Revenge Sax, Part II: When the Past Comes Calling

Do you answer the phone?

Aug 08, 2024

My eyes crack open…is it light out? I see the glow of sunlight at the edges of my blackout curtains and I swallow—daggers down my trachea. My shirt clings to me, cold with sweat; I need to change it again. I can no longer deny what I’d been wishing away each time I woke up shivering in the night: I am seriously sick.

It’s been more than two months since my relationship ended, and with the exception of this moment, I had been doing quite well. In fact, until I woke up on fire, I had been enjoying a nice stride, indulging in some good old-fashioned fun through my transition into singlehood.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—has called on me to throw all my growth and solitude in the garbage more than getting sick without a partner to take care of me. Someone to pick up ginger ale, make buttered toast, change my sweaty fever clothes.

On that first day of illness, when my body temperature reached its peak, I was really laying there thinking I would accept assistance from just about anyone…even the person who broke my heart. A wicked fever will have you negotiating every dysfunctional aspect of your previous relationship just to have someone make you chicken noodle soup.

In my waking fever dream, I recalled a bad virus I had last winter. He hunkered down with me until I was well again, only leaving to pick up whatever I needed. He made me what little food I could get down. He put fresh sheets on the bed. He checked on me in the bath. There is an undeniable sense of safety that comes with having a partner by your side when you’re not well.

I was deep in euphoric recall of the warm, fuzzy glow that came with real love—a love that was, at its core, natural and inspired. In my lonely sick chamber, I was able to blur the ways he took every opportunity to strangle it.

As you may have gathered, I survived the virus, but the weight of my aloneness pressed on me, and I struggled with boomerang heartache in the days that followed. My dark passenger whispered in my ear: I’m an adult—why can’t I handle myself? Maybe I was right to fear being alone.

But having endured several break-ups at this point, what I know for certain is that every single feeling passes eventually. I told myself to sit with it, and promise to take no action, as I let my heart settle. So I sat on my sadness.

That night, I dreamed of snakes.

I’ve been afraid of snakes my whole life—a sighting inspires a full-bodied physical reaction. My legs shake, I feel lightheaded, I sweat, I leave town. If I see a snake on a hiking trail, the hike has reached its conclusion. Gotta put it in reverse, stat, because I am certain they want to commit first degree murder and I am victim number one.

But in my dream, I wasn’t afraid. The snakes were prominent enough to be the first thing I remembered upon waking, but in the depths of my slumber, I observed them with a calm detachment. I’m a vivid dreamer, but this felt particularly pointed—as if my subconscious were tapping me on the shoulder, saying, ummmm excuse me, remember THIS?

I sat up in bed that morning, remembering quite clearly.

I was in Vermont with my partner last summer when we saw a snake in the garden at our AirBnB, and I crumpled like a marionette whose strings were cut. The chemical components of fear did not care that I wasn’t in any actual danger. As I crouched in the grass, beads of sweat collecting at my lip, cortisol and adrenaline competing in my veins, I looked to my partner for relief.

It’s hard for me to think about this dumb little moment, because it seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but my present-day heart breaks for the version of me who was hunched over in the dirt, wishing her beloved would just wrap his fucking arms around her. That wasn’t what I got. Instead, his reaction was cold and dismissive, as he more or less told me to get over it. The only upside was that I was so embarrassed and stunned by his judgment, I forgot all about the snake (for a little while).

I made no issue of his reaction at the time, but I began to silently spiral into a pit of shame. On our way to dinner that night, unable to shake his reaction, I remember thinking, I am not strong enough. I am not tough enough. I lose my cool too quickly. I’m too emotional. I’m an adult—why can’t I handle myself?

And of course, that wasn’t the only time something of that nature occurred. There’s only so much I’m willing to publicly recount1, but the dots were revealing themselves right before me, a pattern begging to be connected.

It wasn’t until after the relationship ended that I gathered up all these little bits of myself that he batted back into my soul like a spiritual whac-a-mole. I couldn’t help but think that maybe I wasn’t the biggest problem in our pairing, despite his best efforts to convince me otherwise.

When someone wants to shake the best apples from your tree and watch them rot on the ground, make no mistake, you’re standing in the radiating heat of their projection. And until they deal with their own fears and insecurities, they will continually deflect to yours.

Recalling the unfortunate memory did not immediately relieve me of sadness, but it was an incredibly powerful reminder that I could have married my biggest critic. While navigating single life is challenging and uncomfortable at times, it is no more so than navigating a relationship with someone who didn’t really seem to like me.

It was good timing to get my feet back under me, because that very night, my critic came calling.

I was up later than usual when I heard my phone buzzing—it startled me and I prayed it wasn’t an emergency, because who calls this late? When my eyes met my phone, it took me a moment to comprehend what I was seeing. I blinked, and it was still there: an incoming call from my ex.

As I stared, fixated on his full name, I couldn’t help but wonder: if I had been that bad—so demanding, so opinionated, so unforgiving—why are you calling me? You had me, you lived with me, you left me. And now, you’re calling me?

Building on that morning’s revelations, the incoming call snapped two very important things into perspective.

The first is that I must not deny the rollercoaster ride of heartbreak recovery. Sometimes I will genuinely feel happier than ever—true joy, vindication, and renewal; other times, I will have to tend to the thousand cuts of which we died by, but I must be present for all of it. Tucking it away, ignoring it, and distracting from it are all temporary solutions. I had definitely tried to gloss over just how Earth-shattering the break-up had been—I had shared a home, become part of a family, dreamed of our future together. It takes time, patience, and therapy to recover from the dissolution of a relationship like that.

Part of accepting the process, though, is resisting the urge to analyze it. I could have unpacked the phone call scenario with every friend and family member at my disposal, turning it over again and again, grasping at a deeper meaning. But the truth is, there is no deeper meaning. It’s just a sad, lonely phone call.

Secondly, and perhaps most heartening, is that through all the loss and struggle, I have still managed to become clearer and stronger. It has been agonizing at times, but it hasn’t all been a loss.

As for the call—I didn’t answer, and I didn’t call back. I am the only person who can and will protect my peace.

And in all fairness to him, he hasn’t had the privilege of meeting this version of me—the version who can (sort of) play Billie Eilish on the saxophone, who finally got fitted for the right bra size at 35, who fell in love with Chappell Roan, who endured the loss of her family dog, who watched her best friend and sister become a mother. The version who is still, certainly, afraid of snakes—but no longer taking his phone calls.

Revenge Sax, Part II: When the Past Comes Calling

Do you answer the phone?

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