Music

One of the most intimate moments in my nearly six-year relationship with Dave was also the first. We were sitting together in the office where we both worked and where we first met. We had the night shift and it was late, maybe around 2 a.m. The office was nearly empty, save for a few people down the hall. 

We had known each other for a month or so. And we had become close, though what was growing between us was still tempered by shyness, hesitation and unanswered questions. We were in that early stage of dating where everything and nothing is a mystery.

It was a slow night so Dave had gone out to a nearby liquor store and bought a bottle of gin. We mixed it with ginger ale from the vending machine in the office kitchen and drank surreptitiously under our desks. I remember I was tipsy, but not drunk.

There was a lull in our work and we turned to each other. And Dave, he did something that he would do countless times in the course of our relationship. He told me that he wanted to play me a song.

The song he played is called Violence. It's by Anathema. It's more than 10 minutes long and is entirely instrumental. Beyond that, it is nearly impossible for me to describe. But, I will try. It begins softly, quickly crescendos into something that can only be described as violent and then fades, gently, almost imperceptibly. Toward the end, there is a piano and Dave always said that those piano chords are his favorite in music.

Even more difficult to describe than the song is the effect that it had on me. And, I'm not going to try, because doing so would take pages and, even then, what I write would fall short. Let's just say that this was the moment that I fell in love with Dave.

That was the beginning of our relationship. And it's a fitting one. Dave is a musician and a lover of music, all kinds of music. And I adore music just as much. We had hundreds of records, piles of CDs, dozens of playlists on Spotify. There was always music playing in our apartment, while I cooked, when friends would come over, during quiet nights at home, as we got dressed to go out. Dave spent hours playing guitar in the living room, alone, for me, for our friends, and, later, as we sat, not speaking, wondering what to do. 

I used to write letters to Dave. At first, they were love letters. Later, they were still love letters but more complicated, imploring ones. One of the last letters I wrote to him was about music. In it, I described how the songs that reminded me of him had changed. For a long time, I wrote, all the love songs made me think of him. Later, songs about heartbreak, relationship struggles and sadness began to ring more true.

I ended the letter this way:

"For several weeks now, I've been asking myself the same question over and over again. It's this: "If we break up, what music will I listen to?"

The answer, Dave, is none. My life will go silent. And the silence will be unbearably and horrifically deafening.

Why? Because you are the soundtrack to my life.

You.

I love you."

One of the last things Dave said to me before he left was, "Don't stop listening to music."

I still can, and do. And it's easier than I thought. Yet, there are countless songs that I avoid, entire playlists on Spotify I cannot open, lyrics that come to me, unbidden, and break my heart. And Anathema, I cannot listen to that band.

But, I heard them recently because, of the hundreds of concerts and shows that Dave and I attended together, the last one was Anathema.

Clean

Sometimes, when Dave would go out of town, my parents would come to visit. They'd only come when he was gone because they disliked him from the moment they met him. I chalked it up to the fact that he was covered in tattoos and had long hair because, despite his appearance, he was kind, gentle and good to me. My parents, for their part, said that he was no good for me, that I didn't see him for who he is.

"They're so judgmental," I would complain to my friends, annoyed and disbelieving. 

On the rare weekends when my parents would come to my apartment to visit, I would clean furiously. I would vacuum, wipe down the countertops in the kitchen, clean the sink, toilet and bathtub, and dust the living room. 

But, inevitably, when they arrived, they would look around with disapproval on their faces. Sometimes, my mom would comment about how the litterbox smelled or how the kitchen was, in her words, "filthy." They would stare at the spatter on the wall next to the oven, at the dirt caked on the windowsills and at the pile of clothes strewn, unwashed, around my bedroom.

"They're so judgmental," I would think. 

I told myself that the apartment was old, that the stuff on the walls and windowsills wouldn't come off and that the laundry was no big deal. 

When I called my mom the morning after Dave broke up with me she said, relief in her voice, that she would come that weekend and that we would clean. Before she came, I cleaned even more furiously than usual, thinking that, this time, there'd be no way she'd see something that I was blind to.

Yet, when my mom arrived, she dropped her bags in the living room, wrinkled her nose and said, "We'll start with the kitchen. It's filthy." She said that when it was done, I would feel better. Exasperated, I told her that I had already cleaned before she got there.

We stood in the kitchen and looked around and my mom said, "First, the refrigerator."

