I've said it before and I will say it again: There is NOTHING in the world more pressingly painful than heartbreak. It's the worst, worst, WORST pain imaginable.
There is no remedy. There is no quick fix (except for drugs, but those come with a whole other set of wicked problems). It's one of those things you just have f*cking f-e-e-l, you know? I know, it sucks. I hate feeling my feelings, too.
However, I have good news: As BAD as the pain is, it can't actually kill you. I know it feels like that right now, but I swear to a higher power that you're not going to die from the pain. The pain is (like all things) temporary.
And you're going to come out the other side a more seasoned, fierce and fabulous version of yourself. Take comfort in that, even if you feel like hurling yourself out the f*cking window right now. I'm swearing a lot because if anything is worth a "F*CK," it's a shattered heart, darling. When I'm in the throes of heartbreak, I will sock anyone in the face who dares to feed me any poetic, flowery bullsh*t (and I'm not even a violent person).
In hindsight, I look fondly at the days when I was trapped in the dark hole of breakup depression. I'm the woman I am today because of it. And I was also in a very special, very powerful place. And so are you.
Because when you're so f*cking broken, you're free, babe. You're free and you're alive.
1. You're free to be a hot, reckless mess.
I will never forget the first time I had a broken heart. It was sometime in the early 2000s, and honey, I was a mess.
So you know what I did? I acted out. I misbehaved. I became a reckless version of myself. I smoked cigarettes guiltlessly. I drank champagne on my work lunch break. I made out with faceless people whose names I didn't know.
Most of all, I was open with my feelings. And after a lifetime of holding sh*t in and behaving like a proper English rose, it felt good to be a little ~bad~. If I was sad, I cried, black mascara tears shamelessly running down my sorry-ass face on the subway.
For once I didn't care that I looked vulnerable. I just teetered about in dive bars in sky-high heels and poured my guts out to anyone who would listen. Every bartender in town knew the tragic tale of my scorned heart. Every cocktail waitress in the state comped me my first two glasses of champagne.
Did I embarrass myself? Probably a little. But truth be told, no one really judged me. I was HEARTBROKEN. WHAT THE F*CK DO YOU EXPECT? Everyone has been through it, and everyone can empathize with the bizarre aftermath.
This is the only time in your life that you can SCREAM at a bouncer, stumble around in torn stockings, knock over a bottle of wine, and sob into a martini without an ounce of judgement. Indulge in it, girl. Bask in it, baby. When else can you make out on the dance floor one minute and then scream into your phone the next? You can't. You will be judged -- or worse, committed to the psych ward (trust me when I say that's NOT fun).
However, there are TWO pivotal rules I have for the "reckless mess" stage:
1. You only get two weeks. My best friend Eduardo told me at week one, "Honey, I get it, but you only have another seven days of this hot mess sh*t." If you extend the reckless mess phase longer than two weeks, you're putting yourself in danger, and your friends will get really, really f*cking annoyed with you. And you might end up committed.
2. BE CAREFULLY RECKLESS. I know this sounds like an oxymoron, but there is a way to be a reckless mess safely. Order taxis, surround yourself with good people, don't drink to the point of blacking out, and don't do hard drugs. Weed, however, is totally fine.
2. You have a glorious case of the f*ck-its.
My personal favorite part about heartbreak is the amazing case of the f*ck-its that come with it. Heartbreak gives you a really unique perspective on the world. You realize how insignificant all the bullsh*t that used to upset you really is. I mean, who cares if your boss snaps at you when your HEART IS BROKEN?!
When you have a glorious case of the f*ck-its, you're free to do whatever the hell you want. Why not cut that edgy asymmetrical bob you've always secretly wanted? Who cares if it looks bad? F*CK IT. After all, it will grow.
Now is the time to make the most of your f*ck-its. Capitalize on your f*ck-its. You know that really crazy friend who's always impulsively traveling around the world? Join her on her scandalous weekend romp in Vegas. Can't really afford it? F*CK IT, do it anyway. Your heart is broken. Who the hell needs money anyway? What even is money?
Do all the things that you were to afraid to do. Because you'll heal, and the f*ck-its will wear the f*ck off.
3. You can fearlessly tell everyone OFF.
You know that basic b*tch in middle school who made your life a living hell for four-plus years? Now is the time to let her have it. Write her a long, rambling Facebook message and tell her what an insufferable asshole she is. I promise you it will feel good.
You know that vicious little villain who judged you for buying Plan B twice in one month at the drug store? When she throws you that shade, throw that b*tch some shade back.
Now is not the time to hold back. Don't worry about being polite or looking crazy. You're now a woman with a past, and a woman with a past is not to be f*cked with.
Which leads me seamlessly into my next point.
4. You can embrace heartbreak chic.
Like I just said, you're a woman with a past now. You're no longer a wide-eyed little girl who's innocently skipping across the earth's surface. You've been through shit. And there is something very sexy about a woman who has been through shit. In fact, I would argue to say that you're not really a woman until you've had your heart broken. So embrace it.
There is something so f*cking chic about having a broken heart. You have a mystique and sophisticated prowess when you're heartbroken. You're now a worldly woman who is rich with life experience. Play it up. Sing along to Lana Del Rey's "Young and Beautiful" and feel every word alongside the world-weary (yet oh-so-chic) Lana. You're world-weary too now, so you get it. And it's glamorous.
You've officially earned your right to order an expensive glass of wine at the bar without feeling like a fraud. Your beer days are over, kitten. Because you're now a glamorous woman with a scorned heart, and you need a glass of goddamn wine, you hear?
If you really want to heartbreak chic, shamelessly wear your sunnies indoors. Again, you've earned that right. You've been crying for days, you're eyes are puffy and if you want to cover those suckers up with some Chanel sunnies, then DO IT.
Embrace all that is dramatic. Because drama is glamorous. And nothing is more dramatic than heartbreak. Your whole life just got really f*cking glam. Your little-girl days are over. Welcome to the big leagues.
5. You have a perfect reset button for your life.
You're now free to rethink your entire life. You no longer have the anesthesia of another person to numb you from your real wants and needs.
It's easy to simply "get through" a day at your dismal job when you have a warm body to curl into at night. But you know what? You're too f*cking smart and talented to have a job that you simply "get through." The universe is telling you something BIG with every breakup. The universe is telling you that you're not ready to settle. The universe has bigger plans for you.
If I didn't have my heartbroken in the early 2000s, I would probably still be working the lame job that I hated. It was in that heartbreak that I realized I hated that lame job and I wanted to do something BIG with my life -- not just be someone's girlfriend.
You're now free to question everything, because you have no one to think about besides your badass self. Your life has fallen apart, yes, but now you're free to pick up the pieces and rebuild your life exactly the way you want it.
Want to take a year in Bali? Want to move to New York City? Want to switch careers? Want to change your look, change your friends, change the way you look at the world? Guess what, kitten? You f*cking can. Because you're back at square one. You've got no one to think about and nothing to lose.
So pour yourself a stiff cocktail, look in the mirror and ask yourself, "Who the hell do I really want to be?" Anyone you want, babe. Anyone you want.