I stopped crying a long time ago, but she's not so far off

Nancy Angiello is a NY-based writer whose features stories have appeared in national publications such as Glamour, Self, Redbook, InStyle, Bon Appétit, New York, and many others.

I came home from work and saw it: The Ring. With The Note—scrawled on a legal pad. My husband decided the marriage was over by leaving his wedding band (an unusual antique one that we’d excitedly chosen together) and a letter on the kitchen table. A bag of his stuff was gone. Very cinematic, the hand-written note and all. The union had been in trouble for a long time; we’d been in counseling, and were trying (not very successfully) to work it out. So maybe the end was near. But like this? After a few years of marriage, you assume you are going to stay that way, putting in all of the effort to build a life together—even if it’s so rocky you realize it was a mistake. You keep thinking that the love you thought you had will cure all. We had met six years before, when I was in California visiting friends that he also knew. We rode bikes, browsed in used bookstores, bonded over Proust and pralines, pool tables and Pad Thai in the romantic fog of San Francisco. We kissed for the first time in the dusty aisles of a famous Beat poet’s bookstore. But great literature and intellectual sparks couldn’t save the sputtering flame of the marriage. It may have been the right move to separate, but — even though I didn’t know this at the time — I wanted to be the one who made the move first. My ego was so stomped that I couldn’t realize that, no matter who made the first physical move, I would be happier alone. At the time, it was like getting hit by a truck.
How the waterworks began“Omygodomygod!” I wailed when I saw that little tableau on the table, and speed-dialed my brother and my two best girlfriends. They immediately arrived and witnessed the fall-out. The crying started and didn’t end. Seriously. I took to my bed and cried uncontrollably. This lasted for weeks, though I had to get up and go to work and everything else. I couldn’t really eat. I lost 15 pounds, and I was already slim. I felt weak, and that made me emotionally weaker. For almost a year, I could not stop those waterworks: on the subway, behind sunglasses, walking down the street, seeing couples (couples! They were the worst. And they were everywhere—snuggling, dining, laughing). The loaded items still in our apartment always got the gushing started: the dried-up wedding bouquet and ghostly wedding gown looming in the closet; pictures and letters all over the apartment; his empty bookshelves and closet that I refused to fill (they became a deranged sort of shrine to negative space, so that I could pay homage to his lost things)—to memorize what we once had, or to fantasize that he’d fill them again one day? And those remnants of things only my ex used — a jar of salsa, a can of Nestle’s Quik — daily mocked me. Yet I kept them, worshipped them as relics, let them console me as they tortured me. Like that comforter his grandmother made us for our wedding. Did I give it away, as I should have, that symbol of domestic comfort, which we never had? No, I wrapped myself in it every night and cried so hard I soaked it. Getting through the griefBut I had to let myself go through the grieving process. Not everyone wanted me to. My MD insisted on drugs. “Prozac, Prozac for your grief! You’ve lost too much weight! You must not feel this way!” I refused, but took her up on the offer to go and get a milk shake to start putting the weight on me. (I did like the nurse’s advice, though: “Don’t cry over him, dahlink,” she said with her Eastern European accent. “He’s not worth crying over. Keep your good looks—don’t let him ruin your face from crying.”) That became one of my mantras: “He’s not worth crying over, dahlink.” Helpful hint: Hold onto those mantras when you find one that works. Some friends tried to give me self-help books, little talks on love and forgiveness (nah), and quick-fixes to “heal.” When you look back, you can say: “It was all for the best.” But at the time, if someone were to say that, or that classic “When one door closes, another opens,” you want to sock them. Or else you just nod your head vacuously, yesyesyes, as you slowly go mad. You watch their mouths move and the words they speak as if they are coming out of one of those cartoon bubbles. I knew I was young, attractive and had much to look forward to. But at the time, I didn’t believe it. I had to go through the grief cycle first. There was the denial—“Don’t say anything bad about him!” I’d plead to friends who wanted to rake my ex’s memory across the coals, not wanting to recognize that I’d “wasted” all those years with him. Then came my version of mourning: Look at wedding album. Weep over wedding album, then scream at it. Shove in drawer. Slowly get it out again. Next, I moved onto rage: I hate him! That &%$#! After that, I finally realized, through great counseling, that I’d gotten a rare second chance. Relief followed, then glimmers of joy. And finally: real joy. Working my way to joyTo get there took a lot of work; I cannot lie to you. For me, when rage hit, I hit the gym. I’d chosen endorphins over pharmaceuticals, so I needed to get going. For me, exorcising meant exercising. I was lucky. The trainer who I happened to meet at the gym was a serious Zen student; a black belt, and one of those random deep souls who help change your life for the better. It didn’t hurt when he looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes and said, when I complained about how weak I’d become, “We’re going to take care of you.” Ahh, Matthew. After working on me for a few months with weights and everything else, and I started to develop muscle, Matthew got out the boxing gloves. I was hooked. He had me slicing, upper-cutting, left- hooking, right-hooking. I became a pro at the speed bag, the heavy bag and hitting the heck out of the mitts Matthew moved in front of me. My feet danced in the boxer’s stance. (Guilty admission: I sometimes pretended that the mitts were the faces of some people who shall remain nameless…) I discovered a power I’d never experienced. I loved the strength my body had; the concentration my mind had. Matthew showed me the new muscles I’d developed. I was hot! I’m not saying that the gym is the way to end all the trauma of going through a breakup. But when you look so strong, and the exercising makes you mentally fit as well, and time has helped… well, who doesn’t want to look good when you’re going through so much hell? And then good people are drawn to you when you are strong. Taking the big step forwardEnter Walter, cute guy at the gym. I am punching the speed bag, in a skimpy tank top and wrapped hands, happier than I’d been in a long time. Why does it make you so happy to punch? I don’t know. It just does. My arms are working, they are making this beautiful rhythm of the bag against my hands against the backboard. Ba-PAH, ba-PAH, ba-PAH! He walks over to me. “Wow, you are great at that! I’ve always wanted to learn…” Next scene: I am teaching this athletic stud to hit the speed bag. After a few minutes, he asks for my number. I took his instead, so I could be in control. Control is key in the post-breakup process. I looked at his number for a few weeks, thinking about it, twisting up the scrap of paper… until I was ready to dial. We met for breakfast one Saturday. A morning date felt safest. I wasn’t sure about all of this. I was almost happy alone, happy to not take any more risks. I didn’t need anyone. I had my friends, my work, my family, the boxing, and everything else I love. I’d thrown out the damn salsa and chocolate powder and given away the blanket. What more could I need or want? So why was I laughing and having fun chatting with Walter? There was a rare warm sun warming that December morning. We sat on a stoop and my back became so relaxed; I felt like I was thawing. Then Walter touched my shoulders. Aahhh. Later on that night (that date just kept going...), the first kiss with him was one of the best in my life. And that brings me to what the most unexpected lesson was in that crazy, tumultuous year post-divorce.

Yes, I needed my family and friends, I needed to work, and to kick ass in the gym. But what I also needed to remember was that, there were other relationships out there for me… guys who could rock my world, and whose world could be rocked by me.