Official Participant in the Youth Media Blog-a-Thon

There are a lot of clichés people apply to sex, love, and relationships. Some of them are optimistic (“love is blind”; “absence makes the heart grow fonder”), some are more realistic (“love comes when you’re least expecting it”) and some are just plain bitter (“guys only want one thing”; “out of sight, out of mind”).

I got dumped a few months ago, and since then I’ve been collecting, in a Word document called “Anything” that I’ve used as a catch-all for years, the clichés that friends and family have been telling me in an effort to cheer me up. “It’s not the end of the world,” some said, reasonably, though unconvincingly. “You’re a great catch!” said my dad. (Yeah, that’s an opinion you can trust.) “Find something that makes you happy. Distract yourself,” said my roommate, who went through a terrible breakup our freshman year at Cal, and so is a pretty good authority on the subject. “Time heals all wounds,” said the ex himself, quite literally before walking out the door. (Time healed his wounds pretty quick.)

All these clichés—and indeed, all clichés in general—are helpful, if you’re in the right frame of mind. And they all contain at least a sliver of truth. I’m the sort of person who finds herself thinking in an uppity English accent after reading a Jane Austen novel, so I’m impressionable enough that one-liners like these can actually make a difference to my psyche. It’s usually a temporary difference, though. Advice only lasts about as long as it’s fresh in your head, until, that is, you’re really ready to hear it—you know, make a change, take a step forward, or simply let go—all those fantastic clichés. And maybe that’s why I’m keeping them on file. Maybe I’m waiting for a day when they will all sink in at once.

It’s not just the one-line clichés that I’ve been hearing. There’s also the whole clenched-fist, eye-of-the-tiger attitude you’re supposed to obtain after the breakup. This is ripped straight out of romantic comedies, I think. The star of the movie gets dumped, maybe at the beginning, or maybe somewhere in the middle, and then spends the rest of the movie coming to the slow realization that his or her ex was actually a terrible, controlling, mean-spirited, humorless, or just plain bad person (usually helped along by the gorgeous and understanding stranger they meet in the second or third act).

It’s obvious why this kind of plot sells—it’s as comforting as chicken soup. But in reality, this kind of an outlook is a big fat lie. We all know that good people find themselves having to tell those who love them, “I’m sorry, it’s over.” (Probably more frequently than bad people, actually.) And everyone has been on the less painful side of rejection. (Jeez, I feel bad…oh well. He’ll get over it.) But somehow the world expects that at soon as the breakup occurs, the one doing the breaking up must be transformed into some evil, creepy, inferior person. That’s how you’re encouraged to think about him. But that can’t possibly be true. And maybe my friends—who have certainly gone through more heartbreak than I have—know this. Maybe they know it’s just a big, unnecessary lie you need to tell yourself for a while so that you can stop feeling like some kind of wide-eyed puppy who’s been kicked and left out all night in the rain.

Maybe hate is the fastest route out of love.

I wish I was writing this from the perspective of someone who’s waded through all the shit and come out clean and happy and wise on the other side. Like that other cliché—whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. (I hate that one. What about scarlet fever?) But I can’t yet. I’m not that person. And I doubt it’s ever that cut and dry for anyone. (This is not ever going to be the uplifting story of how I grew up, or learned to love myself, or came to accept a changing world, or that kind of thing.)

So whatever the ultimate goal of all this nice and neatly packaged advice, I don’t think I’m there yet. But I know enough to thank my friends for not saying (at least to my face) “Get the fuck over it,” despite my newfound propensity to tune out of my friends’ conversations, to leave the theater in the middle of a movie and sit in the bathroom and cry, to hold fort in my roommate’s bed until 3 in the morning when she has to get up early, and (once) to drink myself into a sick, two-day long stupor.

Turns out Ringo had the best cliché of them all. I get by with a little help from my friends.
—Rose Rimler