“Allow yourself to mourn the loss of love, and heal from those wounds. Don’t run into the arms of another lover, you will not find peace there: you will only accumulate more to heal from.”—Tara Rose, This Is How You Win Him Back (via larmoyante)
Give lots of compliments, even if you’re shy. Everyone else is too.
Change. Get a haircut, try new perfume, get new sheets. Become better than you were before.
Eat healthier. Learn to cook something fancy.
Get up earlier and watch the sun come up.
Wear soft clothes, take a bath, drink something warm.
Meet someone new, even just a friend.
Become closer with your friends and your family. Call your mother. Cry with your best friend. Tell everyone how much you appreciate them.
Keep your room clean. Buy some candles. Let the natural light in.
Make a list of reasons why you’ll be better off without them. Believe they are true, because they are.
Listen to new music.
Write everything you’re thinking and feeling. Write letters. Write happy letters, sad letters, and angry letters, even if you’re never going to send them.
It’s okay to be sad, but not forever. Sadness is not as beautiful as music makes it seem. Lack of sleep makes your eyes droopy, not deep. Wake up every morning and tell yourself you’re going to have a good day.
Go to the library. Don’t forget to look in the music section.
Remove them from your life. Get rid of the things they gave you if they make you sad. They’re not worth it. You will never be happy if you continue to hold on to the things that make you sad.
Make new memories.
Try to find something to appreciate in everything you do or experience.
Being alone is okay, you don’t have to surround yourself with people.
Become your own best friend. Buy yourself coffee and drink it alone in a cafe. Take your time.
Learn to love every bit of yourself.
”—How to feel better and become better by me (via fuckinq)
“With some people, the minute you start talking, it feels like you’ve known them for years. It only means that you were suppose to meet sooner. You’re feeling all the time you should’ve known each other, but didn’t. That time still counts. You can definitely feel it.”—David Levithan, Two Boys Kissing (via psych-facts)
The first time we broke up we weren’t even a couple. Maybe it doesn’t count as our first breakup, then, but it sure felt like one. He wasn’t living in town and I didn’t want to do long distance so we had agreed not to be exclusive. It was my choice, my hesitation to give ourselves a label, but when he told me he slept with someone else, it still felt like betrayal. We sat on the bench in his backyard and I didn’t cry or leave, so we sat, mostly quiet, until we couldn’t stand to sit quietly anymore. We had dinner plans so we kept them, and I finally understood all the times I had waited on couples who sat across from each other and barely spoke throughout their meal, some mix of love and longing, and mostly caution, in the air over the table. We spoke only when necessary, expelling words gently, apologetically, as if they had to walk over shards of broken glass to reach each other. He spent the night in my bed, where I curled around the edge of the mattress, pulled so far away from him that he might as well have already been sleeping in another city. He left town the next day and we didn’t talk for weeks.
The next time I thought we were breaking up, I left in a more official relationship than when the conversation had begun. In the weeks before he moved back, we had fallen back into dating purgatory, a little hell of being halfway together. We sat on two dining room chairs at the corner of his kitchen table and had two different conversations: one, in which I thought we were ending things because he wasn’t ready to call me his girl, and two, in which he thought this is where he gets to start calling me his girl. We had what I thought was breakup sex and what he thought was make-up sex. I left, and when I saw him at the bar later that night, he introduced me as his girl.
We broke up once in our subconscious. He’d fallen asleep on the backyard bench and I’d dozed off waiting for him to come inside to the couch; both of us, confused and angry at being alone in sleep, passed breakup dreams back and forth through the living room window.
A couple months later we had a fight over the phone that ended with two different text messages: one, in which he told me I wanna make it up to you, and two, in which I told him, I think I’m done. The next morning, I thought we were done when I went through the back gate and sat in one of two patio chairs he’d arranged, facing each other. “Is this our little conference center?” I joked. We were within feet of where we’d done this dance a few times before, either just inside or just outside the back door, but we kept adjusting the setting just so.We sat on different chairs, positioned ourselves at different angles, just enough that it wouldn’t seem familiar. Each time, we made it different enough that we wouldn’t recognize that we’d been having the same fight, the same doubts, over and over. Sit in different chairs each time and you might not realize that you’ve been breaking up since before you were together.