Adventures in Maine, Heartbreak, and Instagram
Am I a millennial narcissist or just missing someone I love?
It takes two glasses of wine and six days of solitude for me to text my ex-boyfriend from an empty three-bedroom house in New England. Hellooooo, I write, just drunk enough not to overthink my lingering vowels. For a split second after I send the text, I panic about the possibility that he has fallen madly in love with someone else in the two weeks since we last spoke. This seems unlikely, I know, but I feel the possibility in my stomach, growing and growing like I’ve swallowed a watermelon seed. His friends would give me a heads up if he ran off and got married, wouldn’t they? He doesn’t post on Instagram much, but surely an elopement would warrant at least a story, right? Can people even get married during a pandemic? I just wanna make sure you still miss me, I write.
After nearly a week of my mid-20s version of running away from home, I can’t remember if I’m spending this last night of my trip in New Hampshire or Maine. I’m planning to visit Portsmouth in the morning, but the two states touch like paper dolls, and my Airbnb sits right where their hands meet. In this stranger’s home between a warehouse liquor store and Route 1, my voice echoes. I’ve taken money out of my savings account to spend a night here alone, to eat bread and cheese from Trader Joe’s and scroll through my photos from earlier in the summer.
Three gray dots come and go on my iPhone screen, telling me he’s thinking about what to type. I stare at them intently as I try to remain present, to push away the thought of returning to my everyday life tomorrow. I left the state because I felt like an open wound, too susceptible to every stinging grain of salt. I couldn’t handle being around other people anymore. I craved a force field from vulnerability, and I figured prolonged solitude was my best chance at creating one. I couldn’t handle releasing any more writing that made my personal life feel like public property, and I couldn’t handle my Twitter feed telling me all the new things I should be angry about. I couldn’t handle another job rejection in my inbox, and I couldn’t handle one more person telling me something about my own personality. So I booked an Airbnb for three nights in Portland, Maine, beginning the following day, just so I could walk around the city by myself, looking at anything other than the four walls of my one-room apartment.
A global pandemic, a breakup, and four months of unemployment can hold you in place like a puppet on a string, and the combination of these three will inevitably leave you desperately reaching for scissors.
The first Airbnb felt like it was designed perfectly for me: a teal loveseat with floral throw pillows, a vase of orange lilies on the coffee table, a crowded bookshelf and exposed brick in a studio apartment. I opened a complimentary bottle of champagne, poured a glass just for myself, and decided I needed more than three days away from home. I booked a cheap motel up north for two nights, then the three-bedroom house in Kittery, Maine, for the last night, because it was the only place available on such short notice.
I grabbed my Moleskine and wrote down an itinerary for the rest of the trip. I decided I would visit Kennebunkport on day two, just to see the spot where Taylor Swift filmed a music video ten years ago — a video I remember watching premier and thinking, alright, fine, I guess I’d like to fall in love and get married. After that, I’d sit on the beach at Cape Elizabeth, looking at the lighthouse with my bathing suit on underneath my shorts and t-shirt. It would be too cold to swim, much to my chagrin, so I’d wrap myself in a beach towel to block the mid-September, mid-afternoon wind and think about how I packed all the wrong clothes. I’d have dinner at Yelp’s highest-rated restaurant in Portland, where I’d drink a local sour and read my book at the outdoor table.
The next morning I’d drive a few hours north to Bar Harbor, and I’d stay in the cheapest motel in town, where I’d order Chinese food and push the cork into a bottle of wine with a chopstick. Upon arriving, I’d FaceTime my sister and her boyfriend, asking them to reassure me that I wouldn’t get murdered between the wood-paneled walls of the motel room. Then I’d steal a plastic lawn chair from the parking lot and shove it under the handle of the door, trying to secure the lock. In the morning, I’d visit a bakery downtown, and stand on a line six feet behind a couple arguing about whether or not the man should quit his job. I’d order a chocolate chip muffin as they bickered, then I’d watch the woman heal his hurt with a sweet kiss on the cheek and a promise to be his sugar mama if he needs one. Later I’d get indigestion.
