I was 20, with no idea how to fall out of love. These things saved me

My son is turning 20; He’s going to be a teenager soon and I can’t believe it. “Sometimes everything seems so meaningless,” he says. So I alternate between acknowledging this and showing him footage of Ken Kesey, who has just been released from prison, and say, “You only come to this movie once, and if you don’t get something rewarding out of every minute you sit there, then you’re wasting your ticket.”

What were you like at my age? My son never asks, and that’s why I never tell him that his 20th year is a year of great chances and great changes. Many times after being dumped by my first boyfriend, I was in the valley of tears and stayed there for a while. Coming of age is the end of magical thinking. In the borderlands between child and adult, where there is so much white space to be projected on, a kind of “adolescence journey”, the transformation of a dream into existence, can occur.

Back when that boyfriend was just a wish, I imagined us as one of those couples who dressed the same, went everywhere together, and made sincere displays of affection in public. My love was a collector. He created serious poetry and deep reading. I didn’t ask for advice or clarity from my friends, just fiction. I’m reading the classics of the 1970s Women’s Room By Marilyn French – “This book changes lives!” – Feminist I felt a shudder of recognition when Val unleashed the life cycle of a love affair: “Well, over time you somehow come together. Your passion is so extreme that there is no other possibility. And somewhere you know it. Somehow you know you’ve made it happen.”

I haven’t met his family. I wasn’t that kind of girlfriend. I would take the train to his house in the wealthy suburb and wait at the front for him to sneak me in. Then I’d happily get stuck in her bedroom, where her clothes drawers still contained old Mom labels (JOCKS, SOCKS, T-SHIRT). We would listen to records and fool around and eat takeout pasta and smoke and talk and talk and talk and talk. (“What do you think I’ll look like when I’m old?” I asked him once while fishing. “Fat,” he said without hesitation. His mother had a vibrating belt machine in her bedroom, a contraption I coveted for its retro look and uncanny potential.)

Sylvia Plath wrote: “I close my eyes and the whole world dies.” Crazy Girl’s Love Song. “(I think I made you up in my head.)”

Choose a song to soundtrack this falling in love montage; It could be a song by the Byrds or the Turtles. Imagine me, him, her and me holding hands, walking on trams and rolling around in parks. We connect the family phone and wrap the cable around our fingers. We play house, we get drunk, we get hungover, we fight, we make up. I love you, I love you. Do you love me?

Love for a person can be like love for an object—or does the person become a living, self-creating object, every bit as resonant as a book, a movie, or the right pair of shoes? Love is an illusion, or at least a distraction. First love is the worst.

At 20 I got the job at the record store. I immediately went in and asked. In the first few weeks, I was taking inventory, idling around on the shelves in the back, listening to my co-workers clean records, rate them, and smear each other’s music selections. The culture was playful and sarcastic, but there was an underlying sensitivity, a sense of incompatibilities coming together.

Along with this part-time job, I was giving university another chance; It was on the same tram line as my boyfriend’s house. I’d start with good intentions, then jump in early and call him from the phone booth. I would wait in front of his house. Even though I didn’t know where he was or how long he would stay, even though I felt like he was going to get away from me, I hung in there. A lurking ambush. A loafer. A sea snail. I thought once you showed yourself to someone you were supposed to stay with them forever.

Everything I read taught me how to fall in love, but nothing taught me how to fall in love. I tried to get over our inevitable breakup by visiting Kerry Kulkens’ magic shop. She was a formidable suburban witch with wild black hair and a goth vibe. He sold crystals, rune stones, tarot cards, amulets, love spells. He also gave readings. I was hoping you would tell me that my instincts were wrong, that everything would be okay. I tried to act like I was worried about my future career – not for love, because that felt so embarrassing and cliché – but he knew. After all, she was a witch.

Our eventual separation was surprising. It had to be that way because I was so resilient. I had logout problems. There were attempts at just being friends or friends with benefits. If I had made it up in my head, then why was it so hard to destroy? I went into damage control. I made mixtapes and sent them to him in the mail, along with little cards with poems and Yoko Ono-inspired cloud drawings. I played at work The End of the World And Three cigarettes in the ashtray and I was crying all over my coworkers who had heard these things before.

They gave me a cup of tea and a book to distract me: Pop. 1280, Hollywood Babylon, Mother Dearest, Hellfire, The Teachings of Don Juan, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Music also relaxed. I studied the covers of 1970s queendom: Barbra Streisand, Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Linda Ronstadt, Rita Coolidge. I liked their smooth hair and overalls, their country quilts and palms. If I were about to move into a new introspective phase of my life, these ladies could definitely show the way.

I officially dropped out of university. I changed the brand of my cigarette. I filed my first tax return and bought an electric typewriter. I was always writing. But never about him.

Loading

A story by Carson McCullers struck me as a lesson. A boy starts listening to a drunk man’s story. The man was once so in love that when he was with his woman he felt as if everything about his life came together through her. He left her and at first all he could do was look for her. Years passed and it seemed like he was chasing her. Not literally – he still didn’t know where he was – but as he wandered around he was overwhelmed with memories. He began to formulate a science of love. He saw that he had done everything wrong, starting from the end like this.

“Do you know how a man should love? Son, do you know how to start love? A Tree. A Rock. A Cloud. Son, I can love anything.”

First came the tattoo. It felt wildly excessive at the time. (The wisdom was that you’ll never get a job if you have visible tattoos – ha!) The tattoo artist warned me that it would hurt because it was close to the bone, but I told him I could handle it, so I did. The car arrived later. I saved for months. A 1967 Holden HR, hospital green, with gear lever, bench seats and wooden cassette tray made by the previous owner.

Finally my dog, a black and anxious bundle of fur, was adopted from the Home for Lost Dogs. I fed him and walked him, and he dug in my garden, chewed up my books and jumped off the roof of the Punters Club. He smelled the wind coming from the passenger seat as he drove around playing mix tapes I made for myself. I never went back to the old places. I almost felt embarrassed when I thought of my ex-boyfriend; Was any of this real? A Tree. A Rock. A Cloud. A Tattoo. A Car. A Dog. I can love anything. Well. I can try.