Dear Heartbreak

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Editor

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Henry Holt and Company ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the editor, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For the heartbroken

  WE DARE YOU TO READ THIS BOOK ABOUT HOW SHITTY LOVE CAN BE

  (AN INTRODUCTION)

  Love is a beast.

  There are plenty of books about how love is rainbows and roses and butterfly kisses, but this is not one of them.

  Sorry.

  This is a book about the dark side of love: the way it kicks your ass, tears out your heart, and then forces you to eat it, bite by bloody bite. If you’ve felt this way, you are not alone. And if you haven’t felt this way, we promise you will. Not to be a downer, but it kind of comes with the territory of being human. This is also a book about how you can survive love. How you can be broken and battered by a relationship (or lack of one) and still have the real deal, when the real deal is good and ready to show up. Better yet, it’s about how you don’t even need someone to show up because the kind of love that will save you every time is the love you give yourself. I’m not feeding you a sappy self-help platitude here. This is not a Hallmark card or an inspirational mug you can buy at the bookstore (although mugs, bookstores, and snail mail are all wonderful). Loving yourself is damn hard because it means accepting all the parts of you that you can’t stand. It means knowing you’re actually okay even though society wants you to believe that you aren’t. It’s downright revolutionary.

  Oscar Wilde said that “the heart was made to be broken.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I know that after hearts break, they can be put back together in new and startling ways, and you’re forever different because of it. Our hearts are resilient. They can go a hundred rounds in the ring, get knocked out, and the next day be right back in there, fists up. But how do you keep from getting the shit beaten out of you by love? What do you do when you’re against the ropes?

  When you’re in love or out of love or can’t freaking find love, it can be hard to know which way is up. What are you supposed to say to someone who’s stomped all over your heart? How can you possibly go on living and eating and brushing your hair when you lose someone you love, or when the person you love barely knows you exist? Love messes with your head. It can sometimes make you feel like you don’t deserve it, and it definitely makes you feel like it’s the most important thing in the world. (Actually, it is. Love is what it’s all about.) The Beatles weren’t lying when they said, “All you need is love.” If we, as humans, need love as much as we need oxygen, then how the hell are we supposed to stay alive when it takes a hike or doesn’t show up at all? No one tells you what to do when it turns into some creepy alien shit intent on sucking out your life force. No one explains that it can be agonizing, an exquisitely wretched pain we’d give almost anything to never, ever feel again.

  That’s where this book comes in. I asked young adults all over the world to write a letter to Heartbreak—they could say or ask whatever they wanted, as long as they kept it real. Of those letters, the authors featured in this anthology each chose one to answer. They picked the letter that spoke to their heart, the letter they had to respond to. Each author in these pages has suffered from a broken heart. Some are married; some are single. Some are gay; some are straight. Some have been dumped, and some have been the dumper. Some have cheated; some have been betrayed. None of us are perfect. And the advice we give in these pages is not because we’re licensed psychologists (although one of us is) or because we have it all figured out. We’re being so bold as to give you our two cents because we spend a lot of time thinking about love and we’ve learned a couple of things along the way. When you write a story—any story—you’re trying to figure out what it means to be human. And a big part of being human is falling in and out of love. Storyteller, meet Reader. Reader, meet Storyteller.

  Sylvia Plath said, “Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” These authors all talk about love in their books in one way or another. Sometimes it’s epic and star-crossed, or it’s confusion about whether they love a boy or girl—or both. Sometimes it’s about being invisible and seemingly unloved, or feeling like they don’t deserve love. Sometimes it’s about falling in love with your best friend, or someone you’ve just met, or a boy who hurts you but that you can’t seem to shake. They’re able to write about love so well because they have all loved and lost and yearned and hoped. They’ve all wondered if “the One” is really out there, or if the idea of a soul mate is a total myth. Many have doubted their own worthiness, wondering what was so wrong with them that they couldn’t even get a date. Their bravery in telling their own stories—and the courage of the people who wrote letters to Heartbreak—shows that no matter how awful love might seem, it’s worth the cost of the ride.

  The world is batshit crazy right now: racism, homophobia, intolerance, sexism, terrorism, and fear seem to be in charge. But they’re not. Any good thing, any good person, is good because of love. Any time we see society change for the better, it’s because a few brave souls chose love over hate. To love people in the volatile times we live in—romantically or otherwise—is an act of courage and defiance. We see this in how many people get married, even though the divorce rate is sky-high. Or in the boy who doesn’t stop asking out the girl he’s crushing on, even though she rejects him every damn time. We see it in the guy who forgives his boyfriend for cheating on him, but leaves anyway, because he loves himself, and knows he deserves better. (I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Loving yourself is a Jedi-knight level of love.) Love can be a political act, a radical life choice, a refusal to submit to a world that tries to put a price tag on everything that matters. Opening up your heart to someone and letting them in will be the scariest thing you’ll ever do—and the best thing. Heartbreak is a natural part of this process. When your heart breaks, it creates fertile soil for the next love. Maybe it’s a bit more tender; maybe it needs to be watered with a deluge of tears. I offer you these lyrics from U2’s “Beautiful Day”: “the heart is a bloom / shoots up from the stony ground.” It can grow in the most unexpected places.

