I think breakups are beautiful. I think there’s something beautiful about the vulnerable position it forces you in, the way it consumes you and becomes you, only temporarily. It has the magical ability to unlock an immediate understanding in strangers; when you tell someone you’re going through a breakup, often they can immediately empathize and relate it to a significant point in their life. A breakup allows you to wallow in your sadness for a little while but it also wakes you up. It’s a splash of cold water in your face that reminds you that your anguish is not special, even though it feels astoundingly unique.
There are things you need to let you wallow in your sadness and also things you need to help you put your pain in perspective. Here are some things that, I think, do both.
Wednesday’s discography
At first I was just going to say Wednesday’s latest album Rat Saw God, a cinematic indie-rock masterpiece that came out at the time of my (other) breakup earlier this year. The 8-and-a-half-minute “Bull Believer” is the definition of catharsis as Karly Hartzman lets out blood-curling screams at the end, serving as relentless expression that pays no mind to judgment or restraint.
However, honestly, their whole discography is the perfect soundtrack for intense emotion. I Was Trying To Describe You To Someone (one of my favorite album titles ever) and Twin Plagues encapsulate intimacy as Karly sings about her friends as if they’re your friends too and as she recalls moments with such vivid detail that it feels like you were there. In just a few words, she paints moving scenes and landscapes (“Tall grass is bending in the rain / Billboard made me change my mind again,” Karly lulls on “Billboard,” conjuring up the revelatory nature of the middle of nowhere; on “Gary’s,” she sings, “I walked a quarter mile to get the mail / Fifty yellow birds fly from the field into the air,” and I can see the flapping of bright wings in unison as a sort of trance). The fuzzy guitars vibrate with a sense of ache. It’s music that captures the tragedy of beauty and the beauty of tragedy, opening up your eyes to the glowing edges of pain. Even the covers album—Karly and MJ’s poignant harmonies on “Sacrifice (For Love)” (originally by Greg Sage) enmeshed in the scrappy clamor are unlike anything else, and it’s a testament to their own relationship and the role that real love plays in the band.
Cigarettes
Though he and I would smoke together often, I find cigarettes to be an important piece of (female) independence. I’m reminded of a line in Elizabeth Smart’s By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept: “I have learned to smoke because I need something to hold on to. I dare not be without a cigarette in my hand.” As a woman, it’s protection: literal fire, come near me and I’ll burn you. Or protection in the sense that it provides a reason for your existence: why am I standing here? I’m smoking, that’s my reason for taking up space.
Writing
Write about the relationship. About what went wrong, to remind yourself why it had to end. About what went right, to remind yourself why it happened at all, why you bother with love. Write about things other than the relationship, like other relationships, or, I don’t know, not relationships.
The other day, while I was sitting on a bench in the shade, an elderly man struck up a conversation with me. He was walking a dog. The dog kept barking. He listed traumas the dog went through, but I couldn’t hear most of them because elderly men often have very few teeth and so it can be hard to hear them talk, but I caught the bit about the dog watching his mom get hit by a car. The elderly man asked what I do. I said I’m a writer. He asked what I write about. I forgot in that moment that my job is—and has been for about five years—music journalism. I said, instead, that I write about relationships, because ever since I was a teenager I’ve gravitated toward the helpless act of trying to convey the magnitude of heartbreak in words. He nodded and said relationships are a complicated topic. I could not help but notice how happy the dog looked, despite the stories relayed to me.
Cafés
My go-to café will not cure me. Today they played “Pitseleh” by Elliott Smith and I nearly burst into tears. Often they put on a shoegaze playlist that’s also quite evocative (Slowdive, Nothing, Hotline TNT, Blue Smiley). Still, at least these songs are interrupted by the screams of crying babies, which feel very resonant to how I’m feeling. I’m thinking of (I’m sorry) Sartre, his novel Nausea, how much time he spent in cafés. I’m thinking of his idea of a groundless reality and the freedom that comes with that. I’m trying to feel free in this disorder rather than trapped. I’m trying to appreciate my surroundings rather than feeling overwhelmed by them. Ride the wave of madness. (“The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the café, I am the one who is within it.” —Sartre)
Crying in public
Like I said in the introduction, I find beauty in the vulnerability of a breakup. I think it’s something to take advantage of, to revel in. Crying in parking lots is a personal favorite. I did today. I started breaking down at the CVS self checkout. I was set off by the annoying voice repeatedly instructing me to put my item in the bagging area even though I literally was, though of course it had been building up before that. I held back my tears until I got to my car and sobbed in the driver’s seat. Allow me to insert a Chris Kraus quote from Aliens & Anorexia here:
“Crying leads you through concentric rings of sadness. You close your eyes and travel outwards through a vortex that draws you towards the saddest thing of all. And the saddest thing of all isn’t anything but sadness. It’s too big to see or name. Approaching it’s like seeing God. It makes you crazy. Because as you fall you start to feel yourself approaching someplace from which it will not be possible to retrace your steps back out — it’s much too large and ancient. There are too many parts of other people it in for one person to absorb. Grief is information.”
