I cried for six months after breaking up with what’s-his-name.

Every once in a while I’ll see a young woman openly weeping on the streets of New York. She’s always well dressed and on the move, clearly in the midstof her day-to-day routine. Maybe in another city, she’d get to cry in the privacy of her car. But in Manhattan, so much happens right out in the open. I’ll catch a glimpse of her, then quickly look away so as not to intrude. I control my instinct to hug her. But inside I’m thinking: oh honey, I’ve been there.

I once cried for six months straight. I mostly cried at home, but I also cried everywhere I went — on the subway, in the backseat of taxis, or just walking around. I cried in the locker room at the gym, I cried in random restrooms and empty hallways.

The only place I didn’t cry was at work. I had a job bartending in a gentleman’s club and that environment always put me in a lighthearted mood. No matter what was troubling me in “the real world,” those worries melted away inside the glittering fantasy world of the club. My customers were wonderful to talk to. No subject was ever too sensitive to discuss with them. They were older, mostly married men with their own relationship issues. Hearing their male point of view was invaluable. I chuckle at the memory of their blunt reactions to this particular problem.

“He feels guilty having sex with you? The guy sounds like a nut!”

“There’s something wrong with him if he wants to stop having sex with you.”

“He won’t have sex with you because he’s a … Scientologist?”

“No, he’s a Christian Scientist,” I’d correct them.

“Well, he’s got issues. You don’t need him.”

In hindsight, everything about our relationship was ridiculous. First of all, we met in acting class, which I imagine is like meeting in rehab—a place where emotionally vulnerable people work out their issues. The difference is that in acting class we do this without the supervision of mental health professionals.

Acting classes are essentially de facto dating services by design. Students are required to meet regularly in private spaces, usually at each other’s apartments or rehearsal studios, in order to prepare scenes to present to the class. What do you think develops between these (usually very attractive) twentysomethings during the many requisite hours alone together? Naturally, our first kiss happened during “rehearsal.” The sexual tension had escalated to the point of no return. I couldn’t NOT kiss him.

This guy was wrong for me on every level. But I couldn’t see it at the time. I was 29 and self-reliant. I had a lease in my name. I’d put myself through college and was already free of student debt, thanks to my job at the strip club. I’d had a few long-term relationships and had traveled a bit. I was generally regarded as a mature 29. He, on the other hand, was 25 and still living with his parents.

I’ll never forget how hard one of my customers laughed at this news. “So where is all this passion happening?” He could barely utter the words through his hearty guffaws. “In your studio apartment?”

“Well, yes,” I replied, confused.

Looking back, it’s glaringly obvious that this relationship simply wasn’t that important. Today, I can’t even remember his last name. Was it Collins or Cullen? It doesn’t matter.

What does matter is what I learned from the experience.

When I met Mr. What’s-his-name, I was living with a boyfriend who looked good on paper but didn’t feel good in practice. He checked every box a woman is taught to value in a life partner, but we didn’t connect sexually. When we got into bed, it didn’t matter that he had a great job and graduated cum laude from a great school. In our intimate moments, it didn’t matter that he came from a stable family or even that he made me laugh. We did not connect in bed. My boyfriend knew he checked all the boxes. He knew he was considered a “catch.” And maybe that’s why he was so selfish between the sheets. Maybe that’s why he had no idea how to make love with me (yes, with me) and couldn’t understand that he made me feel violated — no matter how hard I tried to explain this to him.

So when Mr. What’s-his-name came along, I saw what I’d been missing. Today, I believe he was sent by The Universe to help me leave that unhealthy relationship before I’d gotten married and things really became complicated. Many times I’d listen to my customers’ relationship woes and think: good grief, this guy is in the same relationship dynamic I was fortunate to walk away from — only he’s locked in with kids and a mortgage. What a nightmare!

I started crying at 29 and didn’t stop until 30. By the time I stopped, I understood that I need to obey my own instincts even when they conflicted with society’s expectations. I understood the difference between love and lust — and that both have their proper place. And, most importantly, I realized what I was actually crying about.

My breakup with Mr. What’s-his-name didn’t warrant all those tears. Sure, it was hurtful to be told that he couldn’t continue our sinful relationship due to his religious beliefs. Yes, it was jarring to realize I didn’t even know this person I thought I was in love with. But that wasn’t enough to justify six months of waterworks.

I cried for six months because I was finally safe enough to cry. I was finally strong enough to cry. I entered this world in an environment of fear, shame and violence in the care of parents who weren’t yet adults. Under these harsh circumstances, I learned not to cry.

One of my earliest memories is of playing with my cousins Joy and Kenny in their living room. My parents weren’t there. My Aunt Carmen, my father’s sister, was watching us kids that day. Everything was fine until my cousins’ father showed up at the door. The adults immediately started screaming and my cousins burst into hysterical, wailing sobs. I walked over to the window and stood silent, stoic.

I can guess how old I was at the time. I wasn’t wearing a diaper. And at 5, when my parents divorced, I never saw my Aunt Carmen again. So I was probably 3 or 4 years old. I stood at the same height as the windowsill and can still picture its chalky, white paint as well as the beige brick wall it overlooked. I didn’t know it then, but my aunt’s apartment wasn’t very nice. It was probably public housing.

As I distanced myself from the chaos and stared at the brick wall, I wished Joy and Kenny would stop crying. Didn’t they know crying only makes things worse? We’d been having fun playing and then, out of nowhere, there was violence. I remember thinking: it happens here too.

I wasn’t crying over some dude. I had a lifetime of tears to shed and I didn’t give a damn if I shed them right out on Broadway. And now, when I see a young woman crying on the streets of New York, I send her some love vibes and I leave her be.

Originally published on Medium in 2023