Two days after she received the invitation, she called me.
Two days after he sent the reply card, he regretted it.
Two days after they searched for flights, I got an email.
My former fiancé has wonderful timing, and he broke the engagement not even 12 hours after the invitations had hit the post-office.
I’ve received a few emails (well over 100) over the course of the last two months. Everyone wants to know the story. Some people want to know it because they care; some because they want to hear all the drama.
Sorry, Charlie: this post is going to be pretty drama free.
But I’ve gotten a few emails by way of the blog recently, asking if I was going to be sharing the story of “how it all went down.” And, in true Heather form, I hemmed. And I hawed.
Over all my debating I’ve decided that the best way to address the situation, remain true to my main desire for this blog (honest & open communication), and be as FAIR as possible would be to share the facts of the broken engagement. Then, I can deal with my personal emotions and opinions of the aftermath separate from anything that involved my former fiancé’s actions directly. [we will see how this goes.]
A Brief Modern History:
We met at church, working in Youth Ministry.
We dated and broke up more than once in the past 5 years.
We were engaged to be married on 7/24/2008.
We set the date for 9/6/2009.
We moved to NY from TX on 8/1/2008.
We moved in with his Father and Step Mother on 8/4/2008.
We signed the lease for our marriage apartment on 6/29/2009, and I moved in 7/1/2009.
We mailed out the invitations on 7/13/2009.
He broke it off the very same day.
I can’t try to understand his thoughts, or emotions in all of it.
But I can evaluate my own.
And I can remember the words he said to me.
And I can remember my own.
And I can remember what happened following his words.
I asked for a hug.
I asked him why.
I asked him to leave.
I called my parents.
I called my 3 best friends.
I called our best man.
Had a few drinks.
Had a few shots.
Had a few tears.
My mom called.
Her best friend called.
My best friend called.
I cried, a lot.
I drank, a lot.
I thought, a lot.
I drunkenly twittered what I meant to text. (telling the world via @llbean75 that the wedding was off)
I drunkenly ate half a frozen pizza. (emotional eating taking over much?)
I drunkenly wore my wedding gown around my bedroom. (and I looked hott. With two t’s)
And then I went to bed.
And I woke up no less then 27 times.
And I threw my phone against the wall.
I went to work the next day.
My mother made “cancellation postcards” the next day.
He and I communicated the next day.
And it was still real.
And it was still painful.
And it was still off.
I contacted the people whom I had asked to participate in the wedding.
My bridesmaids, my groomsman, the readers.
I didn’t want any of them making plane reservations.
When friends and family started to receive their cancelation postcards, no less then 2 days after they received their handmade juniper and white invitations, I started to get bombarded by texts, emails, facebook messages, and phone calls. Almost all of which I ignored for a week. (some of which I still haven’t responded to.)
My dad came to save me less than 72 hours later.
And he tried all he could to make everything better.
And he spoiled me.
And he helped me.
And I rested.
And I dreamt.
And I ran.
I'm still resting.
I'm still dreaming.
I'm still running.