Share stories of your worst break-up(s)

My last serious relationship was with a girl who had lived with her boyfriend for two years when we met. She had dropped everything–family, friends, enrollment at one of the best music schools in the South–to fly out here and start a new life with him. They met on World of Warcraft; after a while she stopped playing but he got more and more involved, to the point where he was neglecting her badly and she couldn’t do anything to take his attention away from the game. This was where I came in. I showered her with affection and visibly enjoyed every minute I spent with her. (There was one period of three days in particular where she stayed at my place every night and we spent every waking and sleeping moment together, and she told me the next week that those three days were the only time she’d ever felt like she didn’t need to wear makeup to be appreciated. To this day that’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.) I so swept her off her feet that she finally decided to dump him for me.

She finally worked up the nerve to bury the hatchet after spending a wonderful week at my place, and that Saturday she went home to break the bad news to her little soldier boy. He cried his big Army heart out and told her how much he loved her and how sorry he was for what he’d done and he promised to change; she cried, then he cried some more, and they were officially back together. I was heartbroken, but determined to keep my cool, and I swept her off her feet again the next week. Wash, rinse, repeat, every week for about a month and a half. By the end of that period I ran completely out of cool–I’m convinced that even Samuel L. Jackson could only keep that up for so long-- and I broke down in front of her, and then she took me back and dumped the other guy. When she broke the news to him again that weekend, she stood her ground and he kicked her out of their apartment. She packed up all her essentials and called me in a terrible weeping state, and I rushed to his place like lightning to pick her, her bags and her cats up. She lived with me for all of 12 hours. The next morning he called her and begged her forgiveness, and she took him back again and moved back in with him.

She went back and forth a handful more times. Finally her sense of obligation to him won. (In the interest of full disclosure, I became less cool and more abrasive and argumentative as this debacle went on.) She had moved in again at some point during this whole adventure. By the time my lease ran out, she insisted on sleeping on the couch when she wasn’t staying over at his place. Finally she dumped me off on her coworker’s empty room; that guy, now my roommate, and I believe that she pretended to patch up their bitterly destroyed friendship for as long as it took to get me a deal on the room, fully intending not to spend any more time with either of us than she had to after that. I was a clingy, sobbing mess at this point, and as she grew more distant I proceeded to cling ever harder. She stood me up 3-5 times a week.

The breaking point came when she–a veterinary assistant who talked about how much she loved animals 24/7–promised to help me babysit my parents’ cat, who had badly burned his paws, while they were out of town. After telling me for weeks that she would be there the whole time to help me give the cat his medicine and do all the required maintenance, she left me hanging. She showed up for an hour a couple of days in and left as quickly as possible. At the same time, another girl (who I had no interest in whatsoever) continually attempted to seduce me, and finally I gave in and we had awful, awful sex. I mean, she was bad. I had to fake my orgasm about once every three times with her, and I’d never failed to come during intercourse before (except once when I was high on meth). We had a lot of sex, and though I’d stressed the noncommittal nature of our friends-with-benefits status going in, she became more and more attached to me. The sex really helped me get over the girl I’d loved and lost, by reaffirming my attractiveness and sexual prowess (she had multiple screaming orgasms while I was trying to stay awake–horribly one-sided, but a great ego boost), but I found the girl irritating and overly clingy, so now I was immediately in the other girl’s shoes. It was hard as hell to shake that girl–she turned into a real creep, showing up at my home and my work and throwing very public tantrums. I had to threaten legal action before she finally got the picture.

Those were my two worst breakups.

Wow. Relationships suck.

You know, I said that for so long… And yet, over the past four months, I’m finally realizing that maybe they don’t suck -that- badly. So… We open our hearts once again, and we hope for the best. (Not that there’s any takers at the moment, but…)

I shall tell you a story of booze and drugs, a threesome at a beach house and the resulting death threat. This all happened about 4 years ago.

I was 20 and met a girl who was about 5 years older than me. I’ll call her Anne. She was very beautiful, her mother was caucasian and her father was african-american with some Creole heritage. She was also extremely intelligent and, to this day, is still one of the smartest, most conniving and manipulative people I have ever met. That’s definitely saying something. I used to do theater.

We met while I was on the rebound. My heart was in a state of absolute desolation from the end of my First True Love/High School Sweetheart relationship. My best friend and I frequented the Waffle House where she worked. We hooked up with her and some friends at his parents’ house for a naked pool party. All was well.

