Divorce Cereal Chapter 3

"Are You Breaking Up With Me?"

In case you were wondering about Stanford Law: I went. And I did not break my arm.

But that moment is when I began answering the question “Where did you go to law school?” by leading with apology instead of pride.

I finished out my senior year of college, donned the regalia, tossed my cap in the air, and started packing. I was electric with the promise of this new chapter. Thrilled to be moving to one of my favorite places on the planet: California! Escaping the hot, dry, landlocked desert of a state I’d found myself in, I was moving forward, into freedom. I could not wait to live near the ocean, among the Redwoods and vibrant flowers the size of my face. Fresh, juicy produce—and more politically aligned surroundings—were calling to me. I was going. Student loans be damned.

On one of my last days as an undergrad, I trudged home from class on a blistering afternoon. I returned to our little white shack, surrounded sardonically by a dilapidated white picket fence, the little gate hanging on for dear life. I swung it open and made my way to the front door, my backpack weighing heavily.

It was time to have the talk.

He was there, waiting for me on the sagging, stained beige party couch. One of my housemates was home, but she was in her bedroom at the back of the house. My room was at the front, just off the entry. I greeted him and he followed me into my room, flopping onto the bed with his back against the wall. I turned away from him and closed the door, dropping my backpack in the corner. The sun was shining through the lacy white curtains I’d put over the window, shadows flickering across his face and on the wall behind him.

I had not warned him with “we need to talk.” I had been carrying the thought around alone, letting it roam through the dusty corners of my mind like a tumbleweed.

I just had to say it.

I explained that with my upcoming move to California, I thought it would be best if we didn’t try to do the long distance thing. We should see how we feel after a year apart. He stared off into the distance, silent. I continued, delivering a rational, persuasive, brief but carefully crafted statement of the case. We should both be free. I didn’t want hard feelings, difficulties, or deception if he found someone else in my absence.

When I finished he gazed at me and said,

Was I? I honestly had not thought of it that way.

In high school, I had a long-distance relationship. He was the love of my teenaged life. After some rough, abusive situationships, I had finally found “the one.” He was genuinely excited to be with me. He was interested in what I had to say. He got me. We would talk about the most esoteric things. He called it a mind fuck. When we actually did have sex, he asked what I liked.

He was a year or two ahead of me in school, so the time came when he left for college (coincidentally, also in Northern California). When he first moved, we would talk on the phone for hours. We wrote each other these heartfelt, romantic, cerebral letters (this was before everyone had a cell phone). It was always a thrill to see his block lettering in the mailbox. I think we tried to top each other in how clever we could be, making each other laugh or smile at a turn of phrase. I was able to travel and visit him at school once. Our reunion was good, but there were rough patches. Trying to compress our romance into a few days had its pressures. I didn’t examine it too closely. Maybe I was afraid it would break if I did. I returned home still in love.

We continued our long-distance love affair between classes and amidst our separate, local lives. There were more letters, calls, and plans for the next visit, when he might come home during a school break. One day I called and left him a message. Call me back, love you. I went about the rest of my day. A couple days later, I realized I hadn’t heard back. I called again. Left another message: Hope everything is okay. Give me a call when you can.

Soon I was worried - what had happened to him? I tried reaching his best friend but he didn’t respond. I asked my friend who had introduced us: Have you heard from him? I’m a little worried. Nothing.

I was ghosted before ghosting had a name.

I had no explanation, no answers. There had not been an argument, no breakup. Just … silence. Darkness. I was bereft. My tears were primal. I tried writing one last letter, but by then I did not expect a response. And I didn’t get one. It was over, and I was heartsick.

I learned from that. I did not want to do that again. Ever.

That is what I carried into my talk several years later, with my college boyfriend, as I made plans to leave for law school. A long-distance relationship was out of the question. I would not subject myself to that again. Let’s just call it. Avoid the inevitable pain. Remain friends.

But when I spoke up for self-preservation, he did not meet me there. He heard only how it affected him. “Are you breaking up with me?” In the space of six words, I was transported from trusting my gut to feeling guilty. How could I hurt him? How can I fix this?

He asked if we could just try. It seemed so simple. Easy. Keep the status quo. Take the path of least resistance. See if it works. Why rock the boat?

I didn’t stop to ask myself:

Whose boat?

Photo credit: Sporty & Rich via Instagram

If you want to go back and catch up, here is Chapter 1, The Beginning of the End:

And here is Chapter 2, Don’t Break Your Arm: