Like every other female in the free world last week, I hit the movie theatre to see “Sex and the City.” I too was warned that I would cry as much or more than I’d laugh. So I tried my best to prepare myself for the cliché chick flick cry triggers.

 My assumption was that, in my “fragile” newly divorced state, seeing a “love conquers all” story would send the waterworks into high gear. I was ready to experience the all-too-familiar heart tug I experience when I watch romantic comedies—the “why can’t that be me” syndrome. And I prepared myself for secretly wishing for my own Big.

            So I settled myself in, ordered some wine, and waited for the cry. Nothing. I laughed here and there—sometimes hysterically. I could relate, as most women can, to so many things each character experienced. I admired the shoes, the belt Carrie seemed to pull off with every outfit, yearned for another trip to NYC, and found a little of myself (still after all these years) in all four gals. But the tears never came. I even tried to guess the parts that made my friends cry. Was it the wedding/flower scene in the street? The reveal of the affair? The Mexico trip? (Because I can definitely identify with the way Carrie looked when she took off her sunglasses and looked in the bathroom mirror.)

            My sister saw the movie for the first time this weekend. “I can’t believe you didn’t cry!” she exclaims while we’re on the phone. She proceeds to tell me the scenes where her emotions were on full blast. As she explained, I instantly went back to a therapy session where I told the doctor that I can’t cry over the “right” things in this divorce. I have cried over financial fears. I’ve cried at the end of a busy day with work and taking care of the kids because I’m so damn exhausted that I don’t know how I’ll find enough energy to make it through another day. I cry when my ex makes me feel like a bad mom or just a bad person in general. I cry when I worry about failing my girls. I cried last week when I found out there would be some pay restructuring in my department, simply because I was worried for the security of my girls. And not all that long ago, I cried because my wine bottle opener is a piece of crap and I really needed a glass of wine but couldn’t get the stupid thing to work.

But I don’t ever cry about him. Or what was “us.” I don’t ever cry about being lonely. I don’t cry over the loss of the biggest dream I ever had—a family. Even when I realize that I will more than likely spend the rest of my life alone, without a “soul mate,” (whatever that is), I don’t cry. I’m just blank—almost numb.

            My sister told me that she cried during the film because she could relate to the heartbreak—the actual feeling of having your heart ripped apart. I can relate to heartbreak to an extent, but it’s been a very long time. I can almost identify the last time my heart felt broken—it was about a month into my first marriage—a moment when reality hit me with a straight on punch to the gut. When I realized the grave mistake I made, I could actually see my hopes fade right before my very eyes, and it was his fault. He, as Miranda says, “broke us.” As reality crashed in all around me, I grabbed a framed photo of my bridal portrait that I gave to him as a wedding gift. I threw the framed photo at him—hurled it across the room--and it shattered. The marriage soon followed. And thus, my heart. I think this when I began the construction of what has now become a fortress around my heart. I can love, surely, and I have and I do. In fact, I’ve had heartbreaks since then—each one causing me to add another layer of armor to the fortress. Today, I may love you—but I’ll be damned if you’ll break my heart. Chances are, you can’t get to it.

In every relationship I’ve had, I fall out of love before I actually exit the partnership. When the end arrives, I get – as in get my affairs in order, get down to business, and get out. My therapist calls it an emotional divorce—I’m finished with the relationship long before it’s officially declared “over.” In order to avoid confrontation and keep things status quo, and admittedly, out of one last ray of hope…I stay. Just maybe. Maybe he’ll “see” me. Maybe I’ll get just some of the “give” back that I have poured into this—just a little bit? I cry during the tough times, sure, but that’s where the tears end. I am apparently attracted to the “insensitive” type who never really “sees” me—who I am—but instead who they want me to be—the blonde professional suburban wife, the 15-year-old cheerleader that makes him remember what it felt like to be young, or someone to pass the time with until the girl he really wants to be with becomes available. Inevitably, the person I’m with is “shocked” when it’s over. I mean, he had it so easy. I was so good to him! We seemed so happy! He’s shocked that I’m not emotional. He “never saw it coming.” By that time, I’m so hurt and so mad at him, that I really don’t care how he feels anymore. So I leave. And I don’t cry.

            I’m jealous of my sister in a way. She is able to open up and love someone so much that she risks total heartbreak. I don’t know if I can anymore. You see, in order to have your heart broken, it actually has to be full of love for someone. And that love has to—at least at some point—be returned. You have to have actually felt the love of someone else to get the full effect of the joy it can bring. I know I’ve had moments of it here or there—I’m sure of it—but for the most part, there’s always been a limit to the love I get from someone. When I think of loving someone so much that your heart breaks, I just go blank…numb. I’m not sure I can really relate anymore. I’m not sure I want to. My therapist told me that in order to have a real, working, and authentic relationship you have to learn to love outside of your comfort zone. See, that’s easy for me….. I will give you every drop of love I have and color outside of the lines with wild abandon simply because I love you. But eventually, well… I’m out of Crayons. Point is, for whatever reason, I gravitate toward the guy who can’t love out of his comfort zone. He can’t or won’t “go for it.” There is always a reason or an excuse. I’m never quite “enough.”

