Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

But you remember it with every ending; that moment, before it all began, before your perfect creation was made imperfect by logistics and limitations. That moment is what I love most about creating something new: the idea, the spark, the beginning, when what might have been was still what might be.

He stopped loving me a long time ago but wasn’t brave enough to tell me. And so our relationship kept trundling forward like a wagon down a dirt road, with me tied to the back like a rag doll. I imagine myself bouncing about in the dust, with a stitched-on smile and vacant eyes, just happy the rope is holding. The image is so morbidly funny that I have to conceal a grin.

felt like a tiny defeat, and while I could accept that there were songs I’d no longer be able to listen to, places I would have to avoid for a while, and even people I would never see again, the idea that it might now be difficult for me to watch Star Wars—that I would forever associate those films with this shit show of a relationship—that

wonder if he’s been crying. If he regrets leaving. Part of me hopes he does. Part of me hopes that being back here reminds him how good he had it, and that seeing me looking intentionally, effortlessly gorgeous will make him realize he made a mistake. I want him to drop to his knees and beg to be allowed back into my life.

Not because I want him back, mind you—I’m through the worst of it now and I know that getting back together would be an insult to all I’ve been through—I just want to know that he knows he won’t survive without me. I think that would make me feel better.

They have followed the exact same pattern as that of every other recently dumped woman: beginning with inspirational quotes and pictures of sunsets, shortly followed by photos of the family pet, and then graduating to nights out with friends and overly filtered, uncharacteristically hot selfies.

the counterpoint to his frenzied evacuation—I moved through each room as though through tar, tentatively opening doors and pulling out drawers, conducting my morbid inventory.

That’s the problem with breakups, though. It’s not just two people saying good-bye and going their separate ways; it’s the excruciating process of untangling two lives, picking them apart like some sad surgical procedure, trying to detach this thing from that while causing as little lasting damage as possible.

it forced me to imagine both possible outcomes instead of feeling—as I did—that I had no choice in the matter.

I began to hope and fear in equal amounts that he would officially end it; I didn’t want to have to make a decision and I was terrified that, given the chance, I’d make the wrong one.

hope of reconciliation swelled in size, and I decided, then and there, that if he wanted to try again, I would. Even if that meant taking things slow, living apart a little longer, having more space, more time. Whatever he needed, I would give it to him. Because I loved him. And I wanted to make this work.

but I’d spent three weeks waiting for this. I had lived those weeks. I had sat inside each minute and felt the weight of it pressing in on me. And he didn’t even bother to wash himself, or put some fucking trousers on.

Something inside me changed in that moment. I’d spent most of the night listening to Theo tell me what I did wrong in our relationship. How me quitting my job to pursue writing had been stressful for him. How my anxiety and depression were bringing him down. How he’d been “miserable” with me. Miserable. I remember that word distinctly. It’s quite a severe word.

Here I was, keeping it together despite feeling like I might at any minute fall apart. Supporting him when I needed support.

I let go,

“You’re looking well,” she said when I sat down. “Thanks. It’s this new thing I’m trying where I don’t eat or sleep or think about anything other than the fact that I’m a struggling writer on the cusp of thirty with no partner, no kids, and no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

This might sound sadistic but it’s true; people want to see their sadness reflected back at them because it makes them feel connected to something and connection is the best salve for sadness. The irony is we’re usually at our most disconnected when we’re grieving, either because we’ve lost the person we felt closest to or because we’ve withdrawn from others in order to protect ourselves from future pain, or to protect them from our “brokenness.”

Another mini revelation. Another gap in the clouds. This time I realized two things: one, he lied about wanting to be friends and was continuing to lie because he was too cowardly to just tell me he never wanted to see me again, and two, he did not write that email.

had known he was capable of doing this. I was just too naive and too arrogant to believe he would do it to me. We all think we’ll be different, don’t we?

But I think we can all agree that you are better off without that sociopathic twat in your life. Also, for what it’s worth, he’s not okay. This is him acting out because he’s incapable of processing his emotions. You’ll deal with this. You’ll bounce back. He won’t.”

“You can’t fail at a relationship. That’s like getting off a roller coaster and saying you failed because the ride is over. Things end. That doesn’t mean the experience wasn’t worth it.”

“You got what you needed,” she said. “And then one day it wasn’t what you needed anymore.” “I don’t even know when that day was.” “I think it was a while ago, my love,” said Maya, sadly.