I’m so grateful that there is a bodily function for sadness, a physical manifestation for the emotion. It feels like evidence. It feels productive. When you cry hard, it can stop the racing thoughts. They whirl so fast that they just collapse under the noisy hysterics. As Chris describes, often the crying isn’t enough, and it makes you crazy. Even though I’m bursting in a violent outpour and I’m volcanic with misery, I still sense the boundaries of my body and that my feelings are exceeding what I can handle. There is nothing to do then, except keep crying, a continuous journey, moving toward something unknown. You have to accept the limits of yourself, your subjugation to something much bigger than you. Hopefully, this makes us stronger and whatever, though I’m not so sure.
Molly Maxwell (2013)
OK, maybe not this specific movie. However, it was just what I needed. I searched for movies similar to The Diary of a Teenage Girl, a favorite film of mine that showcases the experience of female adolescence and desire with precise accuracy. The awkwardness contrasting the attempts to be seductive, the biting insecurities, the uncertainty of what you want. Molly Maxwell explored these same themes of girlhood as she falls for her teacher. He falls for her as well (I know, I know) and is seemingly as confused as she is; he tries to uphold boundaries between them (kissing only, clothes stay on), though she oversteps them on her own volition. She realizes toward the end that he is not what she needs, despite the thrill and the comfort and the love.
It’s frustrating (to me)—the way she eventually just accepts that he is not what she needs. I know she gets (spoiler) caught by the school and he gets fired (or quits, I forget) and she’s interrogated by her parents and all that. But still, doesn’t she want to see him again? She tries to, one last time, showing up to a bar where he’s performing his first gig after he invited her. Right before he goes on, she’s kicked out for being underage. She smiles and walks out. Perhaps she accepts this fate because she’s no longer the same as she was. The experience was formative; it was enough. She recognizes the chaotic affair served its purpose—giving her a glimpse into an adulthood—and she’s ready for the next adventure. Also, you finally realize the guy is pretty pathetic for dating a high schooler, though mostly because his music sucks, just whiney and corny as hell.
Either way, it’s nice that she ultimately finds her own agency. Though it’s certainly easier for a person to achieve closure in movies than in real life. Accepting things are over is always the hardest part for me. But Molly Maxwell is an inspiration, and immersing myself in her complicated relationship for an hour and a half made me forget about my own.
Making memes
Have you guys tried this? Here are a couple I made just today (at the time of writing this):
I spend so much time in this dark place of suffering where I’m overwhelmed by isolation and fear. Fear of what’s next in my life, fear of what I can’t handle. So it’s important to hold space for feelings that are not so fucking serious. I’ve spent so much of my life glamorizing sadness and alienation, hoping to mythologize myself into an Ian Curtis- or Sylvia Plath-like figure, an incarnation of depression. But there are awful consequences of being be drawn to despondency. It’s taxing and unnecessary; there’s nothing inherently profound about it, and it makes you impossible to be around. Therefore, make a fucking meme, at least.
In other news:
I wrote more about breakups and art in my essay about Olivia Rodrigo’s new album Guts for Off-Chance.
I wrote like 5,000 words about Soft Grunge Tumblr for Off-Chance as well, if you’re into that (Happy 10 years, AM & The 1975).
My birthday is next month, therefore, if you’re not subscribed, there’s a button for you below.
Going through a rough breakup/divorce myself and "Sacrifice (For Love)" by Greg Sage has been a go-to track for me. I love the Wednesday version too. Actually, their covers album is how I discovered the "other" Greg Sage solo album and the original track. Agreed fully that a breakup can be interpreted as a "wake up" from the slumber of love and co-dependence. Thanks for writing this one.
'I Was Trying To Describe You To Someone' is a perfect title for any work of art and also happens to be a spectacular Crime In Stereo record (as are all of them)