I started to protest as she opened the refrigerator door, until I smelled a faint odor coming from inside. She opened one of the drawers and pointed to a brown stain from an unidentifiable liquid, to the container of moldy cheese in the back and to the mostly empty bottles of expired salad dressing lining the shelf.

She took all the food out of the refrigerator, threw most of it away and started scrubbing. I stood in the middle of my kitchen and looked around. Minutes passed and I didn't move. I expected my mom to bark at me to start cleaning. But she didn't. She let me stand there. She waited for me to see it.

My eyes came to rest on the once-white windowsills, now blackened with caked dirt. I always hated the way they looked but felt powerless to do anything about it. 

"Those need to be painted," I said, "because whenever I try to clean them, the dirt just turns to mud and makes them worse."

"You can paint them," my mom replied, "but the paint won't stick unless you clean them first."

So I put on a pair of gloves, sprayed the windowsills with the lemon-scented cleaner we had just bought and I started to scrub. And the dirt, it started to come off, layer after layer.

As the white windowsills started to peek through the years of grime and grease, I began to feel embarrassed and upset. My parents had seen this, my friends had seen it. Why hadn't I? How did I learn to exist this way?

When you live with a mess for long enough, you stop seeing it for what it is. And the mess gets worse. And, still, you live with it. 

It will come as no surprise to you that, as I scrubbed the windowsill, I began to think about my relationship. 

Up to now, I have told one side to the story about Dave. I have written about a man who was kind, gentle and good. That is the beginning of the story, the first four or so years. But it's not the end. And, here, I want to be cautious and I do not want to overshare because I still love and respect him. So I am not going to write, specifically, about the things he did.

I will say that near the end of our relationship, one of my friends sat me down over brunch and said, "I'm worried about you." My sister felt even more strongly than that. There were nights when my friends implored me to leave. 

I became a basketcase. And I stayed. I stayed because I was living for the relationship that we had, not for the mess that we were in. I stayed because I didn't see that the mess couldn't be fixed with tweaks here and there, a cursory cleaning. I stayed because when you live with a mess for long enough, you stop seeing it for what it is. And the mess gets worse. And, still, you live with it.

We cleaned for hours, rock music blaring in the background. I felt shame, guilt, embarrassment, sorrow and heartbreak as I thought about the mess, worked furiously to make it disappear. 

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. I stood up, threw down the sodden, dirty rag I was using to wipe it all away and began sobbing. My mom held me even though I was covered in sweat and dirt. Tears and mascara streamed down my face. I bolted from the room and took a long, cold shower, washing away the remnants of the mess that still stuck to me.

When I returned from the shower, the kitchen was done. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief, the kind that comes after a long, hard cry.

"Remember," my mom said, "it doesn't stay clean."

Trying

We had a plan, the two of us. He'd move out while I was at work and we'd cut contact. A clean break.

I saw him for what I willed myself to think of as the last time on the morning of the day he began moving out. I stood in the middle of the room, dressed for work. He sat on the couch, hunched over, tears in his eyes. I stared down at him, distant, removed. 

It was time to go but I couldn't leave, couldn't force myself to turn around and walk out the door. I shifted my weight back and forth thinking, inexplicably, that if I could just lift my feet, ever so slightly off the ground, it would make it easier for me to move. It didn't work.

I said the last thing I wanted him to hear me say, which was, "I love you." And then I left.

That's how I wanted him to remember me. Collected but kind. Calm, loving and caring. 

A clean break.

I began finding excuses to text him. Did he get the money I sent him? Did he mail the rent check before he left? Was another shipment of cat food coming soon? Our business-like interactions soon gave way. How are you doing? The cats miss you. 

My self-control started to weaken. I began texting him when I was upset. He'd take a long time to answer and when he did it would be short, terse. So I got mean. And then I would apologize. He'd say it was okay, he understood. And I would ask, "What do we do?" And he'd avoid answering directly.

Finally, today, I completely lost it. I sent a litany of vengeful, hateful texts. I apologized profusely. Then, I did it again. I pleaded with him to tell me what to do, hoping he'd definitively say to stop contacting him. I erased his number from my phone, reached out again, cried in public in the corner of a coffee shop. I met a friend, had two glasses of wine. Then, more texts, sorrowful, desperate ones. I cried hysterically on my bed, checked my phone and sent more texts. 

