Tune Up #1

SPEAK

“Oh shit, am I losing aura points by writing about my feelings on Substack?”

This week has brought me some real brainrot, like “Moo Deng exemplifies true feminine rage” and “It’s me, depresso.” I suppose as long as I’m mentally here, I need to let go of my title as thought daughter.

Can someone please come revoke my internet access?

Lately, I’m either rotting or stewing. It’s a muddled, sweaty, messy experience. I guess this is to be expected, and I’m trudging through as best I can. Funny how day #1 of heartbreak feels pretty much the same as day #43. The only difference? I’m more exhausted. Yet, in a way, that exhaustion feels like a gift. With each passing day and conversation (as rare as they are), I’m reminded more and more that this person isn’t worthy of me. Every time I try to understand him, I’m left more confused. Each attempt to build a bridge just gets bombed. Eventually, the damage to your psyche makes you want to say, “fuck it.”

It’s strange that my most significant love is ending in a sort of ambivalence. There was so much chaos in the immediate fallout, but now everything just feels… whatever. If someone has already stabbed you in the heart 100 times, the 101st stab doesn’t hurt as much. I can’t tell if I’m having some sort of trauma response for self-preservation or if I’m genuinely realizing how much better off I am without him. Right now, there’s a comfortable numbness within me. I hope this is a side effect of radical acceptance rather than unintentional avoidance, but either way, I’m welcoming the mental break. It’s much needed.

I know people come here hoping for some juicy details, but I don’t feel the need to spill them. There’s no point in trying to humiliate someone who has already humiliated himself. I don’t have to convince anyone that he’s despicable when he’s acted (and still acting) despicably. I’m writing this not to drag anyone but to track my feelings and healing.

I realize that makes for less entertaining reading.

A hallmark of breakups is when the heartbroken start to experience joy again. But here’s the twist: this breakup is incredibly hard, but it’s not all-consuming. I’ve felt moments of joy, gratitude, happiness, and excitement fairly consistently over the past six weeks. Turns out I can live without the person I thought I couldn’t live without.

Let me share one of the first moments of connection I had after my world was rocked by discovering my husband’s infidelity. I found out about the affair around 6 a.m., and by 1 p.m., I was on a flight out of Japan. I don’t remember much about the departure—just frantically packing my stuff as my partner’s finger hovered over the “call Uber” button. He sat like that for at least 20 minutes, wordless, just waiting to call my car and send me away. The man I gave nearly 13 years to. The man I married.

I didn’t even know what airport I flew out of. I took double the recommended dose of Dramamine to drug myself enough to sleep on the plane, but my adrenaline was so high that I shook the whole time and didn’t get a minute of sleep. I was supposed to have a business-class flight home, but because of the abruptness of my departure, I ended up taking a connecting flight in L.A. and traveling cross-country in coach. I met my best friend at LAX, and I remember giggling and joking with her while waiting in line for security. I was in shock, obviously.

When I boarded the second plane, I realized I was still in my pajamas—no bra, just sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. I hadn’t brushed my teeth or anything. I was in a daze.

“Hey, I’m sitting next to you, so I guess we’re in this together,” a disembodied voice said. I let the man into his middle seat, and he asked, “What brings you to New York?”

I replied, “What a fucking question.”

His name is Darnell, and I feel like he was a guardian angel for me on that flight. I told him why I was going to New York, and he listened with such empathy and patience. He shared that he had also been cheated on and was moving back to New York for a fresh start. He was simply kind, and that felt so significant in the wake of the unkindness I had just experienced. He watched Lord of the Rings, and I watched Harry Potter. We discussed both. I was shivering so hard that he offered me his sweatshirt and his gin, but I politely declined.

It was a reminder that good people do exist and will give you the sweatshirt off their back and the gin from their glass. Thanks, Darnell. Since deplaning, I’ve experienced so much kindness. I’ve written down all the kind things people have said or done for me, and I read it back when I’m feeling low. I’ve felt as much gratitude as sadness.

So, there exists both good and bad, but presently, there is predominantly melancholy. So many aspects of my life still feel surreal. Two months ago, I was someone’s wife, and now I’m merely “April Tinder” in someone’s phone. My oldest, most worn T-shirts will be perceived as new in the eyes of those who have yet to see me in them. One day, my marriage will simply be a story I recount when I feel comfortable enough to share—a connection to my past self that a new person will never have had the chance to meet.