I’m amazed by how deeply I fell—and how long my misery stayed. My boxing trainer taught me to keep my hands up and my chin down to avoid getting hurt by a punch. He hadn’t any advice on how to survive heartbreak, who does?

The cut to remove me from her life was surgical, clean and cold like a laser removing a limb. Except there was no cut man in my corner to stop the bleeding.

We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We burned like lava tumbling down a mountainside—unstoppable, aglow—until the moment we plunged into the cold sea. The shock was instant, like an unexpected slap across the face a sting then it was over. When it ended, it left behind a pale, ugly scar. It must be what a heroin addict feels in the brutal clarity of withdrawal—every cell whispering, you can’t live without me. But an addict can recover. A scar is forever. If there were twelve-step programs for the brokenhearted, I didn’t know any.

Alone, I’d wake up mornings and when I saw the bed without her imprint next to me, my misery would begin. A mood so dark that I felt that I would never see the light, I didn’t even know where the light switch was. I had lost all vision of who and what I was.  

The days were no longer days. No minutes, no hours, only moments. One of agony then one of relief. Even grief needs a break. The pillow case next to mine I refused to wash because of the scent of Hai Karate, a cheap men’s cologne she loved to wear. My morning coffee no longer had the strong sweet aroma of welcoming me to a new day, it alerted me to the suffering I had in store. The sounds of the city were drummed out by the thick beat of throbbing against my temples. Food was like poison that twisted my guts into knots. With a physical illness there would at least a diagnose some hope. But where is the solution for the heartbreak? Can it be mended; can it be healed? I was going insane because I could not erase her final words to me “I’m getting too close to falling in love with you.” 

“That’s a good thing.” I laughed as I caressed her face.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said already reaching for her coat.

“LaVerne” I smiled. I thought she was kidding.

She walked out the door. It closed softly with a faint click of the lock.

That was it.

 Evenings I spent like a fruit fly, in any bottle of alcohol that had an open pour spout. I couldn’t be alone because the movie reel in my mind kept going over our every kiss and curve of her body. But if I drank enough alcohol and surrounded myself with people in loud bars, I could forget her, until I’d fall into an unconscious sleep.

Every day continued getting worse. Friends would say “It’s ok Paul it’s just a matter of time and you’ll get over it.” Day after day, month after month yet the wound was not healing. The only thing that helped was exercise so I threw myself reluctantly back into boxing. At least it would keep me out of the bars. The 2 hours of exercise relived my depression if only temporarily.  Still, I’d call her weekly praying for any sign to see if she would change her mind. As soon as she heard my voice, she’d hang up. I knew I shouldn’t call, I knew it would be a knife in my gut, why was I hurting myself?  My misery deepened; I was not recovering.

Then on a Friday night of my comeback fight in the ring. In the dressing room getting my hands wrapped my trainer says there’s someone to see you. She walked in and I hadn’t seen her in many months. My heart clanged like an elevator stuck between floors. I didn’t know what it meant nor why she was there, why? To wish me luck, to make up? My mind was turning summersaults when it should have been focused on my opponent. “I’ll see you after the fight “I said. Words that if lightly scratched smelled of desperation and begging. The warm sweet sweat that I had formed by shadow boxing to properly prepare for my fight all of a sudden turned to a chill. My mind was no longer at the task in hand.

 The boxing ring is the last place to be if not mentally and physically prepared. The bell rang and I answered it by instinct. I launched a quick succession of left jabs, my best punch. But it felt as if I was holding a 25lb dumbbell in my fist and my punches were easily avoided by my opponent. I welcomed every punch I took; it soothed the pain inside of me. I didn’t care. The beating went on for the full 3 rounds. My trainer begged me between rounds to fight back “If you don’t start punching back, I’ll throw in the towel”. For the first time in our relationship, I ignored him and smiled through my bloody lips.  

The bell rang ending the match and leaving me with my head buzzing and numb from the drumming that I had taken. I didn’t need to wait for the obvious losing decision. As I took three steps down from the ring, I thought I saw a mirage, there she was waiting for me. First a brief hesitation and then we exploded into each other’s arms. Her lips madly kissing my bruised face with wet tears running down her faces. I quickly changed and then ran outside to where she was waiting for me in her white convertible Camaro. We drove north on highway 80. Our hearts were thumping fast and as in sync as the motor of her big powerful 8-cylinder car. With the convertible top down the bright stars sending us their blessings. We paid no attention to the cold night. There was plenty enough heat between the two of us. Stopping frequently at truck stops or dark country roads to make love on our way to our destination of Reno. Practicing for a preacher our “I do, I do, I do.” Yes, yes, God exists! Thank you, thank you God, for answering my prayers!  

“What the fuck!” I shouted as I jerked my head violently back. Vic holding a smelling salt of ammonia under my nose and scolding me with words that sounded as if they were coming from a mixture of roadkill and gravel “I knew you were going to lose the fight the moment that bitch came to see you before the fight.” Golly gee Vic, I thought, tell me how you really feel. It took a couple of minutes for my head to clear and to realize I was back in my dressing room. After showering I looked in the mirror and I saw I had a newly bent nose and a discolored cheek that was going to leave a nice black eye. Vic saw me checking myself in the mirror and said gruffly “It’s an improvement.” The cut lip didn’t need stitches so I dressed and walked outside where there were no surprises. She wasn’t there and it was also no surprise that I still loved her.

With nowhere to go I took a taxi to a pier and I don’t know why. It was a cold and damp night. My shoes shined from the wet evening dew. Walking toward the end of the pier I was accompanied by the moaning cry of a distant foghorn that was echoing off the waters of the bay. Standing at the end I leaned on the rails and looked down, watching as the tide was ebb and flowing with a white splash under the pilings. The fog was so thick that the sight of the nearby golden orange bridge was hidden. The city lights behind me were in a haze. I didn’t smoke but had a strange urge to have a cigarette. The glowing red tip could serve as my personal lighthouse and perhaps guide me to a safe harbor, I laughed through my sore lips at the silly thought. The only thing I knew about fog was if you wait long enough it will lift and that the sun will peek through. I flipped up the collar of my light coat but it did nothing to protect me from the wet cold night.

Eventually, I stopped calling and started breathing again. I learned to loved again. Differently, not with the same blind abandonment, but with more wisdom and awareness. Heartbreak didn’t soften me, hardened me.

Now when I see someone hurting, from the loss of a lover, I never say, “You’ll get over it.” I just lie and say, “I’m sorry.” But I’m not, because that kind of love comes only once in your life…if you’re lucky.

And if they ask how long it takes to get over it, I say “just keep your chin down and your hands up”.