Why I Wonʼt Stop

Writing About My
Broken Heart
Iʼve been called a fool—and I
am proud of it.
P Sthapitanonda-Pesqueda

Photo: claudia pescatori/Getty Images

omeone told me recently

that I need to stop writing
about my broken heart. But

S the thing they donʼt

understand is that if your
heart is truly broken, you
canʼt just set it down. Rather, you
carry the mangled mess around in
your hands, blood dripping
everywhere you go, leaving behind
a sticky trail of a former marriage
as proof of your pain.

Another person said that assigning

blame is not productive at times
like these. But the thing they donʼt
understand is that Iʼm not bashing
or pointing fingers at all. No one is
truly the villain or victim — it is
much more complicated than that.
Talking about my broken heart
helps grow perspective and allows
the first steps of healing, and doing
a full autopsy on my broken
marriage is the only way I know to
achieve closure.

Today marks another milestone:

The divorce documents were sent
out. Shortly after, I received an
anonymous text from someone
who apparently bought into a false
narrative and felt compelled to
convey their reaction. Their text
only contained one word: fool.

I certainly donʼt want to elicit

anyoneʼs pity. In fact, I donʼt want
to promote the victim mentality at
all and prefer to present myself to
the world as a survivor — or at
least as someone who wants to
make every effort to survive all of
this. But clearly, this anonymous
person has no real comprehension
of the complexities of our 15-year-
long marriage. There was good,
bad, and everything in between.
There were layers, victories,
defeats, dreams, hopes, and
prayers.

A marriage of this
lengthy duration has
many dimensions.

Sadly, we were both damaged from

a lifetime of complex trauma. Fault
did not belong to just one of us. We
both drove the car that brought us
to this place of giving up and giving
in. We both did all we knew how to
do and kept on dancing and hoping
it would all work out. It takes two to
tango.

A marriage of this lengthy duration

has many dimensions. No one was
held captive. We both chose to
stay, time and again, year after
year, and maybe long after we
should have. It was complicated, as
all things in life tend to be. I wish
people would realize that they
didnʼt really know what our private
lives together were actually like. If
they werenʼt in our relationship,
they canʼt know exactly what
happened between us.

I remember so many kind things he

did for me through the years, like
hanging a tennis ball on a string
from the ceiling of the garage to
help me aim my car, so I could park
without crashing into something.
He made cauliflower pizza once a
week and it was perfectly timed to
be fresh out of the oven when I
walked through the door after
work. He took videos of the
waterfalls at the St. Edwards Loop
and other greenbelt locations
because it was too difficult for me
to go with him to see for myself,
and he wanted to share it with me.
He hung a bird feeder outside the
kitchen window so I could see the
birds as I cooked our meals. He
bought me a headlamp to wear at
night so we could venture out
safely with my reduced vision after
dark. He brought me beautiful
roses just a few months ago for no
apparent reason. There were
thousands and thousands of other
little acts of kindness that made me
feel loved and supported. Perhaps
he thought I didnʼt notice but I
never missed a thing he did for me.
I believed that I was so very
fortunate to have such a loving
husband.

I also remember the bumpy

beginning, the deception, and the
manipulations on both sides. We
were two peas in a pod, two
drowning people looking for
something to grab hold of in the
storm. I had finally met my match in
the shape of a much younger
player who knew how to rig the
game. They say you should always
believe what they tell you at the
start. He said his girlfriends had
always complained that he was
missing the right emotions like
empathy but I didnʼt listen and
dismissed it by thinking he just
hadnʼt met the right one yet.

There was a significant age gap,

cultural gap, and other factors that
stacked the odds against us. It was
all built on a foundation of crumbly,
fairy-tale sugar and spice. I was
gobsmacked and face down in the
Kool-Aid, too starstruck to see
clearly. I believed that we could
overcome anything in our path. And
for a long, long time, it looked like
we were going to do just that.

Something miraculous happened

over time and we lurched forward
to build a seemingly strong union.
Years passed as they always do
and I think we realized that our
partnership had mutual benefits
that we both enjoyed. It made us
stronger together than we ever
would have been alone. We grew
into one another in many ways, like
two trees that wrap themselves
around one another and grow as
one. This somehow seemed to
compensate for anything that may
have been absent or flawed in the
beginning. Ours became what felt
like a real and substantial marriage,
even with the disturbing
undercurrents that were always
there, even with the probability that
it was only “mirroring” and a
“mask.” Regardless, we both drank
from the holy waters of one
anotherʼs spirit and feasted and
became fat and full.