            I recently called a guy friend I briefly dated to catch up and see how things are going with his “rediscovered” relationship with his ex-girlfriend. He immediately notices something in my voice. He was right. I was sad, but in a perplexed way. He wanted to help, as I had been “coaching” him through his reconciliation. So I let him. I asked him what I did wrong when we dated. I asked him what he thinks I did wrong in my marriage. I asked him, point blank, what is wrong with me? I joked and told him to explain it all in ten words or less, knowing the list was so long, he couldn’t do it. He was quiet for a moment and said, “I can do it in seven.”

            “You haven’t met the right guy yet.”

            To borrow a phrase from Sex’s Charlotte. “I’ve been dating since I was 15! I’m exhausted. Where is he?” Well, I can say for sure I certainly didn’t marry him, either time. Why do I think the insensitive things the guys I choose do in the courtship will just automatically disappear one day once he “figures out I’m good for him?” Why is there always something or someone else I’m competing with—alcohol abuse, an ex-girlfriend, a dysfunctional past, the ‘girl who got away,’ his buddies, unsavory addictions, expensive hobbies—basically anything that gives him an excuse to be absent from the relationship. Maybe he’s physically present, but that’s the extent of it. It goes back to that movie line I love---something along the lines of, “Any asshole can say I love you. It’s what you do with those words that matters.”

            So I’ve moved along through this week going back to why I didn’t cry, or more importantly, why I don’t cry. I keep thinking I should. I mean, my life is less than desirable right now. When I don’t have my girls, I do most everything alone. I go out to eat alone. I see movies alone. I sit alone in my house just listening to, well, nothing. I go to work functions alone. I am buying a house alone. I am paying the bills alone.  I sit here and face my new reality alone. It’s been exactly one year since I filed for divorce, and now it’s finished. I have less money, more debt, two confused little girls, constant fear, dread, self-loathing—all of it. Funny, I have noticed that the people who I really expected to be around during and after the divorce really aren’t. Sure, my closest friends are, but a few people I really thought would ride this wave with me simply aren’t. And then there are people I wouldn’t expect to call, but they have…and they continue to do so. I’ve had some nice surprises along the way. I have learned so much about truth and lies through this—fake and real—love the word and love the action.

            After a long day of house-hunting, I came home to an empty house, aka the museum of memories. Everything about this house brings me down. It’s the scene of the crime, so to speak. Every day, I say a little prayer the contract goes through so that I can finally move on and really start over. So when I’m here alone, I tend to get a little anxious. I think of all the things I should be doing, but don’t want to do. I think about napping, but I can’t sleep. So I went to see a movie—that independent film from Helen Hunt, And Then She Found Me. I didn’t know what to expect from the movie, which is often the best way to go into one.

            And then it happened. I cried. I cried so much I had to get up and go get extra napkins. (spoiler alert here) I cried when her immature husband left her. I cried about how hard she worked and the dreams she had she couldn’t fulfill. I could identify with her in so many ways. She was in a marriage that seemed right, but wasn’t. She didn’t wait long enough to find “him,” but then she did. I loved everything he said to her. I loved what I good dad he was. The tears continued. And then I cried even harder when I realized that I’m crying over another stinkin’ movie again, and a sappy romantic one at that. When will I learn? Although the romance in this movie was very realistic—it’s an indie film after all—it’s just that…a movie. As in, not real. In other words, get over it, Jennifer.

            But, at least I cried.

            As I was driving home, the tears started to fade…and as they did, the realization hit that I am using the little energy I still have after this divorce in the wrong way. I can’t say for sure that I’m going to remain alone, but I need to make peace with the fact that it’s a very distinct possibility, if for no other reason than I refuse to ever settle for anything but “the real thing” again. I will no longer settle for second place. I will no longer settle for someone who sees who they want me to be, not who I am. One of the major factors in the demise of most every relationship I’ve been in is the fact that I lose myself in the other person. I give to the point of exhaustion. I forget who I am, and I live by “if he’s happy, then I’m happy.” And that doesn’t work for anyone, no matter how in love you are.

 If there ever is a time to focus on myself, it’s now. I have only one real job here, and that’s to raise two incredible girls. I actually have a real job that I need to tend to and nurture in order to keep food on the table. I have to find out what I need personally in order to be a better mom and just person in general and pursue those hobbies, ideas, dreams, etc. I have to get out of this house and into another one for a fresh start. I need to re-establish myself financially. I need to downsize everything in order to breathe again. I need to be there for the people who have been there for me through this. I need to remain in touch with my spiritual side. I need to take better care of myself physically and mentally. I’m ready to be strong again.

            And then, maybe just maybe, I’ll know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of giving in a relationship. Possibly, I’ll be open enough to enjoy getting back some of all the give I’ve put out there for so long. And the walls around my heart will crumble. Maybe I’ll be so happy I’ll cry.