Down Bad to Free Now: The Ultimate Breakup Journey

By Nina Naval

“It’s been so hard, ever since you broke my heart.” — girl in red

I used to think breakups were relatively easy. Sometimes, two people grow out of each other and they don’t work out. I had a ritual: buy a hot dress, take a hot photoshoot—remind myself of the power of my body and personality, and that did it. That was all I needed. From that point on, I was me, and I moved on because I knew how to live on my own. I’ve done it all my life.

Then came him. I call him RC.

The Playlist

I know there are no words that can help, no language that can measure up to the pain drowning your bones, so I won’t offer words of comfort. I’ve put together a couple songs that guided me through the months-long saga that was the RC breakup. If you’re going through a heartbreak, maybe these songs will keep you company too. 

“What if I was in love? What if I can’t have us?” — Taylor Swift

I didn’t know I was in love until it was over.

It happened over texts spanning three days; after a failed DTR conversation I tried to start in my bedroom. The last memory I have of him is kissing in my kitchen while I info-dumped all things baking and then it was over. Reader, it was a months-long “situationship” and it devastated me.

I cried for three weeks, every day, for most of the day. A month passed in a blur, and for those of you that listen to the podcast, you know I’m a busy woman. This month was as unproductive as you could get. I sat in front of the TV and cried to Wizards of Waverly Place when Alex and Max broke up. I couldn’t read; romance novels shot daggers through my heart. I stopped listening to music with words and could only allow myself the tunes of pianos and concertos. Even as my friends took me out on trips and excursions, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling of wrongness settling into my bones. My mind kept circling back like a task left unchecked: this wasn’t just heartbreak, it was the unraveling of a story I thought I was living.

Everything felt wrong. It felt like someone lost the script and the improvisation went terribly sideways. Suddenly, the curtain fell and we were left with an ending far different than I think either of us planned. Stunned silence, footsteps retreating off a stage, the lights switching off—and I couldn’t get myself to move, wondering what happened.

“I hate that I didn’t learn anything, except that I’m worse off.” — Jaedynn Latter

Everybody was sick of hearing about him, but I promise nobody was as fed up with it as I was. He somehow came up in every conversation. I thrive off of information. I need to know why things fell apart, beyond the typed-out excuses I was fed. I needed to understand how something that felt so right could end so wrongly. 

I write about this more in my book club blog, but this is when I learned that important lesson I unpack in that reflection: sometimes things just happen. Sometimes, things are just an experience. There’s no wrong or right and, sometimes, there’s barely even a moral to the story. It just happens.

Still, I tried to dissect everything. I was drowning in the dark feelings of betrayal, disappointment, yearning, and agony, and I needed something to keep me sane. So I talked about it until there was nothing left to talk about, no more and another thing. From intimate, whispered words to an accidental timelapse of our hands intertwined as we walked on the street. I had so many questions that needed answering: Wasn’t it love? Did he love me? If he loved me, why didn’t it work out? If I loved him, why couldn’t I tell him? Why do I feel like it isn’t over?

Months of wondering passed, and I’ve settled on answers for myself. It may not be the Objective Truth, but it’s mine. I talked until there were no more questions, and no more answers to hunt.

“I’ve been loving him to pass the time.” — Alessi Rose

Some breakups are messy. They have to be.

I liked my other breakups until this point: clean, surgical, precise. Breakup, Block, Move On. It worked until it didn’t. I’ve chosen RC to talk about because it was the messiest, most painful breakup of my life. If you’re going through one easier, then I hope this gives you a moment to breathe, “Thank god mine’s not that bad,” and if you’re going through one just as hard, I hope you see my footsteps and realize this road has been walked before. You are not crazy for having to repair something that never should have broken in the first place.

After this breakup, I went out for drinks and gave my friend my phone like it was a weapon I should not have. A drink dulled the pain of loving someone who didn’t want you, but it didn’t give you peace. So, I tried for the next best thing. I wanted to prove to myself I could still be wanted, even if I forgot how to feel whole.

There’s no greater pain than loving someone so much, you give them your absence because they prefer it to your presence. So, as I gave RC the sanctuary of solitude, I gave myself company. A rebound, maybe? But it didn’t matter because telling yourself you’re wanted isn’t the same as healing.

Unshockingly, a rebound and a drink didn’t help anything. I was only scratching an itch that would never go away. I didn’t want to forget, I wanted to understand. So, I allowed myself one more series of messy reflection: my personal ghost tour.

“I look in people’s windows, like I’m some deranged weirdo.” —Taylor Swift

I was scaring myself.

