I’ve always considered myself a bit of a gypsy. Some might say this persona was cultivated during my unconventional childhood, and they may be right. I have yet to meet too many people who by the time they graduated high school have lived on three continents, traveled the world, and then done time in three different high schools in three different states. But then again, my gypsy tendencies may have been there since birth. I was always just a little different, nontraditional, independent.
While I never minded being a gypsy, I used to think it made me a failure at love. In my 20s and early 30s, I was somehow convinced that my nomadic tendencies made me too weird or commitment-phobic to be in a successful romantic relationship. Like so many women my age, I settled for so much less than I deserved. I fell in and out of love a handful of times, dated plenty of Mr. Wrongs, and had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I would never be some man’s Ms. Right. While I watched other friends fall in love, get married, and settle down, I continued to find myself in love, out of love, in pain, in limbo.
But as my 30s progressed, I began to see just how distorted this thinking really was. My unconventional gypsy nature didn’t make me a failure at relationships. It actually gave me the freedom to be me true to myself which in turn allowed me to see when a relationship wasn’t working, when it was time to end it (and gave me the strength to do it), and what lessons were to be learned in the post-breakup healing process.
At 35, I now see my many 20 and 30something breakups for what they really are. Gifts from the universe. Opportunities for personal growth, change, and development. I now consider my many breakups badges of honor. I wear them proudly, with my head held high. And I share them with others on my site BreakupChronicles.com in hopes of helping other women come to understand the meaning of their own breakups and the valuable lessons learned.
Breakup #1
After a string of failed flings, a mountain of student loan debt, and leaving college one credit shy of my diploma, I fled to the Arizona desert at the ripe old age of 22. I told myself and my college drinking buddies I was retreating “to write” but really, I was attempting to run away from my broken heart. In my senior year, I’d mistakenly fallen in love with a guy whose reputation with the ladies was infamous at our college. I’d somehow convinced myself that because we’d been friends for four years, I was different from all the others. But the only real difference was that when he stopped calling me after our brief affair fizzled, I acted surprised. And so like a typical gypsy, I ran.
I ran straight into the arms of Mr. Ex, a handsome, athletic man 14 years my senior. Mr. Ex was everything my 22 year-old self was not. Confident, handsome, fit. Two weeks into our courtship, he told me he was in love with me. And while I wasn’t sure what he saw in me, I felt Mr. Ex validated my existence. I was convinced that if this gorgeous man wanted to be with me, I must really be something! In reality, Mr. Ex didn’t love me. He loved controlling me. For a year, I let this man tell me what to do, what to say, where to go, and who to talk to. I allowed him to verbally, physically, and emotionally abuse me because I somehow thought he was making me a better person.
Eventually, I got the courage to leave Mr. Ex. Our breakup wasn’t so much messy as it was frightening. Amid restraining orders, stolen property, and physical threats this gypsy ran, tail between her legs, back home. I wasn’t sure what my next move was, but I knew I needed to be on my own. I spent the next year picking up the pieces of my life, pursuing my dream of a writing career, and taking any odd job I could in the meantime. While I made some great friends, my experience with Mr. Ex had made me wary of men and so I chose to remain single.