Still, I would hike in Acadia National Park, the reason why I’d make the trip upstate. I’d cut across a path and climb over wet rocks, my solitude suddenly scary as my sneakers slipped every which way, just to say I’d touched the water. I’d send photos to my grandmother to show her I was safe, and I’d send photos to my dad to show him he could be proud of me, to earn his approval. It looks like a movie set, I’d write to only one of them. I can’t believe I’m really seeing this in real life. I’d drive to a second path, hoping to hike again, but get lost on the way while my GPS struggled to connect to the internet. I’d take a Tums and shit in a Porta Potty and call it a day.
During the drive back to the motel, I’d sing the tongue-in-cheek lyrics of Phoebe Bridgers’ new album, excited every time my playlist circled back to “Garden Song.” When I grow up, I’m gonna look up from my phone and see my life. I’d finally pay for Spotify, because I’d be desperate to start fresh — all the songs I have downloaded on Apple Music would remind me of either my ex-boyfriend or a woman I used to be. I’d drive through Augusta and Bangor, eat a breakfast sandwich with goat cheese in one of them, but forget which, as neither city would be particularly memorable. I’d sit at a picnic table beneath the State House and write a postcard to my best friend, thanking her for rescuing me from my broken heart over and over again throughout the summer. I’d take my Moleskine out again and try to write, but no prose would pour out of me. Instead, I’d write a list of the songs cataloguing my trip, most of which would be curated by my friend Angela, who always finds her own ways to take care of me.
On the last day, I’d eat a lobster roll, sitting on a bench outside of a gift shop where I overpaid for a mug, three bowls, and a set of coasters for an apartment I haven’t met yet. The lobster roll wouldn’t be as good as the ones my mom makes every July. I’d receive another rejection email from another job, and I’d transfer another chunk of money from my savings account to my checking account without guilt, knowing for sure that I’d no longer need to save up for first and last month’s rent in that expensive new city anymore.
Most importantly, I wouldn’t ask for anyone’s permission to do any of these things, and as a result, I’d feel in control of my life again for the first time in months. A global pandemic, a breakup, and four months of unemployment can hold you in place like a puppet on a string, and the combination of these three will inevitably leave you desperately reaching for scissors. I would tell almost no one I was going away, especially not my ex-boyfriend, and I’d stay off of social media, but I’d hope he’d notice my absence.
I deleted my social media apps instinctually when I left for Portland. The action was routine for me: I put my bags in my trunk, pulled up Google Maps, placed my Starbucks mobile order, and got rid of Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. In college, I’d delete my social media apps for a weekend at a time whenever I felt my focus fraying too much, whenever I felt like a mad scientist with my hair standing up in all directions. In graduate school the last two years, I went months without the apps on my phone, and checked social media only on my laptop or when a friend texted me directly telling me to open a DM they just sent. But since the world shut down in March, I’ve checked the apps compulsively throughout the day, as they’ve become my primary connection to the outside world. So it had been months since I’d broken the app habit — since Instagram and Twitter became crucial reminders that there is life beyond my own four walls.
As I drove hours alone, saw the summer stumble into fall, and saw speed limit 70 signs for the first time in my life, I thought about how I’d share my trip when I inevitably went back on the grid. I drafted posts in my head, and I wondered if this made me a more legitimate writer or just a millennial narcissist. The crafting of captions didn’t bother me as much as it made me feel guilty — I live with the voice of some baby boomer in my mind who is always criticizing me for being too vain, too ungrateful to appreciate the present moment, too young and naïve. Usually it’s my dad’s voice.
