Let’s Do a Post-Mortem on My Heartbreak

Get out your Sharpies and Post-Its.

If you’re in software development, you’re probably familiar with Post-Mortems, or the Lessons Learned process. After project completion, the team gathers and goes over what went well, what sucked balls, and what to keep doing for next time. Oftentimes, everything is written on Post-Its by project contributors.

It’s a great way to indirectly blame your coworkers.

A month ago, I experienced my first heartbreak since my divorce. Jeremy and I happily dated (allegedly) for over nine months until out of the blue, he told me he wanted to end it. Later, he said he didn’t want to end it and discussed blending families. Then he said he wanted to date other people. All over a few days.

I was gutted. It wasn’t that Jeremy wanted to end the relationship; I’m not in the business of begging anyone to be with me. It’s how it ended that threw a dagger into my soul.

The dust has settled and I’m able to look objectively (or at least, as objectively as I can given the relative new-ness of it) at how and why it devastated me in ways that shocked me.

What went well?

That’s a tough one. I can’t say anything went well during that breakup week. But there are two things I’m proud of accomplishing.

After days of Jeremy’s rollercoaster waffling and finally feeling like we were in a good place, he told me he wanted to date other people while his hand was up my shirt. If I continued my standard behavior, I’d have pushed for a conversation or asked for details. Something sane.

Nope. Nope. Something in me snapped. I jumped up and dropped a few dozen are-you-fucking-kidding-mes as I immediately went for my shoes to leave. I was done. I also told him he was an asshole and as I got in my car, told him he was a bad person.

I don’t regret any of that. Jeremy was a bad person for his role and I had been nothing but full of compromise. There wasn’t any way I was going to leave without him knowing that he was not the good guy he thinks he is.

The other thing that went well is my ability to hold up No Contact. After a day or two of flipping my shit (well-deserved in my opinion), I regained my composure and said my farewells. Since then, Jeremy’s consistently reached out to me once a week. I’m not messaging him first, despite how much it hurts to not ask him about his day or get his opinion on random events in my life.

Jeremy wanted to find other women. I’ve held my stance to not stick around while he does that. He can experience the regret of losing someone who would have been his ride or die; the person who’d sneak into medical conventions with fake name tags or jump into strangers’ Ubers to hit up dive bars. I wasn’t asking for marriage. But if he asked me to bury a body, I’d bring a shovel and give him a post-crime celebratory blowjob.

What went wrong?

Team, you’ll need the Post-Its our office manager Barbara special ordered because they’re the multi-color pack and not the standard yellow ones. So many things went wrong.

If Jeremy hadn’t gone through with the entire date that ended with him telling me it was over, I would have accepted it. I mean, it would have sucked, but I’d have accepted it.

Instead, we had a night together culminating in some naked action on my bed. It was humiliating to swing the pendulum of a fun evening to an emotional slap in the face. I should have ceased all trust in him at that moment.

Jeremy then said that it wasn’t because of how things were in the present but rather some concerns he had for the future. A future he never once indicated was even an option; our relationship was like one long series of flings. I gave him dozens of outs, asking him if he was absolutely sure he wanted to work things out.

Days later, when I showed up at his place, I asked one more time, “Are you sure you want to work on this? If you don’t want to see my face again, that’s cool. Just let me know before I start drinking and we work through this.”

I believed him when he affirmed. I let my hope creep up.

Jeremy went through the laundry list of utterly insignificant reasons to not be together. Another red flag I missed. If a guy is willing to throw a bomb on an entire future because you like keeping the doors closed to avoid bugs coming in (and rapists), it’s a sign he’s not serious about a future together.

But I was so starved for any communication from him on the topic that I soaked it up like an emotionally-dry sponge (I acknowledge the shitty analogy). I didn’t ask for us to move in together, blend families, or think beyond a month. I would have settled for a solid commitment of a single week.

It left a lingering impression that I was so unloveable that even the pettiest of things like food expiration dates meant someone wouldn’t commit on any serious level with me. I don’t have enough redeeming qualities to compensate for his petty list. Nothing about me trumps his dumb reasons and he wasn’t even going to try to work through them until I offered the opportunity to do so.

I can’t explain how shitty it feels to try and prove your worth against the most trivial list. Shockingly, I didn’t throw my hands and say, “Fine, you win, a relationship with me isn’t worth these microscopic issues.”