  A note on the letters you’re about to read:

  In 2017, I visited some schools here in the US and, as I mentioned earlier in this rant introduction, put out a call online for teens to submit letters to Heartbreak about their bad times in the romance department. There was no guarantee that their letter would be chosen by one of the YA writers participating in this project, of course, but I’m a firm believer in the power of the letter never sent, so it didn’t really matter if their letter ended up in the book or not: The writing was going to work some magic on their hearts anyway. I received letters from people all over the world. The teens who wrote in left it all on the stage—or, in our case, the page. They poured out their hearts, outed their haters, and confessed their deepest, darkest secrets and fears. I very lightly edited the letters for grammar and readability (my heart goes out to high school English teachers everywhere), and I omitted an
y details that could be identifying. More than anything, it was important to me that this was a book that holds space for the teens and YA writers brave enough to participate. In order to protect them, I’ve kept the teens’ letters completely anonymous. We have letters here that come from various regions in the United States, Europe, and Mexico. (See? It doesn’t matter where you’re from—heartbreak will find you. No one is exempt. *cue ominous music*)

  Shit gets real in these pages, and so I hope that after you read these letters, you’ll send out your version of good vibes to the writers and to anyone (including yourself) who might be hurting in the ways our writers talk about. We got a lot of letters, and I wish I could publish them all. My big takeaway is this: Every single person you know is hurting. Every single person. There were letters about abuse at home, cheating, betrayal, rape, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts, bone-crushing loneliness, LGBTQ+ haters, regret, unrequited love, and fear of deportation. There were poems and promises and letters that weren’t for Heartbreak at all but to the parents and boyfriends and girlfriends who had broken the writer’s heart. More than a few writers told Heartbreak to go fuck itself, which made me happy—I like that there are a bunch of mutinous people out there who refuse to go down without a fight. We need more people like that on the front lines of love.

  And, holy hell, are you in for it when you read the responses to these letters from the young adult authors brave enough to say yes when I asked them to bleed all over the page. I am so honored to bear witness to their stories, and I know you will be, too. The authors featured here dug deep, excavating some of their most painful memories in order to help not just the teens who wrote in, but every single person reading these pages. Their levels of vulnerability, raw candor, unexpected humor, and gut-wrenching storytelling make me proud to be human and grateful to be part of the writing tribe. I hope they inspire you to own your stories and to tell them, to have the courage to face the hard truths when they emerge, and to embrace hope and the possibility of awesome. I know for some of you it’s really shit times and it might feel like you’re in a dark hole you’ll never see your way out of—I hope this book provides a map of sorts, or at least a little light that wasn’t there before. Make sure to check out the back of the book for resources to get help if you need it.

  So here’s to the romantics, the cynics, the heartbroken, the hopeful. Here’s to everyone who’s ever been in love or will be in love. Here’s to moonlight kisses and break-up playlists and shouting matches in parking lots. Here’s to forgiveness and choosing yourself and saying yes when it scares the shit out of you—and screaming NO at the top of your lungs when you need to.

  I hope these pages give you as much faith in love and in our ability to heal and learn and grow after we’re hurt as they’ve given me. As a character in one of my favorite movies, Love, Actually, says, “Let’s go get the shit kicked out of us by love.”

  Courage, dear heart.

  Heather Demetrios

  Brooklyn, 2018

  This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something.

  —Elizabeth Gilbert

  I don’t think I’m unlovable. But I keep wondering: what is my glitch?

  —The Upside of Unrequited, Becky Albertalli

  Dear Heartbreak,

  Ever since I was a little girl I dreamed about true love—sounds ridiculous, right? Well, the thing is, I was always inspired about it because of movies and books my dad used to read to me. So one day I saw him. He was everything I dreamed of (or so I thought). His caramel eyes were full of mischief, like he was calling out for trouble, and don’t even mention the hair and the smile—a total dream boat! I was so in love that I thought he was in love with me, but how could he be when he barely knew me?

  I thought that because he did things like telling me I was special, different from all of the other girls—flirting with me (he pulled my hair to annoy me and he always used an excuse to touch me)—I created an illusion around him (big mistake). So one day I decided to confess my feelings. I was so full of confidence that he liked me back, but when I got to him, he was with another girl and I felt a flinch of jealousy. But I brushed it off. I was determined to confess my feelings—until I saw something that completely shattered my heart. He was kissing her and smiling at her and he had this twinkle in his eye and he was touching her gently, like touching her too hard might make her fall apart. I didn’t know where to run or hide. I felt completely heartbroken.