I keep searching for something profound to say, something that will bring me closure. But I have nothing and he doesn't either. At some point, it all becomes cliche, a tiring cycle, a downward spiral. We've already said all the things that two people who've fallen in love, been happy, been unhappy and broken up could say. 

Time

"Today wasn't so bad," I thought as I got off the subway at my stop and began walking home from work. I didn't cry at my desk, I had lunch with my coworkers and I laughed a few times without having to force or fake it.

I squinted into the early evening sun as I wound my way up the busiest street in my neighborhood. The street with all the storefronts, bars and restaurants. I passed a wine bar that opened a month or so ago. Outside, I saw a sign for "Wine Wednesday," at which time, according to the sign, all bottles of wine are half price. 

"That's a good deal," I said to myself, "I should go there sometime."

And then I remembered. I was there exactly a week ago, with Dave. We shared a half-price bottle of prosecco. We talked about our day, everything seemed normal. He wanted to order another bottle but I said we should go home instead so I could cook dinner. 

So we went home and I cooked dinner and he broke up with me. One week ago.

I mulled this over as I continued walking home. I thought about it carefully, from a distance, so as not to shatter my composure.

When I entered my apartment, I saw that the last of Dave's stuff was gone. In one week, he broke up with me, moved out and found a new place to live. I had asked him to leave his keys behind, partially out of spite. He left them on a clean, white napkin, which, for a moment, I thought was a note. 

"It's been one week," I marveled. And I couldn't - I can't - figure out if it seems like it's been longer or shorter than that, nor can I decide if the passage of these seven days means my heart will heal more quickly or more slowly than I initially thought.

I'm Doing The Best I Can

I'm doing the best I can.

I'm doing the best I can.

I'm doing the best I can.

This is my mantra.

I am doing the best I can when I redecorate the apartment, when I clean, when I force myself out of bed and go to work in the morning and do a good job while I'm there.

I'm doing the best I can when I stay active, see my friends, leave the house, run errands.

I'm doing the best I can when, instead of going to work, I stay home, drink wine, give myself a manicure and listen to breakup songs.

I'm doing the best I can when I get angry and send him mean texts. Or sad, desperate ones.

I'm doing the best I can when I can't get out of bed because I'm paralyzed by grief and heartbreak, when I cry so hard and for so long that I worry that I'll never be able to stop.

I'm doing the best I can because I'm trying, every minute, every hour, every day, I'm trying.

Day 4

Even the worst fights between me and Dave were civil. There was never any name-calling, yelling, no throwing stuff around or storming out of the apartment, no silent treatments. Once, I lobbed an empty water bottle at the opposite wall from where Dave was standing. He never let me live that down. Occasionally, I would raise my voice. But when I saw the effect that it had on him, I would speak more softly.

When we broke up, we said that we would remain civil. We would not let things get ugly, the way many couples do. I promised to remain kind, understanding and gentle. I also promised to refrain from reaching out, said he would never hear from me again. A clean break.

I kept both of those promises. For four days.

On the morning of the fourth day, my sorrow and heartbreak turned unexpectedly to rage of the highest order. I may explain one day why I was angry and why much (or some?) of it is justified but that is not the point of this post. To point is, I was completely overcome. I felt as if I was turning to fire and ice at the same time. And so, with the fiery furor of someone who feels wronged, scorned and abandoned and with the icy coldness of someone who wants to inflict maximum damage with no regard for the consequences, I began writing Dave a text.

I typed the nastiest, most unkind, cruelest and abominable thing I have ever put into words. When I was done, I read it over. I told myself that sending this text would be inexcusable, shameful and wrong. I thought about saving it elsewhere on my phone. I told myself to go to sleep and that I would feel better when I woke up. But the fiery rage scorched my reasoning and the ice froze my heart.

I hit send.

There is nothing good or redeeming about what happened next. I broke my promise. I hurt one of the people I love the most. I failed.

The answer to one's pain is never to hurt the person who caused it. Heartbreak is not something you can give back or force onto someone else. Trying to inflict damage only inflicts suffering on yourself.

That is all.

Light

Last night, I put off going to bed for as long as I could, hanging out with my best friend until the wee hours, dreading the time when he would walk out the door and I would be alone with my pain. After he left, I walked through the apartment. I turned off the music, put away our wine glasses and flicked off the lights. At first, I was afraid of the dark and the quiet. But as I stood in my silent, unlit living room, I realized that, in the dark and the quiet, there is loneliness. But there is also peace.