It dawned on me that only once in my life, prior to Jeremy, have I ever liked a guy more than he liked me. Not that I’m some hot diva, but I generally hate most humans and men are like dogs who crave attention from those who least give it.

In my late teens, a group of us from various schools formed a crew. Andrew was a tall, hot hockey player and I took his virginity during a party. We hung out and fucked constantly. A friends with benefits situation but I wanted more. One day, he told me that my overly religious parents and their extremely strict rules (that I had mastered the art of sneaking around) made me undatable to guys.

I was crushed. So crushed that it still resonates with me today. I even told Jeremy this story.

Andrew later dated a girl in my school (when he was already my prom date). She was pretty, white, and generally bland. I had dark skin, was uncomfortable with my appearance, and didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere.

Fast-forward to today and I’d kill to be a white, blond, generic Southern California woman who talks endlessly about her kids’ softball team and crown molding. I don’t like being different.

Still, I know the game. I know to apply self-tanner to emphasize the Indian side of my heritage. I dye my hair darker to highlight my exoticness while loading my eyes up with mascara to get that Disney Jasmine effect.

One of the things on Jeremy’s list was, “Your parents are hardcore Muslim” and proceeded to tell me about the troubles it’d cause when blending families. Knowing that I told him about Andrew’s statement, it was like a vice grip twisting my soul.

I can compensate for my odd heritage with makeup and a funny personality. And yet, my parents continue to worsen the trauma they caused and I can’t seem to get away from the suffering.

I’m being penalized for something I can’t control, no matter how hard I’ve distanced myself from the dark, emotionally scarring world my parents inhabit.

When Jeremy mentioned my parents, a massive wave of shame fell over me. I’ve spent my entire life feeling ashamed and embarrassed for my upbringing but it still punishes me.

The evening culminated in him saying he wanted to date other people. That’s fine within a few weeks of dating, but months? Fuck no.

Jeremy wanting to date other people when he explicitly stated how his end goal is to merge lives with someone else meant he was shopping around for someone better. It means I was a placeholder until he found someone that fit the bill. A hundred bucks says it’ll be a white, blond, generic soccer mom who gets hydra facials (unlike me, who uses lasers and medical-grade services to punch aging in the throat).

That made me feel replaceable. In one fell swoop, I was insignificant.

Even worse? That meant Jeremy was fine with me dating other people. He was fine with another man running his hands on my naked body. He was willing to lose me to someone else.

That made me feel disposable.

Getting my hopes up for a future I didn’t ask for and then immediately ripping it away was a level of cruelty I’d never fathom within Jeremy. He’s the one who got the idea of a future together in my head. And like flashing Benjamins to a homeless person, he laughed and snatched it away. I doubt he’s shed a single tear since that night.

Between feeling ashamed for my upbringing, replaceable as the Female Character in our relationship movie, and disposable as a human…yeah. There aren’t enough Post-Its for all the things that went wrong with this breakup.

All Jeremy had to do was take the myriad of outs I gave him instead of dangling a carrot I didn’t request, only to casually pull it away. I once made a mental vow to protect him at all costs; he actively and intentionally did the opposite.

What should we keep doing for next time?

I don’t normally share my relationship drama with friends. I’m an open book with many secrets. My divorce was a shock to even those close to me.

This time, I opened up to friends about it. My girlfriends gave the predictable oh-my-God-you-deserve-soooo-much-better speeches. What surprised me were their husbands and my (married, no romantic intentions) male coworkers.

Their reactions were unanimous. “He did what? Has he met you? Is he a fucking moron? What the actual fuck was he thinking? No seriously, how did he not see how fucking lucky he was?” Thank you, gentlemen, my bruised ego is soothed.

Shockingly, this experience opened my eyes to a long-term future with someone.

After my divorce, I hoped I’d fall in love again but I wasn’t holding my breath or actively seeking it out. I had my chance and it ended when I signed divorce papers. I’m a fun date and have fantastic breasts, I’m not at a loss for guys who’ll keep me busy on Saturday nights.

Ruminating about this experience changed my perspective. Fuck that noise. I had a shitty childhood and a shitty marriage. I refuse to continue with the mentality that this is the default for my life.

I’ve fucking earned the right to wake up happy in a committed relationship. Unlike people who pussy out of relationship conflict over petty topics, I know the value of someone that replies “Who’s driving?” when told, “I need your help, I can’t tell you what it is, and you can never ask me about it later.”