By the title of the post, you can probably tell that I haven’t quite gotten to “acceptance” yet in the context of my recent breakup.

I’ve been thinking about grief and the five stages ever since I had a conversation with a close friend. I’ve been struggling pretty hard recently. She recalled how months ago I insisted I was “fine!! I’m good!” and that it had worried her. She knew at the time what I didn’t… I was in stage one: denial.

First, the five stages of grief don’t necessarily occur in the same order for everyone. Needless to say, there is no “stage one.” But the denial phase came first and, boy, did it hunker down and make itself at home on Henry Street. No better partner to be quarantined with than denial. I was fine! I was “good.” I powered through the workday and graduate classes at night. I worked out regularly and had a normal appetite. Sure, I made dark jokes about being totally abandoned by the one person I loved most, but it made good comedy content, right? My friends and family were impressed. All my inner work was paying off!

I started being a little more honest with myself, which led me right into bed with “bargaining.” I thought, we’ll work this out. We’ll take time apart, evolve, and come back together in an even better place. Hmm, maybe not. But I want that, deeply; isn’t that enough? If I x, y, and z, God / the universe / whoever is running the show will see how “good” I am and it will all be meant to be, right?

Then, mid-summer, the school bus of reality slammed me and essentially left me with the same range of motion that Regina George had in the last few scenes of Mean Girls. I slept nonstop. I’m still sleeping nonstop. I’m not kidding, I started to worry that I have narcolepsy because I will get waves of fatigue and pass out for a two hour nap in the middle of the workday (I don’t even feel bad about this). I cry at inopportune times, like on the e-stim table at the chiropractor (debatably very opportune, since I’m face down). I eat too much, or too little. Sometimes I’ll go on a run, pull myself off the couch for a walk, or just give into the suck and doom-scroll social media until I fall asleep. But mainly, I’m on auto-pilot. I stopped daydreaming. I stopped wishing for things. I stopped praying for what (I think) I want; sometimes I pray to get through the day, but most days I don’t have the energy to pray at all.

I’m embarrassed. I’m angry. I’m heartbroken. I’d do anything to get back together with him, and also I want nothing to do with him. I’m so excited for the future, and I so badly miss the person I was before this all happened. I’m proud of myself for handling this with such grace in front of others, and I’m furious with myself for not seeing this coming. I feel burned by myself for silencing my gut, and I’m grateful that I live by my whole heart. I would do the five-year relationship over again and again, and also I wish it never happened.

All this to say, I’m starting to clearly see different stages, and it makes me hopeful someday (soon) I’ll get to acceptance. And, to my wonderful friends and family who checked on me, to whom I insisted I was fine, I promise I wasn’t lying, I was just tubing down the river that is denial.