3-Month Check-In

My relationship ended on the 20th of March, I left for Vilnius on the 20th of April, came back to Manila almost on the same day in July, and moved to my new place exactly 1 month later. Since Q1, the 20th day of the month has consistently marked something important. Today, I am back home for 3 months, the same amount of time I was gone, 2 months of which I’ve already spent living in this little home of mine. Thought I should catch my present-self up to see how far I’ve come.

March 20 - D-DAY

When the breakup happened, I was pretty much mechanical. The physical pain I felt in my chest made it clear that there was a real possibility I wouldn’t survive the heartbreak, so I - with what little love I had left for myself - did everything I could in order to be “okay” or at least function as normally as possible. My Instagram archive documented me attending a yoga class on day 2, followed by outside reading and makgeolli. With everything else I already lost, I wasn’t going to lose myself too. Feedback from other people proved that I was successful - friends who saw me on the days that followed didn’t suspect anything was wrong until I delivered the news myself over a week later. Those who found out from me complimented how I coped - how much respect there still was, how there was no hate or disdain, how I took accountability and talked about what happened in a way that showed it was a well-thought out decision (it truly was).

April 20 Onwards - Month 1, And Then Some

Exactly one month after the breakup, I left for my summer in Europe. It was an opportunity that I had almost backed out from. At the time, I took the setbacks and delays as signs that it wasn’t meant for me, but the trip later proved to have timed itself perfectly. Before boarding my flight, I sent him a 2-sentence text message. I’m leaving for Vilnius today. I’m scared, please pray for me. Then I cried and wrote for the better part of the 11-hour flight to Turkey, the first leg of my journey, willing myself to unload as much as I could. I’ve packed clothes and shoes a plenty. Emotional baggage was a burden I begged myself not to carry. As soon as the plane landed in Istanbul, I received his reply. I cried some more.

The first month in Vilnius was a mental massacre. I was mostly on autopilot during the day, and at night, I scrolled through social media for old pictures of us (on other people’s Instagram accounts, we were still together - smiling at each other), then cried until the break of dawn. A couple times, I could no longer hold out for myself and called my very own emergency hotline: my sister in Auckland, where it was already the next morning. Then I closed my eyes and tried to make it to my own morning. But sleep doesn’t do much when you wake up to exactly the same feeling you fought to close your eyes through.

The floor to ceiling window over which curtains stayed shut, the grey kitchen with spacious storage like we always talked about, down to the healthier options I tried my very best to stock the fridge with (my grocery basket would have made him proud) - everything about my gorgeous loft in the outer part of Vilnius central were reminders of how much space was left empty by what I had just given up. The worst part was there wasn’t anyone or anything to contradict the thoughts that flooded my mind. The silence was deafening, and it fostered the most susceptible environment for regret. All I could think about was how much of a relief it would be to go back. To be anywhere but alone, dealing with the fall out.

At this point, it was still chilly in Vilnius. This was the excuse I (over)used for not going out even on weekends. But in truth, I simply wallowed in pain until I had enough of it.

May

On the last day of May, during a weekend trip to Venezia, a friend accidentally sent me an Instagram post without cropping him out. It was the first (recent) photo of him I had seen since I left, looking as handsome and lighthearted as ever. It looked like the world didn’t end for him the way I was afraid it did for me, and in that moment, I took a sigh of relief. Because that boy loved me just as much as - if not more than - I loved him, and if he could make it out alive, maybe it wasn’t impossible for me too. That same day, I made a small declaration - I want to be happy, so I’m going to make space for things that make me happy.

June

The journey back to myself wrapped up successfully in June. Days passed without me thinking about anything related, paying attention to other people didn’t feel like a chore, and there was a multitude of other things that captured my interest and excitement. It was finally dawning on me that the world is far too big and loaded to end over one heartbreak. By this time, I was conscious about having already been halfway through my stay in Europe. Thanks to the progress I made, I like to think I was able to make the most out of the remaining days.

July

After a chest-tightening goodbye and a few should-have-beens, my flight home landed on the evening of July 19. The very next day, Claire and I kickstarted our tour of coffee shops in Santa Rosa and its neighboring cities. Self-awareness is a quality I never lacked, so a setback was expected upon my return, but I never would have guessed the next few weeks that I awaited me. Taylor Swift wasn’t playing about Cornelia Street. Entering the house I lived in most of my life, one would think it is an exaggeration to say I felt him there. Only it wasn’t just him. It was ghosts of us everywhere. It certainly didn’t help that I was suddenly surrounded by people who knew him, who knew about us and what we had. In Vilnius, he was just a distant memory, but here he was real again. It took all but 5 days for the walls and composure I thought I had fully rebuilt to come crashing down.

I knew I couldn’t sustain acting as if everything was still okay, so I decided to give myself grace. For the second time, I allowed myself to grieve, to feel broken, to miss everything I had and lost without shame. Unfortunately, allowing myself to look back quickly turned into a downward spiral that took longer than it should to uproot myself from. The next month would be miserable, like I was back to square one, as heartbroken as the night it became clear what was really happening.