I wondered if I should do one Instagram post with the maximum of ten photos, or a separate post for each city I visited. If I combined everything into one post, how would I choose only one city for the location tag? What if I put no location at all — would people comment asking where I was? Would it be intriguing and mysterious, or would no one give a shit? Would posting three separate carousels be too much? Who gets to decide what’s too much? Which songs from my Spotify playlist should I include screenshots of? Has my ex-boyfriend seen that I created a Spotify playlist called “Portland,” and will that help him figure out why I’m not online this week? Should my first post be a scenic photo from my hike, or should I start with a selfie where my boobs look great so I can grab people’s attention? Is this modern-day scrapbooking, or am I brainwashed by big tech? Will my ex-boyfriend notice that I’m still wearing the ring he gave me? Why is it important to me that I share this trip so strategically? Is it because I’m enjoying myself and want to share that joy with others as best as I can, or is it something darker than that? Why is it so important to me that I craft a caption that my ex-boyfriend will have some sort of — really, any sort of — reaction to? What did people do in the olden days? Hell, I’m twenty-five, what did I do?
I live with the voice of some baby boomer in my mind who is always criticizing me for being too vain, too ungrateful to appreciate the present moment, too young and naïve.
Despite my mental planning, I managed to stay off social media for the entire trip, though I caught myself sending more texts to my friend Claudia than ever before, because I had thoughts that I wanted to share! Old habits die hard and all. Still, somewhere between Acadia and Augusta, I realized I had turned my solitude into an asset. I was doing exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, without anyone else’s approval, and though I’ve done this for most of my adult life, lately it’s felt like a bad thing. After a summer spent complaining about being single and mourning the companionship my relationship brought me throughout the year prior, to feel unencumbered by my loneliness was a personal revolution. “Turned my solitude into an asset” was a potential Instagram caption, but it felt far too earnest, and by that I mean too vulnerable.
Of course I still miss you, he writes back to me, and I really miss holding your hand. I fill my wine glass again and press play on an episode of Gilmore Girls I’ve seen a hundred times before. It’s season seven, and Paris has just been accepted to graduate schools, and she breaks up with Doyle despite her unbridled love for him, because she believes she’s too young to pencil in “some guy” when making decisions about her future.
“But Doyle’s not just some guy,” Rory reminds her. “You fell in love. That’s a good thing.”
The episode is interrupted by a FaceTime call from my ex-boyfriend. I haven’t seen his face since a Saturday afternoon in July when he wiped the tears from behind my sunglasses while we walked across an Ivy League campus. After, we climbed the stairs of his apartment silently, then went directly into his bedroom, where I sat down at the foot of his bed and he laid next to me with his head on my lap, both of us aware that the end had finally arrived.
On my laptop screen, his beard is longer than I’ve ever seen it, and I am hurt by the mere existence of the minute things I miss about him: the freckles on his hands, his chest hair peeking out the stretched collar of his old t-shirt, the way he raises his eyebrows and leans toward me when he can tell I’m holding something back. There is still a warmth between us, even after a heartbroken summer, as if the humidity of the last weekend we spent together will saturate us forever. I cried nearly every day in June and July, knowing our relationship was about to end when he moved across the country, but now, two months later, he mentions only the happy memories. He remembers me laughing in his kitchen, piling whipped cream into my mouth, and lying on his couch naked, drinking Prosecco with his bathrobe draped over me. We do not have the language to speak to each other in any way that isn’t sweet, isn’t suggestive. Despite all our former connections that have come undone, he still sees me in the kindest light. This is particularly important for someone who has taken money out of her savings account to run away from home because she feels like an open wound.
We talk for two hours before I tell him I’ve been traveling all week. “I’m in Maine right now, actually,” I say. “Or maybe New Hampshire. Honestly, I’m not sure anymore.”
I tell him about feeling like an open wound, about the job rejections, about a fight I had with my sister before I left town, about Portland’s restaurant scene and a risotto so good all I could do was look the waitress in the eyes and throw both my hands over my heart. I want to tell him more, but I feel protective over an experience that I designed to be wholly and completely my own.
