I’ve only been broken up with once.
I didn’t handle it well. I was used to relationships that I didn’t get invested in, and by the time I was finally ready for a relationship that was real for me, he didn’t return my affection. I expected too much, I suppose, and we were too young for the kind of relationship we had. I was used to boys who loved me more than I loved them, because that was all I’d ever had, and I got the opposite. I loved him with everything I held back from the others, and he didn’t love me back.
It destroyed me. I spent far too long dwelling on it, and letting him lead me on. Letting him sleep over, even though I knew he didn’t care like I did. This isn’t to say he didn’t care, just that he was not in any place to be what I needed. I made a lot of mistakes, using sex as a way to like myself better being one of them. I tried drinking. I spiraled right up until the point where I realized that he didn’t love me. He didn’t treat me the way I deserved, and that said a whole lot more about him than it did about me.
I told myself over and over “You are not a mistake. You are not anyone’s mistake to make.” I told myself until I believed it. And then…I did more things I shouldn’t have, because somehow, to me, loving myself again meant making him feel the way I did, and that was wrong. When he said he loved me, I said I hated him. When he asked to come over, I let him, only so I could make him feel guilty, or start a fight. I ruined the friendship that we’d had since we were small children.
I was horrible. And then I moved on. I got over it. I grew up. I learned, and so did he. We fought, and fought, and we cried. We shook our relationship to the ground, and we rebuilt it.
And now, years later, everything is beautiful and better than ever before.