In the second grade, Daryl Hall and John Oates were my best friends. My grandpa was my version of a school bus, driving me to and from school every day. As soon as his Saturn Aura pulled into the driveway, I would skip into the backseat, cover my unbrushed hair with over-the-ear headphones, and connect them to the bluetooth CD player. Within seconds, Hall and Oates’ The Essential Collection streamed through the speakers. My squeaky, wholesome, adolescent voice sang, “Oh-oh, here she comes / Watch out, boy, she’ll chew you up / Oh-oh, here she comes / She’s a man-eater,” which earned a chorus of laughter from my grandfather. Little did he know, I was treating the duo’s warning as a dating manual.
For middle and most of high school, I paid no attention to boys (and vice versa). I was awkward, loud, and opinionated with frizzy hair and buck teeth. When I should have been learning how to do my makeup, I was obsessively reading the Twilight series and tweeting from my Taylor Swift fan account. But by the time junior year rolled around, Invisalign fixed my teeth, repair shampoo tamed my hair, and Edward Cullen got shoved in a box underneath my bed. I started wearing contacts and mascara. People suddenly found my extroverted, carefree attitude funny rather than weird. And boys started to like me.
Growing up ugly, I was wary of this newfound sense of attention. I had never interacted with a boy in my 16 years of life, so when my existence became known to them, I instinctively thought they had ulterior motives. They wanted the homework answers. They thought my friend was cute. They lost a bet with their friends. I never trusted I actually interested anyone.
Hence when an Instagram DM from my crush popped up on my phone screen, my heartbeat doubled in speed. No one I had liked had ever liked me back. We shared a number of playful conversations and compliments, but that is what being friends is, right?
My stomach fluttered as I opened the text.
“I just wanted to say I like you.”
It was impossible to wipe the involuntary smile off my face. I could not believe it. I was liked.
This crush and I dated for a year, but it did not take me long to realize a relationship was not for me. I felt villainous in comparison to him. I snapped at his innocent remarks. I became frustrated at the fact we never fought, figuring if our relationship was not put to the “test,” it was not real. He never did anything wrong, but he also never did anything wrong. I hated myself for not being able to connect to and appreciate him the way he deserved, so I left. I wrote it off that we were just too different of people and did not think twice about it.
Not much changed once I got to college. I routinely kicked my first situationship out of my dorm room while he asked to cuddle for “just ten more minutes.” After a guy I casually saw for a few weeks after he told me he loved me, I never spoke to him again. I declined another’s offer to be his girlfriend and suggested that we keep it undefined. I became the maneater Hall and Oates feared.
My friends joked that I treated men the way they treat girls. Just like your typical college frat bro, I was dismissive, detached, and discriminating. The feminist in me found pride in this. After witnessing my girl friends get ghosted and my guy friends lead girls on, it was empowering giving men a taste of their own medicine.
Then I met myself in male form.
Unlike the other men I had been involved with, he was exactly my type, both physically and spiritually. He treated me as respectfully and devoutly as my high school boyfriend. We had the same music taste, the same sense of humor, the same values. He was perfect, and for the first time in my life, it felt like another person had awoken my soul.
Although this was the most safe I had ever felt in a relationship, I struggled to accept his affection. I told myself to keep it casual, to be cautious of getting attached because emotional investment only equated hurt. But the more I got to know him and the stronger my feelings grew, the louder the devil on my shoulder whispered, “hHe doesn’t want you. He is just using you. He doesn’t mean what he says. This is not real.”
Suddenly, being around this man I was once head over heels for felt suffocating. Just like with my high school boyfriend, I got mean. Every compliment that left his mouth was met with a disgruntled scowl. All our similarities dissipated in my eyes. I convinced myself I did not need him and instead needed out.
However, he beat me at my own game.
On a random Saturday night, the words “I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship” hung in the middle of his bedroom. I stared at him blankly. That morning he had raved about how well me and his mom would get along. That afternoon he told me how proud he was of “his smart, pretty girl” for finishing my final.
“I think we are just two different people.”
“You don’t understand, I am a lot. You deserve better.”
“I think I just need some time to myself.”
But all I could hear was, “I do not want you.”
The thought of him not being in my life subsided all my doubts and hesitations. I was forcefully confronted with how much I genuinely cared about him. Yet all I could do was run because I would rather be alone than abandoned.
For days, I could not sleep or eat. I felt helpless and heartbroken, but more potently, I felt guilty. I thought back to how I would correct him when he referred to our “hangouts” as dates. Or how I introduced him to people as “my friend” despite our intimate relationship. Or how I avoided talking about my past and my interests because I feared the loss of my mysterious persona would make him lose interest in me. How could I be mad at him for not being ready for a relationship when I was emotionally unavailable myself?
While getting “broken up with” illuminated all my problematic behaviors, it also introduced me to my capacity to love. Typically when a relationship of mine ended, I defaulted to defensiveness. The person did not know me or they were jealous of me or they had their own issues. This time around, though, I felt no anger or resentment towards him. I only felt empathy. I then knew the only way to honor my compassion for him was to channel it into myself. I vowed to heal the insecure little girl inside me, who believed no one could like her, so I would never lose someone I valued through my self-destructive behaviors again.
My self-reflection pushed me into action. I journaled for the first time in months, started seeing a therapist, and read books on attachment styles. My newfound sense of time, freedom, and motivation strengthened my existing relationships. The lingering confidence I gained from my time with him reignited my charisma and secured me new friendships. My heartbreak swiftly turned to hope.
Now when I listen to Hall and Oates, I skip “Maneater.” The song feels repetitive and overplayed. Instead, I queue “Love Hurts (Love Heals).” My matured voice sings along to the lyrics, “Love hurts babe, you know it feels bad (feels bad) / (Love heals) / But it’s the only thing that will keep us together.” I used to think the song’s 80s synths and woeful tone were cheesy, but now it only makes sense to me. Losing someone you love is the only thing that makes you melodramatic enough to whip out a key-taur, but it is also the only thing that will transform you as a person. So while love hurts, it is always worth it.