  The thing is, he still found out that I liked him: A dear friend of mine shattered my trust and told him because she also liked him! Great friend, huh? So the next day I went to school heartbroken about seeing him (I forgot to mention we went to the same school), and there I go to talk to him like always, but something was very different. He looked at me like I was a bag of poop and ignored me. I was so confused and hurt. So the bell rings and we all go to the classroom (we also have the same class) and I was talking to a friend, but I was trying to catch the eye of the boy that I liked. When I finally got it, I waved at him and he looked me up and down in disgust and came to me. I gulped. I knew he knew, but the words that followed still hurt like a bitch: “You disgust me. Listen to me, I would never like someone like you—you are ugly and I hate you. I don’t want you near me ever again, do you understand?”

  God, those words almost made me cry (key word: almost). I gave him my best smile, even though I didn’t mean it, and told him: “I understand; I hope you have a nice day and life.” Then I went to my seat. When I glanced at him, he looked so confused. I hated myself because of him. To this day, I still think that no one will ever love me. All my dreams were shattered—and you know what’s the worst part of it all? He still hates me and I don’t even know why! I wish I’d never see him again, but the thing is, as time goes by I still don’t hate him. He broke me, but I still don’t hate him.

  Love,

  Unrequited Love, 16

  YOU ARE SO FAR FROM BROKEN

  Dear Unrequited Love,

  I’ll hate him for you.

  I mean, wow. This guy’s an actual shitstain. But you? You’re beautiful. And you’re brave. Look at what you did: You loved someone fearlessly. You got your heart broken. You went to school the next day anyway and got your heart broken again. You responded by showing him exactly what grace looks like. And here you are, picking yourself up and dusting yourself off every single day.

  I was a lot like you when I was younger. I went to school. I had friends. But I had this entire inner romantic landscape, shaped by books and movies and fairy tales and hormones. I don’t think I’ll ever find the words to explain the sheer force of my longing for the romantic leads in particular nineties teen rom-coms. Devon Sawa, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Ethan Embry, with their shy smiles and twinkly eyes, tripping over themselves to make grand romantic gestures to the beautiful skinny girls they were in love with.

  And then there was me: on the couch, eating Goldfish crackers, smeared in zit medication, wondering what it would feel like to be worthy of cinematic grand gestures. I thought I wasn’t worthy, but I wanted it badly. That is, I wanted love. Also, I wanted to be worthy. And in my middle-school heart, these two concepts—love and worthiness—were dangerously intertwined.

  Of course, it wasn’t just movies. At school dances, at bar mitzvahs, everywhere I went, it seemed like everyone around me had somehow cracked the code. I’d barely mastered eye contact, and my friends were slow-dancing and holding hands and sometimes even kissing—which was a thing I thought about constantly. I practiced kissing my own arm—I actually did that—but it wasn’t exactly to improve my skills for the real deal. It was an attempt to approximate what kissing felt like. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to try it out on someone else’s lips.

  Because I wasn’t like the girls who slow-danced and held hands and kissed. I was quiet and earnest and pudgy. The other kids wore Abercrombie. I wore oversized nature-themed T-shirts and gym shorts in the summer, and turtleneck tunics all winter. My hair wou
ldn’t stay in its ponytail, and I was always pushing up my glasses. Once a boy sat behind me in class and murmured l-l-l-l-liposuction. I saw a slam book once that voted me the “plainest” girl in seventh grade. I don’t know if any of this sounds familiar to you, UL—I hope not—but I’m guessing you understand the feeling. Sir Shitstain made you understand the feeling. Disgusting. Unworthy.

  High school was better, sort of. I never had one of those teen-movie-style transformations, but I was a bit more comfortable in my skin. For the first time in my life, I had friends who were boys. Sometimes I had crushes on them—achingly physical, intensely real, absolutely top secret. I’d joke around with them during the school day, and there was so much casual touching at play rehearsal … Romance didn’t feel attainable, but sometimes it felt close. Sometimes I loved how it felt to want someone. I used to cry in my car when certain songs came on the radio. Every unrequited love song was about me. I felt very alive. I was constantly in love, but I could never say it out loud. I guess I didn’t want to burden anyone by loving them. I guess I still felt unworthy.

  Here’s how the next part of the story should go: I go to college. I get confident. Either I kiss a million boys, or I stop caring about kissing. I’m brave and self-possessed and my goals are bigger and I’m better.

  Here’s how it actually goes: I go to college, and I’ve still never had a boyfriend, still never been kissed, still want it desperately. But sophomore year, I met a cute boy with glasses. We were at a party in my friend’s dorm room. I remember sitting beside him on my friend’s bed, talking like we were the only two people in the room. And I thought: Maybe this is finally happening. Maybe I’ve unlocked the secret.

  I saw him around campus a few times in the following weeks. I learned his last name. I learned he was an English major and a writer. There was no Facebook back then, but I found him in the campus directory. I knew his email address, even though I was nowhere near brave enough to use it. But I was getting braver in other ways. I never used to confess my crushes, but I told my friends about this one. I said hi to him and smiled when I passed him between classes.