August

I instantly knew proximity was the enemy. Staying where I was - where we used to be - meant I kept feeling like I did. In Vilnius, I became okay because nothing around me reminded me of him. I lived a life completely different from the one we had together. So as my last resort, and though I was neither fully decided nor ready, I made a bold move of getting my own place. Thinking about the “endless possibilities” waiting for me in this new city, I moved into my condo on the 18th of August. 26th of the same month, I wrote about still feeling sad and listless. In my mind, I knew what I needed to do to feel better, but I never had enough energy or willpower for the physical execution. Back on my to do list were drinking water, washing my hair, getting out of bed. Without writing them down, my brain would not have cared enough to remember any of it. Slowly, I added physical movement to my calendar. Taking walks outside, working out, meeting up with friends who live in the same city, joining group activities - my conviction needed a nudge, but in the next few weeks, I was finally able to put myself out there again.

September - Rebirth and Reflection

I think I healed fully in September. I made no plans to celebrate my birthday this year (admittedly, memories of the last one still stings a little, but I also had two upcoming trips so a celebration didn’t feel necessary), but the universe decided to use my rare nonchalance as an opportunity to prove just how loved I am. The 30 days of September felt like a whole year in the best way possible. For the second time this year, I felt a return to myself.

In Boracay, something clicked in my brain. There’s no depiction that wouldn’t reduce the feeling to something superficial but the series of events assured me I got it, whatever it is I think I’m missing, it’s been with me this whole time. I am okay.

In hindsight, part of me has always known that I would be okay eventually because I’ve never had to go through anything alone. In a generation that moves out early and marries late, the concept of “having someone” is still often tied to a romantic partner, but it’s far bigger and more meaningful than that. Platonic love is not a substitute for romantic love, but it can sure feel that way sometimes (in the best sense).

Two weeks post-breakup, still very much in a pit of pathetic heartbreak, I told Kobe, “ang sakit ng puso ko”. And with all the certainty- the very opposite of indifference- he could muster, he replied, “hindi mo branding yan”. So we laughed, and for the rest of the night, the pain seemed smaller, less significant. More than anything, the heartbreak suddenly became less insurmountable. Dare I even say I felt bigger, mightier. Because if, even during moments I feel weak, my friends look at me and know, without a doubt, that I will be okay, then maybe I have always had far more strength within me than I believed. Or maybe they knew I would be okay because they have been silently making sure of it, in the background, without obligation or the need for recognition.

Each time a man lets me down, my friends show up all tender and protective, ready to pick up the pieces - even those I never admitted were crushed. I spent one birthday crying over a guy and the clear imminence of the end of our relationship, and Zelle never forgot nor forgave him for it. So on the day of my birthday this year, she and Cath made sure I was happy and laughing all day. And I never would have guessed the intention behind it if not, during dinner a couple weeks later when the girls were fussing over my (lack of) dating prospects (a favorite group activity these days), she pointedly said “basta ayoko ng papaiyakin ka sa birthday mo”.

Excel, a close friend from my teenage years whom I haven’t seen in years until that very evening, and Guila, on our very first time meeting each other, after spending the last 30 minutes listening to me detail every single thing I did wrong in that relationship, took a breath and declared “maybe you’re just looking for someone to blame and found yourself”. I told them about my tantrums, my selfish ways, and all the things I will always regret doing to another person (especially a person I loved), and their initial response wasn’t judgement. It was grace.

To be seen is to be known. To be known and loved anyway? A gift from the heavens.

Even with all that, I am still very much an advocate for doing everything for the person you love.

“I’m not averse to commitment. It’s long-term relationships I’m against - I don’t have another three years in me to spend watching it fail.”

Last month, on a trip to Boracay, first drink in hand with a blend of high and anticipation from the night before, two friends and I were talking about an oddly specific situation that poses the question “If you’re not together (anymore/yet), but you know that’s where it’s going (or circling back to), where do you position yourself in the meantime?”.

Anything I share about my past relationship will always be limited by a stubborn refusal to speak negatively about the other person. We both made mistakes, as human beings do, but the path I chose to take is to remember our time together fondly, for the multitude of good things it brought into my life over the span of three years. I am, however, also fully transparent about how that heartbreak changed me and my perspective on dating. Put simply, I do not want to go through that again.

Talking about how deeply painful my last breakup was, one would think I would have developed an aversion to love, to commitment. And when I say I don’t have another failed relationship left in me, I say it with honesty. It’s not a line I use to appear different, charming, while silently praying for the next guy, the next relationship, which (by the way) I still very much want and will welcome with open arms. I say I don’t want another failed relationship because I don’t want it to fail.

But everything else about love and dating? Big fan!

Circling back to our conversation that night, my response, predictably, was that labels don’t matter when you know you love the other person. Love, the master of all emotions. 19 year old me would turn in her grave, but after over two and a half decades of putting myself first, I’m happy to announce that I am now (theoretically) ready to make a fool of myself when love comes again.

I think everyone is so emotionally intelligent nowadays that we are all too stubborn to love anyone else more than ourselves. I take pride in knowing I come from a generation of clear boundaries, 10PM bedtimes, and cancelling plans. But I also learned that to love another person is a privilege, one I am yet to give my best for. I constantly tell my friends a promise I made to myself - when he comes again, I will put him first.

This was something I read everywhere and was told a million times while going through heartbreak. Time heals all wounds. For a moment, I was afraid it wasn’t true. But what they don’t tell you is that time doesn’t magically heal the wounds by itself. First, time allows emotional distance. Then it clears your vision to accept the reality. Finally, time gives way for the love to fade.

You may think you will love that person forever, but you won’t. Thank goodness you won’t. So do everything for them, while they’re still yours to love.