels inferior to a 16 year old in a bikini. Marla Hornbacher dives into her near death experiences cutting herself under the influence of her bi-polar disorder. Martha Beck shares the way her Mormon leader father molested her as a child, while the church turned a blind eye. Lauren Winner talks about the grief-stricken process of converting from one faith to the next. Augusten Burroughs laughs at himself while sharing how his mom handed him over to her psychiatrist to be his new parent figure. The list could go on and on. These days, authors have no reservations in sharing it all with the stranger reading in the comfy chair at Borders.

But for some reason, they won’t talk about the experience of a break-up. All topics are a free-for-all, but the break up still seems to be too raw to expose.

When I was 17 I had my wisdom teeth removed. Sometimes that’s an easy process, but sometimes it’s messier. In my case, it was messy. It was full-fledged surgery including the dentist drilling through my jaw to retrieve the teeth.

When I came to, I lied in bed crying. I couldn’t tell you exactly where it was hurting, but I could tell you that the tears were involuntary. I leaned over and vomited up blood. I swallowed a Vicodin pill. Then I leaned over and vomited that up as well.

I wanted this to end. When would it end? Vomit. Sleep. Wake up to a loved one rubbing my back. Cry. Sleep. Vomit. Cry.

In a few days, I was done crying. My yellow-bruised cheeks still left me looking like a chipmunk storing up for winter. I couldn’t eat most food, but I could get out of bed. It was a little bit better. But then I’d bite my cheek on accident and the tears would well up again. The pain would come and go, but I could at least forge my way back into society.

Within two weeks, my stitches were removed, I was eating like normal, and the bruising was gone. All I could feel were holes in the back of my mouth.

And then eventually they were gone too.

To me, breaking up is a surgery of the soul. It is determined that your soul contains something within it that no longer should belong there. So, you close your eyes and rip that person out. Lie in bed crying. Not sure exactly where it hurts, but you feel it for sure. Vomit. Self-medicate. Sleep. Cry. Refuse to eat. Sleep. Cry. Wonder where the heck the Vicodin is now?

And in a few days, you might start to be done crying. But there’s a limp to you that still makes you look different if society bothers to check hard enough. You’re not laughing when everyone else does. You only hear half of what is said to you. You still don’t like to eat, but you’re out of bed. Then that one song comes on, or someone innocently mentions something about how great your relationship is, or you glance at a certain picture, and the tears well up again.

Time makes it all less raw. And in theory, your soul is healthier for having had that person removed. Maybe. Regardless, they’re gone.

Eventually, you’re back to the world as you knew it. All that’s left is the memory of the good days. And the memory of the bad days too.

Vicodin. Save me.