I got into bed and waited, waited for the pain to descend and bring with it racing thoughts, racking sobs and sleeplessness. Instead, on day three of my breakup, I slipped peacefully into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke feeling rested, motivated and, yes, even a little excited. I decided that if the apartment was dredging up too many memories, I would make it my own. I would rearrange the furniture, redecorate, clean, paint and change whatever I wanted without anyone else's input.

But first, I decided to walk to the farmer's market to get ingredients for the dinner I would make for myself and my best friend. I love the farmer's market but hadn't been in a long time because Dave seldom woke up early enough to get there before it closed at 3 p.m. and, inexplicably, I wouldn't go without him. 

As I walked, enjoying the cool fall air, I glanced down at my phone and realized that, though it was only mid-morning, no less than five people had reached out to me to check in, make sure I'm okay and see if I wanted to talk. By the afternoon, it was eight people.

I feel overwhelming gratitude and love for my support system. But I also feel pride in myself for having cultivated such close bonds. And, although I am not one to give advice, I will say this: Be a careful, meticulous and steadfast friend, even - no, especially - when you are in an intimate relationship. Make plans, stay in touch, see your friends and family by yourself, without your partner tagging along. Because no matter how loving, perfect and secure your love life seems, there is a strong likelihood that your friends will be around long after your partner is gone. Prove to them that you are worth sticking around for.

Empty

When I said I wanted to keep the apartment, he told me that he wouldn't have it any other way, as I knew he would. I got to keep our - no, my - spacious one-bedroom in upper Manhattan while he'd likely move into a cramped room in someone else's place.

There were no arguments about stuff. It went without saying that he would take only what belonged to him. He offered to leave me his expensive speakers because the sound system, he said, was perfect as is. He remained gracious, kind and generous. He paid for the next month's rent in full, bought a ton of food for our - no, my - cats and cleaned the kitchen.

I thought I was lucky. I got to keep the apartment, live there rent-free for a month. I was thankful to have avoided the ugly fights that some couples have as they attempt to divide their unity in two. 

I thought I was lucky until I returned home after he moved out. As I walked up the block, I had a sinking feeling, a realization. By the time I got to the door, I could not breath. And as I entered the apartment, I knew that, without question, I was not the lucky one.

The apartment was devoid of his things but full of his memory. Everywhere I looked, there he was. I sunk into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at the space across from me where he used to sit. I pictured him eating meals I'd cooked, laughing, listening to music. I opened a closet and there was an empty shelf where his clothing once was. I could see his pants, neatly folded, and how he looked when he wore them. I glanced over at the bed, now with only one pillow, and I willed myself not to think of that bed any further. I walked around the living room and gazed at furniture that he built, saw the couch where we cuddled and where we broke up. His desk, now mine, sat empty. We shared everything and I felt ownership of nothing.

I could not rest my eyes anywhere without feeling immense, unyielding pain. My instinct was to flee, to leave and never return. But I have nowhere else to go. So I closed my eyes, amongst the things and memories of things, and I cried.

The Beginning

"It's easier to see the beginnings of things and harder to see the ends." I mulled over Joan Didion's words as I sat with Dave, my boyfriend of five years. He was looking down at his plate, eating the steak I had just overcooked. I stared blankly at the table, knowing that this meal was our last together.

After dinner, we went into the living room and sat on the couch we bought years before. The couch we had cuddled on countless times. The couch we sat on as we listening to music, laughed, told stories, joked. And, later, the couch we argued on. The couch he slept on instead of coming to bed. The couch where I sat, paralyzed, for hours, wondering what had become of us.

He broke up with me softly, kindly, gently, the only way someone like Dave could. He cried as I sat, frozen, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Carefully, I drained myself of emotion, wrung it out, because I knew that if I started crying, I would never stop. I knew that it was only temporary - the calm before the storm - but I bought myself a few hours of what appeared to be sanity.

It lasted until I had to go to bed and realized that, never again, would Dave come in to make sure the covers were pulled up to my chin. Never again would he turn the light out and kiss my forehead. Never again would we fall asleep holding hands. Never again would I feel his warm body next to mine. And I cried. I'll spare you the details of how loud, hard and ravaging my cries were. I cried.

The next morning, I learned that you can, in fact, wake up sobbing.

Thus was the beginning of my new life.