Earlier this year, I was in a relationship that ended in a very sudden and unexpected way, and a week later, one of my closest friends ghosted me.
When you lose one person that you care about, it can be easier to understand the situation. We want different things. We’re growing apart. It’s for the best.
But when two people that you adore drop out of your life at the same time, it’s hard not to feel like there’s something wrong with you. What do you mean that these two people I talked to every day, saw multiple times a week, made important memories with, and envisioned in my future just… aren’t around anymore? What did I do to push them away?
Listen: there are much, much worse things on the planet than romantic and platonic breakups. Still, I can’t fully explain how much this sudden, simultaneous loss impacted me. It doesn’t help that I’ve always struggled with the idea of my self-worth, but it wasn’t long before my self-esteem was at a new low. I wanted to be the kind of person who could brush off a breakup like it was nothing, the kind of person who could forget about a friend who was seemingly trying to forget about her. But I’m not that person. It hurt to miss the very people that I wanted to talk to about my feelings. It felt embarrassing to admit that my sense of self was shaken.
I spent the better part of the last four months feeling terrible about myself, my brain warping every interaction into a way to diminish my self-worth. I had nightmares about other friends disappearing on me, about saying the wrong thing at work and getting fired. Everything I said went through multiple mental edits before it made its way out of my mouth. Often, I said nothing at all. I questioned why anyone wanted me around, finding it difficult to accept any kind of compliment or show of love. I felt repulsive.
If I ever had a moment of clarity, brought on by a tearful therapy session or a nice day spent with a friend, I always found a way to make myself feel bad. Everything I felt was turned up to a hundred percent. I wasn’t just sad, I was heartbroken. I wasn’t just bitter, I was resentful. I wasn’t just angry, I was furious. Most of all, I was full of self-loathing, walking around convinced that everyone could see the shame radiating off of me like cartoon stink lines.
But the thing about grief, shame, and loss is that no matter how solid those things feel, life keeps moving.
So, I said everything I felt in therapy. I cried (a lot). I filled my journal with nonsensical little scribbles, ranging from rambling streams of consciousness to sincere and corny affirmations. I surrounded myself with my friends and family, grounding myself with their patience and care. I overdressed for a party, danced with Masooma, and gave a random guy my number in a moment of drunk courage. I went to the Smoky Mountains with my parents and hiked until my entire body ached. I took a day trip to Elora with Jack to bask in autumn colours. I opened up to my coworkers about my struggle with anxiety. I focused on getting my steps in. I went to Montreal and watched all of Over the Garden Wall with Gabi. I took a night class on instructional design (and got an A+, just saying). I played Monday night bar trivia with Maia and Katie. I did shots of limoncello and vodka with Yanusha and sang my heart out to 2000s pop songs at Shannon’s karaoke birthday party. I did my best to check in on my friends as much as they checked in on me, especially those who weren’t nearby, like Ally, Usman, and Tara. I made strides at work, recognizing new strengths in curriculum development and getting a job as a part-time lecturer at an Ontario college (I start teaching in January).
Time is like medicine, and sometimes extremely slow to act, but you can rely on it when you feel trapped. Even if you’re stuck, the seasons change. All of a sudden, you’re staring down winter, and you don’t exactly remember how you got here, but you’re happy you did. The sun starts setting at 4:30 PM and the darkness takes on an inescapable quality, but you know you’ll get through it because you got through the last few months.
Every now and then, I still feel stuck. Sometimes, I try and push away the feeling all day. It kind of works until I get home and my neighbour’s kid is loudly practicing what sounds like the world’s saddest clarinet, and it sends me over the edge. Sometimes, like today, the stuck feeling is there when I wake up, when I wash dishes, when I call my brother, when I go pick up a pizza, when I read a moody thriller, when I watch TV. It’s hard not to feel like you’re regressing when you have bad days and loneliness is biting at your skin. Like any change you thought you saw in yourself was a fantasy, as though all movement happens in a straight line, and any deviation — the slightest wobble — is proof that you’re backsliding.
On days like today, I find practicing self-compassion to be the most difficult, but also the most important. In Sister Outsider, Audre Lorde wrote, “You become strong by doing the things you need to be strong for.” So I wash the dishes. I call my brother. I pick up a pizza. I read. I write. I watch TV. I take care of myself because I deserve it and I welcome tomorrow, however it may feel, whatever it may be.