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Love Walter:  What Becomes of the Brokenhearted 

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Dear Walter, 

I just got dumped by my boyfriend during the worst time of the year to be alone — during the holidays. I’m so devastated. We have been together for about a year. And I honestly thought he was the one.   


Are breakups ever easy?  



Dear Brokenhearted,

Breakups are the worst. Whether you’re the dumper or the dumpee, it’s sadder than an empty bank account when you’re more than a week away from your next check. And there are bills, bills, bills like Destiny’s Child, and no one else to pay them. It fucking sucks. 


I thought Ray was the one. But not even Adele could save us. I was in an oral relationship filled with dick sucking, heavy kissing, day drinking and shit talking. I lost my voice when he walked out on me. I remember the falling snow as he walked down 4th Avenue, shivering in a cheap peacoat, and that plaid scarf I hated. December in New York City can be brutal.   


Recounting a flailing relationship can ruin romance. He didn’t like me writing about him, or the clothes I chose to wear. I loved a leather kilt or skirt paired with boots in the afternoon. Of course, I’m writing about him wearing a kilt.  


When we broke up I didn’t know if I could handle it. I walked around Union Square and got lost in people watching. The snow and crowds went on for miles. How can a place so crowded feel so lonely? I sat on a bench and peered at the street like a homeless woman wearing lipstick — forgotten and left behind. The misty snow danced around, lifting up abandoned newspapers and plastic cups. 


I didn’t know if I could ever love again.  


After losing myself for hours, I gathered the strength to ride the train. I followed the white tile that lined the halls of the subway. I watched a group of hood boys dressed in sweats and sneakers breakdancing to trap music. 


I escaped the noise and entered the L train to Brooklyn. Adele was my go-to girl for all matters of the heart. The verbal and physical abuse had us rolling through some deep shit.  


One train transfer and a replay of Adele’s album later, I arrived in my shitty neighborhood, but $500 a month for a room to rent, made my place home. I went to the liquor store to cope. A little Latina hid behind the register texting on her phone.  


“Honey, I need Hennessy.” 


2 blocks and a shot later, I tossed my shit on the bed while I poured myself a real drink. My phone rang. 




“Walter, where are you?” 


“I’m in the house.” 


“I need you to come down to Harlem Food Bar. Ray is crying, telling me ya’ll broke up.” 


“What am I supposed to do? He dumped me.”  


Not happening — I’m not leaving Brooklyn. He doesn’t get to be the victim. He doesn’t get to be in tears when he cut me deeper than cocaine after a weekend binge. I drank some more, blasting Adele like she sang directly to me.  


“But, rumor has it.” I sang. “He’s the one I’m leaving you for.” 


And for a moment I was relieved. He may have been the only person I knew in NYC. But without him, I’m still standing. I’m still breathing and yes, I’m still drinking.  


Two hours later, Ray sent a black town car for me. I put on my Sunday’s best to access this mess. I settled on a black kilt in a leather jacket with white boots. I arrived at his townhouse in Canarsie where his grandmother lived.  


I hopscotched my way through the snow to this house. A cool breeze caressed my legs blowing up my kilt, while the Hennessy warmed my heart.  


His grandmother was the last bitch I needed fucking with me.  She was a mean woman with thick hips and lips, and a dry wig covering the gray afro hiding underneath. 


He opened the door in a white t-shirt and basketball shorts. He placed his finger to his lips and whispered, “She’s in the bathroom.”  


I rushed passed the kitchen and tiptoed up the stairs to Ray’s room. I don’t understand why there was a pile of fresh laundry every time I entered his room. I noticed an open bottle of Absolut on the dresser in front of the mirror. 


“Really,” I said. “You’re going to summon me here. You know she can’t stand me.” 


“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.” 


Bullshit, I thought to myself. You weren’t saying sorry when you were sucking his dick. Slathering that penis with his saliva like the dude was paying for his student loans. No, you did it for free. My lips blocked me from saying it out loud.  


“I heard you were at Harlem Food Bar crying,” I said. “I don’t remember you crying when you called me an ugly, skirt wearing bitch.”  


A break-up can break your spirit. Not even the spirits could take us back in time. Maybe we were born to die. And we weren’t the people we dreamt of being. Where do we go from here? Am I supposed to put my life on hold because he’s not man enough to deal with his choices?  


He cheated on me and left me after I forgave him. Fuck him. Suck another dick and choke on it! Clearly, there is some residual anger sitting around like an ugly Christmas sweater. Could this be the best thing that ever happened to me?  


I found my voice and it’s powerful. I went through all five stages of grief in one day. I loved him, but I loved me more. I left that night enlightened and determined to find love again.  


No amount of booze, drugs, or thugs will resuscitate our relationships. Whether it’s learning a lesson to lessen the pain or fucking the pain away — you have to move on. You have to keep going. Because everybody hurts like that REM song from the 90’s.  


As I sit here writing to you draped in a pink towel, for the first time in a long time, I enjoy the relationship I have with myself.  





Make sure to also checkout previous Love Walter columns here

Got a question? Email your letters at [email protected] His advice column will appear on Wednesday.

Walter Reed

Walter Reed is writer and advice columnist on love, lust, and life. Romance is his day job. Read more at Follow him on Twitter @ LoveWalterHQ


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