I’d never been so heartbroken. I’d never drank as much. I’d never cried as much over something I deemed so menial as boy troubles. I had mountains of work to focus on. I had bigger problems to handle. But sometimes it’s the paper cuts that sting the most.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. I wasn’t sure if I was chasing something or running from it. Every time I thought I took a step towards healing, something would drag me back two steps. I wanted his opinion on everything, to know if he’d laugh at the jokes I told now, to be able to find out. His absence had somehow turned him into a god he hadn’t been before. Then, like I have the habit of doing, I began the search for proof—proof that he wasn’t as magical as my memories insisted.

I don’t know what exactly was my last straw. I was going through a lot at the time, and I had about five other life-altering crises compounding this breakup. I was making small talk with someone who happened to be friends with him, and I asked how he was doing months after it ended, and he said he was fine. Then, most importantly, he said he was the same.

It’s an interesting moment when you go through a period of huge change and you hear that someone you once loved is still the same. I focused so hard on my career after the breakup, on enforcing boundaries and assertiveness, I felt like a wholly different person. I barely recognized myself, but there he was, allegedly the same. I spent so long wondering if he’d ever change, but I didn’t stop to think that I would. A whole new question arose: would I even want him, as changed as I was?

Something clicked in my brain.

For the first time, I couldn’t answer. Because the question had been did I still want him without addressing the fact that I was a different person than I had been months ago.

So, I went to a bar with a friend. They wanted to play pool, and I recalled the bar from RC and I’s first outing. We went. There were pool tables, but it was too crowded to play. Then, I noticed other things I didn’t like. I found that the music was good, but too loud. I had to shout to be heard, and the alcohol was more expensive than I’d ever prefer. When I wanted to order a vodka coke, they only had soju.

I left feeling a mix of nostalgia and relief.

Then, I went to another bar a fortnight later. Just one he mentioned. I didn’t think he was gonna be there (in fact, I hoped he wasn’t). It was two in the morning, and one of my best friends had come to visit.

Again: there were things I didn’t like, and this time they were more profound.

My best friends and I had just gone to one of my favorite places in the city to drink. We danced in our seats to music, despite it not being a nightclub. We took pictures everywhere because it was pretty. We laughed loudly, and cheered like we were the only people in existence.

Now, we were at one of his bars. It was a place to brood, with writing on the ceiling and lights as red as stop signs. The tequila was cheap, chased with cider. For me, it was only as good as the company I was with. I didn’t need a place to think and drink: that was what my apartment was for. I didn’t need to drink to talk: I was a professional yapper.

The next morning, I woke up and realized it was over. I was officially finished. Because I had the time of my life with the life I created, and when I looked into his windows, I found myself bored and uncomfortable. He can keep his brooding. I will keep my sunshine.

“Never been less empty, all I feel is free now.” — Gracie Abrams

When the what-if’s haunt you and you’re someone as in-your-head as I am, you crave answers. Gather your evidence however you can. Go back until you don’t want to. 

I was trapped with the what-if’s of what we could’ve been; of what we were.

So, I talked it out until there was nothing to talk about, and when I couldn’t talk about it, I explored the city through his lens, just to see and get a glimpse of what his life was. I needed the fantasy out of my head, so I would look at the facts. Not as he presented it, not even as I heard about it: but what it simply was.

And it was a cramped bar with cheap drinks and barely any light.

My life was laughing with my friends while we danced to Taylor Swift and Tate McRae.

I was happy when I was with him, but he really had very little to do with it. He didn’t just make me happy: I let him. My happiness came from the fact I allowed myself to be that. I allowed my guard to drop enough to fall in love, and that was brave, beautiful, and bold. I allowed him to charm me, and laughed as he took my heart into his hands. Yes, it broke, but look at how beautifully I put it back together.

My career and ambitions were as high as they’d ever been, and stayed that way. I made friends in the unlikeliest of places (like the corner by his bar, where my friend and I spoke to a stranger about various ballet techniques), and strengthened the bonds I had to family. One day, I was gonna fall in love all over again, and let someone else into the sunshine of my life.

Now I’m married, but the point isn’t the ending—it’s the becoming. The version of me that walked out of that heartbreak did not lose the magic in her life: she was the magic.

It’s not about being happy. It’s about getting unstuck. This story happens over months of I’m feeling great! and I’m the saddest I’ve ever been. There are still days where I miss him. I think I’ll miss him my whole life. For months, I felt like I was in a pool of grief, chained to the ground while the water flooded my lungs. I’d get a little bigger every day, and the days where I didn’t feel as sad outnumbered the ones I did. Eventually, my head would peek out, and I’d feel great, but I was still stuck in the pool.

Reader, I’m not stuck in the pool anymore. Turns out, the key was tangled in my hair all along.