So that is what makes this sudden

“discard” feel so cruel and
unexpected: We achieved a
comfortable peace, security, and
satisfaction with our lives. Why
erase all of that to reach for
something else? We built a
wonderful home with indulgent
perks throughout. The quality of
our lives was beyond that of your
average couple: travel, dining out,
movies, alone time, compatible
jobs, and complementary lifestyles.
It seemed like we had everything in
place — that should have been
enough. We were both even
planning new things together with
concerted hope and effort, right up
until the end.

Then the ground beneath us

trembled and our make-believe
castle in the air began to sway and
splinter. The speed of the
departure was phenomenal—it
signaled a much deeper structural
weakness that I had ignored for
years. What would cause someone
to turn on you, in a matter of hours,
from love to hate? It was
incomprehensible. I will never
understand how the man I loved
unconditionally all those years
would be capable of such an
abrupt and total transformation.

I imagined every possible

explanation for the cracks in the
marriage: the weight of our
childhoods gone wrong and the
way they changed the fabric of our
lives forever, the recurring themes
of acting out that eroded the trust,
the serial betrayals and the tiny
little lies, his disordered mind, and
my foolish arrogance and
delusional thinking that caused me
to believe in healing miracles. So
many things were pushed to the
side and locked in a closet. Then I
swallowed the key and closed my
eyes and focused my heart on all of
the things that worked so well.

As humans, we all
fear that moment
when you just have
to call the game and
walk away.

Thus, the cruelest deceptions did

not even belong to him. They were
the ways I deceived myself. I
wanted so badly to hold on to the
good stuff, the beautiful moments,
and the shiny dream of a happily
ever after with a man I wanted so
desperately to forgive and believe
in.

As humans, we all fear that

moment when you just have to call
the game and walk away, fold your
cards, and leave the table.
Pronounce it dead and lay it to rest.
The moment when you accept that
it has been on life support for a
while and itʼs time to pull the plug.
That moment when you suddenly
see a foreign face staring back at
you, the face of a person you donʼt
recognize.

I wanted to share everything in life

with my partner by my side. I
wanted to turn to him and say,
“come take a look at this,” or “taste
a bite of that,” or “feel this with
me.” I could not imagine not telling
my partner, the man I had shared
every intimacy with, all the things
about life that made it worth living.
My life was magnified through him
and stamped with a glorious
validation that said, “We are a team
and everything is about the power
of we. Life is only spectacular if
shared together.”

Now, I cannot do things alone. It

triggers a melancholy meltdown or
an unfathomable sadness that
washes away everything good like
a watercolor painting left out in the
rain.

So much of life is built for two. I

often think that the people who
espouse the power of one have
never lingered in bed with the love
of their life watching the lights from
the Eiffel Tower begin to twinkle at
dusk through tall French doors that
open onto Paris rooftops as they
get lost in the organic connection
— the smell of his hair, the feel of
his skin, the sound of his heart. The
sensations that made me feel like
all was right with the world, that
made me feel brave enough to face
anything as long as he was holding
my hand. The hand I would reach
for at the end of my life.

We began in Paris, in the apartment

with the Wilco soundtrack and the
elegant French doors. And we
ended in Paris, in the quiet and
solemn apartment on Rue de Buci
in St. Germain. It rained the whole
time we were there. I think the
heavens were weeping for the
things that we would lose in the
coming days. I will never return
there because Paris belongs to our
marriage. I hope he will honor that,
too. Going back would be like
building a new home on top of a
graveyard.

So please donʼt judge me for being

a fool.

For believing that love can triumph

over anything.

For surrendering to a love that was

imperfect.

For repeatedly giving my life to a

man who could not hold it in his
hands or in his heart.

In Fitzgeraldʼs The Great Gatsby,

Daisy Buchanan speaks of her
wishes for her daughter and says,
“I hope sheʼll be a fool — thatʼs the
best thing a girl can be in this
world, a beautiful little fool.”

Sometimes, if you really love

someone, thatʼs the only thing you
can be.