And things being shit now doesn’t erase all the good stuff. It still happened. Pain is just an inevitable part of life.”

had officially moved from sadness into anger, a far more productive phase of the grieving process. I didn’t reply to the email Theo didn’t write. Nor did I contact him about the messages I shouldn’t have seen. I spent the following week writing, exercising, seeing friends, and redecorating the apartment.

and in that moment I was glad to be rid of him and his stupid, stressed-out face.

look back at the spot where he stood and remember the night he left. Just before he walked out the door I stopped him and grabbed him, and we stood holding one another for what felt like far too long and not nearly long enough. I tried, right there on that very spot, to commit the feel of him to my memory: the weight of his arms, the exact pressure they exerted on my body, the concave dip of his chest where my head rested neatly, how my right hipbone pressed against his left, and how my shoulders folded, birdlike, as he pulled me into him. When he took a step back I remained motionless. He kissed me. Said he loved me. And with that he was gone. There was a silence then. More than a silence: a vacuum.

refused to simply wait and let things unfold, and I insisted on speculating incessantly about every single aspect of it: why he left, whether he’d come back, if he was seeing someone else, if maybe we could be friends. She nodded at me and cried with me, and, most important, she prevented me from calling him.

If I’d just done this. If I’d just said that. I played out every scenario, every what-if a hundred times and more, and I never reached a solution. Because there was none.

blurry memory of what had happened slid into focus and I cried anew for what I’d lost.

The thought of being happy again was inconceivable.

And then I realized I’d been here before. A long time ago, I’d been here, I’d felt this hopeless, and I’d found happiness again. I couldn’t remember how I came back from the brink but I knew it was possible and in that moment that’s all I needed to know.

prayed to the only thing I knew I could rely on: myself. I begged myself to just get me through this night. I told myself that I would be good, I would be strong, and I would never let this happen again if I could just get through this night.

There’s no going around it. Or under or over it. You’ve got to go through it. It will hit you in waves so enormous that you are smacked against the shore. It will permeate the very fabric of your life, so that everything you do is stained by it; every moment, good or bad, is steeped in sadness for a while. Even the nice moments, the achievements and successes, are tinged with the knowledge that someone or something is missing. And the first time that you smile or laugh, you catch yourself, because happiness feels so unfamiliar. I thought, too, how like an addict I had been, how similar this was to some kind of detox. I wondered how much of the feeling of love is chemicals and cravings and dependency, and how much of the act of love is habit.

I’d like to tell you there was an inciting incident, a reason we ceased to function as a couple, but it was more like a slow, creeping disdain.

Unfortunately, The Plan is not my plan. My plan involves a prosperous career, weekly trips to the cinema, impromptu holidays, dinner parties with friends, and lots and lots of sex. Oh, and regular lie-ins—a luxury reserved for the rich, the old, and the unfertilized.

I’m not sure I definitely don’t want children, I’m just not sure I definitely do want children, and I think that anything short of a deep desire in your mind, body, and soul to have one is not a good enough reason to do it.

if one were to push said book out one’s vagina, it might be received with greater fanfare. One wonders this quietly to oneself, of course, and never out loud.

I loathe the assumption that I will “come to my senses” someday or—worse

To make matters worse, successfully resisting this craving does not bring with it the sense of pride or achievement you get from, say, resisting the urge to cheat on your partner or smoke another joint. Instead of feeling good about avoiding it, you are punished with feelings of guilt and failure. And these feelings are reinforced by all the stupid cunts out there who claim you can’t feel feelings without bearing babies.

Something was off. I knew this man. This was not a man who cared about what he was going to wear to a colleague’s wedding down the country.

but I still can’t quite figure out if the problems in our relationship are causing my depression or if my depression is causing the problems in our relationship. Maybe both can be true.

so I was left in a permanent state of limbo, always waiting for him to confirm plans. He knows how much that affects me too, so his thoughtlessness made me resent him on top of everything else.

It was like he wanted to be anywhere but with me, and since all I needed was some comfort and company, his absence only made me feel worse.

Unfortunately, me being worse made him want to be with me less, so around and around we went, not knowing which was the chicken or which was the ...

I’m ashamed to admit that this new, can-do attitude was based entirely on a desire to make Theo love me again, but the outcome is that I now feel stronger and healthier and ready to tackle the relationship together. The only problem is I can’t do that alone.

What most people don’t seem to get is that when it comes to mental illness; better doesn’t actually mean “better.” It’s a scale. And with enough hard work you can slide yourself all the way up from suicidal to functioning human to fucking fantastic. But it works both ways. And if you don’t stay on top of it you can slide straight back down.

felt more mentally stable than ever before. It was like I’d just been handed a map that I should have had all along. And suddenly it made sense,

I felt guilty for not knowing all this, for being the kind of aunt who visits every other month, who sees all the milestones but misses the minutiae of their little lives.

would take a bullet for them. And let me be clear, there are very few people I would jump in front of a bullet for; it’s a shockingly short list, which takes a very long time to get on. But by merely existing, by doing no more than being born, these kids automatically get a spot on that list, along with my unwavering, unconditional, oftentimes totally irrational devotion. Once kids come along, loving them is not a choice; it’s an inevitability. And

Sally is my goddaughter as well as my niece. On paper that means I’m supposed to teach her about a bunch of Catholic nonsense I don’t believe in, but in reality it means I find myself looking out for her that little bit more.