Fast forward about a year and half. Events transpire such that the parameters of her parole dictate that she move out of state to live with her father. The distance puts a major strain on our relationship. We are restricted to communicating by email or phonecalls. I didn’t find this an unwelcome development because by then I’d grown tired of all the drama that constantly surrounded her. As it turns out, things broke off rather neatly. Sort of. It depends on one’s perspective, I suppose, or one’s definition of “neatly” involving, or not, a sloppy menage a trois and a menacing insinuation of violence with something small and pointy.

Listen: Anne calls and invites me to spend a weekend at a beach house with her and a bunch of friends. She asks me to bring her cousin, “Miranda.” [Brief aside: Anne and Miranda were certainly cousins but they were raised like sisters. They often referred to one another as sisters. Bear this little tidbit in mind.] She wooes me with promises of sex and alcohol as well as drugs for Miranda. I agree willingly. Miranda and I made the 14 hour drive and throw ourselves headfirst into the debauchery.

The last night we are there I get spectacularly drunk. Hell, everyone is telling each other how much they’re going to miss each other after the long weekend. This is also where my memory starts to get hazy. I grab a bottle of vodka and go hunting for Anne. Much to my surprise I find her in the bed we were sharing. Only now she’s sharing with her “sister,” Miranda. She and Miranda are masturbating each other before my eyes. The alcohol lining my neurons allows the following through to my conscious mind, through the filters that are supposed to stop such idiocy with a stern look and a finger to the sign that says “Don’t be a fucking loon,”:

“Well, well. Mind if I watch?”

Unfortunately, they didn’t mind at all. In fact, they didn’t mind when I began to participate and they really didn’t mind when they were taking my clothes off. It didn’t bother anyone when Miranda and I took turns going down on Anne. Things were just right as rain while I took turns going down on them at the same time. Our little escapade seemed like a customary greeting throughout several such permutations. It was that smooth.

That is, until Anne perceived that Miranda was spending a little too much time fooling around with me and that I was perhaps enjoying it more than Anne felt was appropriate. The final straw came when Miranda physically pulled me off of Anne, interrupting intercourse, dragged me back and went down on me. Hard. I was caught completely off guard. It took less than 5 seconds for Anne to go storming out of the room butt naked and lock herself in the bathroom. I never knew until that night how insecure she was about the physical differences between her and Miranda, nor about the spark of jealousy she always harbored for her as “the pretty one.”

Miranda was petite, white and very cute. Anne was of mixed heritage, tall, solid and curvy. Miranda had been favored by their family growing up. She had also been favored by some of the boys that Anne liked as well.

They argued well into the night until Miranda locked herself in the bedroom. I was forced to share the living room couch with Miranda, who rather bluntly told me that my health would suffer if I fell asleep first, likely at the end of a kitchen knife. Suffice it to say, I didn’t sleep that much that night but I also didn’t get stabbed.

Small victories, you know. We haven’t spoken since I paid her my share for the beach house. I couldn’t be happier about it.

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about most of these stories, is that you could have probably
predicted how they would have ended based on the behaviors of the participants. A menage
a trois is rarely a good idea, for example. Not trying to diss anyone (sure you feel awful
enough as it is), just making an observation…

Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. :smiley:

You’re right, of course. It was a huge mistake for me to make that trip and, in retrospect, there were many, many obvious red flags about that person and her friends that I should have heeded. However, also in retrospect, I remember not giving much of a damn about those things then. I paid emotionally for a couple of similarly awful relationships and learned a hell of a lot about myself.

I’m pleased to say that I’m now happily engaged to a wonderful lady from a caring family.

Well, I can’t really hold a candle to most of the winning stories in this thread. The odd things one takes comfort from.

My story is about a relation that would have been improved by a ‘Dear John’ letter.

When I was young and stupid (as about to being older and a little less stupid, now.) and in the Navy I was seeing this girl I’d met at college. We’d lost track for a little while, but after I was stationed at the Navy’s Ballston Spa Prototype facility I was close enough that I ran into her again when I was visiting other college friends. While I was going through the training there, I was spending most of my longer weekends with her. Getting close and enjoying myself. I believe she was getting close to me, too, and we both had strong feelings for each other.

Well, training in the Navy is always going to end. And I got transferred to my permanent assignment, a ship stationed out of Norfolk. We promised we’d keep in touch, and since my ship was deplolyed, I ended up spending about a month in TPD barracks. During this time we were talking about every other day, and getting closer. I even started thinking about proposing to her. (One of the reasons I say I was young and stupid was that we’d only done some kissing, because I wasn’t going to have sex til I got married, yanno. If I’d confronted that sleeping elephant things may well have gone differently.) It was about this time that I got word, from a mutual friend, that she’d gotten engaged.

