How to Survive a Breakup. Lisa ClearyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Apprentice House Press

      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

      [email protected]

      To my mom, dad, brothers, sister, and nephew;

      and to Theodore, Missy, Hobson, and Riley.

      And, to every person who has encouraged me to

      trust and let go to God’s plan.

      1

      Are You a Type A, Anxious Overachiever… Too?

      So, you’re almost 30 years old.

      The age when those “30-by-30” lists come into play and life markers become actual achievements. When you can repeat the four Cs of diamonds in your sleep, and the stages of an unborn baby become synonymous with fruit. When you realize that PMI and HOAs aren’t STDs; they’re financial annoyances…

      And then, well, there’s me.

      The late bloomer. The socially stunted. The individual who isn’t sure if her life is the consequence of bad decisions or the culmination of bad luck. I say this because, two years ago, I experienced The Summer Slap-Down: a mass layoff, a tumultuous break up after a rather long-term relationship, the subsequent start of a new job, and two unexpected moves—simultaneously, in a matter of three neat months.

      What’s the funniest part of it all?

      Well, I’m a writer. And, in fact, I’m a health and happiness-based writer. I’m the type of person who writes those kinds of lists, like: “What kind of friend are you?” Answer: “Just read this list and look inside of your pantry: you’re nutty and smooth like peanut butter, or boring like whole grain bread and everyone’s forced to be with you.”

      Suffice to say, the irony was real: my own advice had not worked for me. But I do stand overqualified for having experienced many of life’s major stressors in a compressed amount of time. There’s a special sort of feeling for when you’re packing up your desk, wondering, How am I going to support myself, and can I justify my unemployment funds to cover my weekly allowance of wine? And then, when you go home to your apartment to pack up the rest of your life, you’re left to wonder, What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

      Where am I going to live?

      That summer, I cried for maybe the fifth time ever.

      But I Planned My Life Out… In My Planner

      I have always been a Type A, anxious overachiever, and therefore a planner by default. That mindset is my greatest attribute and, yet, my fatal flaw. To this day, I map out weekly goals that translate to long-term achievements, color code them as I go, and then evaluate my accomplishments at the end of the week. It’s both exhausting and highly effective.

      So when, at 31 years old, I had not been able to show off an engagement, a well furnished home, and an established career as a novelist, I questioned why—and how—all of my planning had gone awry. I wasn’t even in the process of building up to those goals. I was breaking up, moving out, and stomping on life.

      Indulging in my melodramatics, I kept asking myself: why were others married and birthing their second child, when I was just starting over in almost every facet of my life? I realized that there were worse injustices in life and that shitty things in life happen, but I still felt compelled to compete with everyone else. That’s what happens when you’re Type A. The thing was, though, my perspective was off-kilter at the time, because I felt like I had nothing to compete with. I felt like I had nothing to show for myself.

That summer, friends quickly noticed my significant decline on social media and lack of HCPs1*. I ceased posting artfully plated, home-cooked meals for two. I stopped sharing uplifting quotes from literature, because no one should care about selfless love anymore. It didn’t exist. And, after I got laid off, I never again mentioned how cool it was to partake in yoga at lunch and to be part of an elite group of writers. (Who needs a proper salary when you can get paid in free Starbucks?) No one wanted to see what I was really doing in between my recurring meltdowns, which consisted of scouring Match.com profiles, wondering what bottom of the barrel was left for me. No one knew that I’d eat a heavy dinner, so I could try to fall asleep by 8 p.m., with my now ex-boyfriend in the other room of our apartment, packing to move out.

      Most especially, no one wanted to hear me whine and worry anymore. I had exhausted all sympathetic outlets.

      Even though I felt like I had failed in not hitting the main life markers that so many of my friends had already accomplished, I wasn’t overly worried about the success of my career or my personal finances. I was still in control of my journey as a writer, even when taking layoffs into account, because I largely only needed to rely on myself to get the job done. My main concern, however, was the one facet of my life that required the willing compliance of one other person: a relationship.

      I Feel Juvenile

      Trusting life’s plan, particularly with regard to love and relationships, was a daunting task when reality plagued my own family and friends. Divorces and child custody hearings? I don’t know how they did it. Abusive relationships? I’m awed at the courage it took to walk away. Sudden