The Night I Lost My Mind and Found Myself

A letter for my younger self to read, at the turning point of a breakup that broke her open.

Dear Me,

You’re about to ruin your own birthday trip. And that’s okay.

It’s okay to think you’re totally fine, and then unravel after your very recent ex sends a seemingly innocent yet devastating birthday greeting. It’s okay to call him, just wanting to talk about what went wrong one more time. It’s okay if you feel the tides of the breakup crash through you all over again when he says,

“I’m falling out of love with you with every word you say.”

It’s okay if you miss your massage reservation because you lost track of the time. Losing your mind is a time-consuming thing.

It’s okay that you’ll sob through dinner and several beverages. Your close friend (at the time) will judge you from across the table, and tell you that she’s never seen someone “act like this” after a breakup before.

Pay her no mind. The waiters will be empathetic and caring. It won’t make an immediate difference to you in the moment, but you’ll vividly remember their kindness later.

It’s okay to stumble back to the Airbnb wanting nothing more than to talk to him.

It’s okay to curl up in bed and cry again. The pain won’t last forever and the storm will end.

While I certainly don’t advise it, it’s also okay if you decide to call an Uber and take the most expensive trip of your life to go surprise your ex on his doorstep, hoping that seeing you in person will make him take pity on you somehow.

Your friend could’ve changed the course of the night by simply swiping your phone and putting you on the couch to watch Gilmore Girls and fall asleep, but it’s okay that she didn’t.

What follows will be excruciating, but pivotal —

You’ll walk up to his front door.

And use the key code that you know by heart.

And excitedly climb the 3 flights to his apartment.

And knock on the door.

And be met with the coldest stare you’ve ever seen in your life. It feels 1000x colder because you were foolishly expecting warmth.

And you’ll cry in front of him.

And beg him to let you in.

And insist it’s not “the middle of the night” like he says it is. (It’s not.)

He’ll tell you he doesn’t recognize the woman in front of him.

He’ll threaten to call 311. He almost will.

You will be afraid for your life, and narrowly succeed in begging him not to make that call.

You’ll chant “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. I didn’t mean to do this. I’m so sorry.” Over and over and over again.

To confirm, all you did was knock on his door and cry. That’s what you’re apologizing for.

And then, you’ll sit on the stairs outside of his apartment for ten minutes after he shuts the door. The person you once loved more than anything (and still do, at this moment in time) will not make sure you’re okay. He will not check in later.

You will never speak to him again. You don’t know that for certain yet, but you have a pretty good feeling it’s true. And you’re right. Keep trusting your intuition. It’s right.

Sitting on these steps, you will realize for the first time how alone you really are. You don’t matter to the person that you once mattered to. You could do anything right now, in your miserable state, and no one would stop you. No one is coming to save you.

Except you.

You will save you.

You’ll get up, call a cab, and go back to your apartment.

You’ll watch reruns of Private Practice on Netflix all night, feeling all kinds of shame for yourself. You are convinced that there is no one more lowly in this world than you.

That’s not true. But you don’t know that yet.

You’ll, finally, block your ex on all social media. You’ll see that he beat you to Twitter.

His response to seeing you at the lowest point of your life, was to block you on Twitter.

You’ll head back to the Airbnb in the morning with your friend, who insisted on riding back into the city with you the night before. She made no attempts to stop you, or help you, or comfort you, but somehow needed to be a witness of some sort on this night you lost your mind.

You’ll assure her that you’re alright, and apologize profusely for “making a scene.”

She’ll later tell you how baffled she was, that you didn’t care more about how she felt at the moment. And how this breakdown of yours affected her.

Once you reach the Airbnb, she’ll quickly pack her bags, and go home.

But not before telling you exactly what she thinks of your behavior the night before. She’ll recount every little detail of the worst night of your life to you.

She won’t ask if you’re okay. (Or maybe she will, in a disingenuine way.)

You’ll feel like a student in detention. A child being scolded.

With every word she says, all you can hear is,

How could you? Who does this? Who falls apart like this? This is embarassing. Your pain is inconvenient and embarrassing. You are such a mess. How could you do this?

It’s okay that you don’t say anything. Your silence is not agreement. You’re just tired. You need rest.

After she leaves, you’ll stay at the Airbnb by yourself for the rest of the week.

You’re still miserable, but a different kind of miserable.

You know you’ve reached rock bottom, and there’s a quiet strength in knowing that you finally get to ascend.

You can’t explain it, but you have a feeling that this rock bottom people speak of, is actually a pretty great place to be. You can finally completely unfurl, and put down all of the weight you’ve been holding onto while pretending to be fine, and secretly thinking you’ll get back together with your ex.

You’re settling into your new reality. And it’s not quite as bad here as you thought it would be. It’s raw and itchy, but your wounds are finally healing. A scab is starting to form where there was once a gaping wound.

You’ll get through the week. It will be hard. But it’s finally the right kind of hard. You know you have a long road ahead, but you’re finally on it. Taking tiny strides each day.

You’ll make pasta, and go for walks, and watch the snow, and watch daytime talk shows.

You listen to podcasts and journal.

And cry. A lot.

You still feel guilty and ashamed about the whole ordeal. You hope the friend who left early will forgive you one day.

When you finally tell your other friends what happened the only question they’ll ask is “are you okay?”

And they mean it. They really want you to be okay.

Then they’ll unanimously say, “I would never have left you in the woods.”

And they wouldn’t have. They would never.

Neither would you.

You would never abandon a person standing in front of you in need of help. You would not slam the door in their face.

You would never abandon that kind of person. And you will never abandon yourself, again.

The next few months will be hard. But the reward will be great, as you return to yourself slowly.

You’ll realize that this may have been the worst birthday ever, but it was also the beginning of one of your best years.

Some high highs are coming. You won’t believe me, but this is the year that you will….

…launch your website

….decide to start writing professionally

….start working with a playwriting agent

… be selected for Smith and Kraus’ Best Women’s Monologues of 2022

In the years that follow, you will…

…write a book

…start your own coaching business

…do really deep work in therapy

…learn how to make really good pasta sauce from scratch

….stop dating guys who look good on paper but make you feel like shit

….stop feeling needy for having needs

…learn how to truly take care of yourself, and put yourself first, even when it feel “selfish.”

…leave an evangelical church and realize that you like women too

But before all that comes the rising.

And you are well on your way.

I am so proud of you.

You are not crazy. You’re just an imperfect kind human with a big heart full of big emotions . And you’re going to be more than fine.

---

There was a time when I promised myself that I would never ever tell anyone this story, and here I am - sharing it with hundreds of people.

Thank you for holding this space for me week after week.

Thank you for giving me the courage to own all of who I am, on and off the page.

Here’s to not letting men convince us that we’re crazy.