And I got stupider. I figured that, well, the right thing to do would be to wait til she told me what was going on, because I didn’t want her to think that I had been checking up on her. (Which I hadn’t - my other friend mentioned this in the manner of passing on news about a mutual friend. He didn’t know we were so close. I’m not really one to put my life on display, even to my friends.) And, I was stubborn enough to want her to come clean to me.

So I kept on talking to her, more or less at the same schedule. And the same content. And she never brought up her news. Eventually I did get sent out to catch up to my ship, and actual work (as opposed to playing darts in the O-club, after we’d cleaned it up.) started taking up my time and ability to write letters. My letters slowed down. Hers basically stopped. But, still no word about other things.

Through our mutual friend I heard when her marriage was.

Six months later, still feeling a bit conflicted about all this, I got a call from her. And she finally told me she was married. For some reason when I mentioned I’d heard about it, it kind of stifled the conversation. And that was the second-to-last time I’d heard from her.

About six months after that I got a Christmas card from her and her husband. Including a newsletter. Which explained the horror they’d had when their first born died about 12 hours after birth. (Apparantly, as soon as the child was born, all the delivery team knew what was going to happen.) And I was still so conflicted in my thinking about her, I couldn’t even respond.

My funniest one, only because it was so cosmically stupid:

Back in the summer of '99 I stayed in Arizona, taking classes during my “Senior Summer”, and working at Home Depot full time to pay the bills and save up a few bucks. Anyway, I was loosely “hanging around” with this one gal I kinda/sorta knew at school. She didn’t have a computer or an Internet connection, so occasionally I’d let her come over and use mine when I wasn’t using them–very occasionally I left the key under the doormat.

Over the space of a weekend (and perhaps a fifth of Stoli or so), she develops this extreme jealous streak. I happened to be at work at the time, but she let herself into my apartment under the guise of using the computer. She thought I was “out on a date”. I get home, wearing a decent shirt covered in splotches of paint, reeking of dust and primer, and walk into my bedroom to change. . .

. . . she’s standing there, aiming my own Glock at my chest.

She immediately sniffles and coldly says, “Where were you?” I tell her that I was at work. Again, the ice-queen spake, “I don’t believe you . . .”

It was at this point that I notice her pinky is sort of tracing back and forth underneath the magazine well. I knew I didn’t have any ammo in the house at the time, and then realized the stupid bint didn’t even load a magazine into the gun!

I stood there for a second, and with what I can describe as a “bear paw slap”, slapped my gun out of her hand. She stood there with a look of astonishment, and I glared at her, “Get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the police.”

She left, and I thought about calling them, but for whatever reason, didn’t. The key to the apartment was in my posession, so I wasn’t worried about her coming back. She was such a extraordinarily moronic fool, I guess I felt sort of bad calling the police on such a doofus.

Thankfully, I never heard nor saw her again. Methinks she didn’t really go to school there. But at this point, I don’t care anymore. I have a much cooler girlfriend now who has her own .38.

But that story isn’t the reason I hate Glocks. Glocks are looser than Britney Spears.

I was getting my MBA and back in the US (Arizona) for the first time in 5 years. Started seeing a pretty cool woman from upstate NY. She’d moved out to live with a guy for a few years, but they had broken it off a few months before and he moved out of state. They had almost gotten married, and the dude had literally run off at the justice of the peace when it came to showtime.

We started out pretty casual but then started to fall pretty hard for each other. We’d just had another night of pretty wild monkey sex and I called the next day to see if we were going to hook up that evening or the next or both.

She told me “I got married today” :eek:

Ex had flown back to town, popped the question and they got married right away.

I am feeling all sorts of mature and functional right now. Thank you all! :smiley:

Be very, very glad you didn’t end up with her. Talk about all kinds of seriously messed-up.

nitpick In fact I own a .**357 ** snub-nosed revolver. I thought military men *knew * guns? :stuck_out_tongue:

My worst one is relatively short and stinky; went to a wedding w/ my BF of a couple of weeks; on the way to where the reception will be in several hours, we stop for a quick bite at Taco Bell. The cashier, a black man (I’m white, BF was white) tells me how nice I look and I thank him.
When we sit down to eat, BF is fuming; I ask what’s wrong and he tells me the man had no right to talk to me ‘like that’. I’m confused and ask why. He replies that it was ridiculous because of course I’d never date a black guy. I inform him that in fact, I have dated two. BF calls me a n*****-lover and OH BABY IT IS ON! We have a rip-roaring argument, I tell him to take me home and he refuses as that will make him look foolish w/o a date at the reception when he had one for the wedding. We were over an hour from my house and this was well before cell phones so I wind up at the reception. We don’t speak, he gets plastered and I drive us home. Never spoke to him again, but I heard he broke his leg playing softball. Ah, karma.