terrible breakup

a story that might go in a memoir but that doesn't fit in any memoir I would write.

Starting in college, I dated borderline inappropriately older men. Seven, eight, ten, fourteen years older. (I am not saying these age gaps are inherently inappropriate, I am saying that the difference in our life stages and styles was, at the very least, questionable.) I, thankfully, came out of these relationships relatively unscathed. I think most of them were basically decent guys. For me, the weirdest part of being in my 30s is looking at college kids and thinking, what in the world were the men I dated thinking?

I was precocious as a child and young adult. I was outgoing but socially perceptive, I knew when to act impressed and when to pretend the things I was actually impressed by were normal, boring even.

I met a man who lived on 17th Street and 2nd Avenue on tinder. He was a lawyer, ten or twelve years my senior, he liked to take me to burlesque shows (the 2010s feminist man’s strip clubs!) and he taught me how to make a good Manhattan (go a little light on the vermouth). I was obsessed with him and he liked me, I think, because I was reasonably intelligent and eager to learn whatever he wanted to teach.

Eight or ten month into our relationship, things started to go downhill. He became less communicative and his friends— I did know all of his friends— started looking at me with more pity and less confusion than they had in the previous months. I was scared of confrontation and so I did not ask what was going on, I just pushed harder. I dressed up more for dates, I wrapped thirty-three (small, inexpensive) presents for his 33th birthday. Nothing worked. He continued to act aloof. He said he had depression. He flew to Guatemala, alone, on some sort of a self-discovery trip where he drank beer and took photos of statues and tweeted poetry. When he came back, we continued dating. One night he invited me over, I was anxious and decided to bake a cake and bring it with me. I knocked on the door to his apartment and he opened it, looking somber.

My stomach dropped. He broke up with me. I yelled and cried and begged to understand why, he said he needed to be alone for a while, that it was nothing I had done. Maybe we could get back together some day. I was devastated. I cried and called out of work and scheduled therapy appointments for three days in a row. I remember crying on my therapist’s couch, saying I felt like a puppy that had been kicked over and over again and who had finally found a kind person who fed her and then one day that door had been shut too. (This was, perhaps, a little dramatic. There is no break up pain quite like a young persons!) I also, very distinctly, remember sitting at my desk a few days after the break up and realizing my back felt less tense. In all the devastation there was also relief.

Months later I texted him again, asking to meet up for closure. He told me that he was dating someone and that it would not be appropriate. “Good vibez, J.”

I moved on and dated a different ex and a few other people. About a year later my roommate called me to come to the living room. She worked in fundraising and part of her job was to read the wedding announcements in major newspapers looking for potential donors. There were not many society wedding that time of year and the featured couple was none other than my ex and his new bride. I read the article that detailed the timeline of their relationship. He had been dating both of us for several months at the end of my relationship with him.

I did not feel betrayed or sad. I felt angry. I had spent months upset and confused and devastated when he’d simply met someone he saw a long term future with— it was always obvious that he and I were not in it for the long haul, even if at times I wished we were— why hadn’t he just told me that? Spared me the pain and questions? Stopped me from embarrassing myself with texts and sad phone calls? I am not claiming that we would have had a peaceful conversation or that I would not have been ridiculously angry. I am saying that I would have found closure, understanding, and ultimately peace. Being honest with me would have been much better.

Often, when we lie we tell ourselves— or I, at least, tell myself that the lie is kinder. That I am sparing the person I am lying to. But that’s almost never true. Lies are for the liar.

All my love,

Hannah

PS: this was a bit different from my normal essays. Please let me know whether or not you enjoyed it. And as always, if you enjoy this publication please consider becoming a paid subscriber or sharing with a friend.