“I was wondering if you were busy this week,” he says. “I noticed you hadn’t been on Twitter at all.”
“I was hoping you’d notice,” I admit. “I was debating what to post to get your attention when I got back.” He tells me I’m playing a game of chess, while he’s just playing checkers.
“Well, I did notice, even though I unfollowed you. You know I’m still checking in. I was worried about you, so I was glad when you texted me.”
As we talk, he doesn’t feel so untouchable anymore, and his attention isn’t so tantalizing. I take a juicy bite of the forbidden fruit, chew it up and spit it out. I wake up the next morning in a good mood, and it’s a familiar feeling — it mirrors how I woke up most mornings in the spring, with my phone under my pillow, the battery drained, after we’d fallen asleep on the phone. I sit on a bench in downtown Portsmouth and eat avocado toast with lox for breakfast. I am still dreading the return to my regular life, but I know it’s time. The seasons have changed in the week I’ve been gone, so I scoot across the bench in my skirt to soak up a bit more sunlight, regretting not bringing my good jeans with me.
Desperate to procrastinate my drive home, I walk into a crystal shop and buy a moonstone rock, my birthstone. I ask the woman working in the shop how I can foster the new beginnings and inner peace promised by moonstone. She looks at me confused, then tells me to simply peel the price tag off and carry the stone around with me. Recognizing her nonchalance regarding my need for inner peace and new beginnings as a final push toward home, I hand her my debit card, but her cash register stops working. “Isn’t there some kind of crystal to fix that?” I joke, but she doesn’t laugh. As she turns the iPad off and on again, I drift over to a case of jewelry I can’t afford. I see the reflection of my mask in the glass and realize I haven’t once thought about how to share my morning in Portsmouth on Instagram.
Over the course of the last night’s conversation, my impulse to share all the drafts in my head flaked away, and now they sit at my feet in this crystal shop in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They faded and fell without my realizing, just like the summer faded and fell into autumn, all the leaves landing at my feet over the course of my week-long trip. I thought my potential captions and photos were floating aimlessly around my mind, as if I’d smashed open a filing cabinet and turned on a ceiling fan, but my desire was always more concentrated than that. I was looking for a way to connect with someone who left my everyday life without my permission. I had the simplest of desires: to communicate with someone I miss. Isn’t that the most human longing of all? The longing for someone whose absence makes you look down to check if you are, in fact, missing a limb, the way it feels like you are — isn’t this the least digital, most primitive longing we can experience? Isn’t it undeniably old fashioned, dare I say, even baby boomer of me to want such a thing?
“I can’t wait for you to get back on social media and post a bunch of hiking photos,” he jokes as we’re saying goodbye, and I’m reminded again how well he knows me. But I never post the photos. After telling him about my trip, I don’t feel the need to share them anymore. I come to find I am not a millennial narcissist after all (at least not for this reason). I am simply a woman missing a man who used to love her well.
When I taught media studies as a grad student, I’d tell my classes about the uses and gratifications theory, which argues that we all have specific reasons for choosing the media we consume. Lifetime movies, I told my class, might fulfill your desire for entertainment and escapism, like they do for me. Someone who reads the New York Times in the morning probably does so to gather information about current events before heading off to work. So many of us watched Tiger King just to be able to talk to everybody else about it. Posting on Twitter and Instagram two months post-breakup gives me a way to connect with a person who is no longer in my life even though I am still in love with him. It is less like a game of chess and more like a message in a bottle.
As my overwrought and underemployed humanities degrees have taught me over and over again, two seemingly contradictory ideas can be true at once, and I am working on accepting these perceived paradoxes in my real life. For example, there can still be love between people who aren’t meant to be in a relationship with each other. And missing someone for months longer than you expected to does not mean that you are not okay on your own (you are, I am). A man can shatter your heart into a mosaic for a summer and still not be a terrible person (despite what your mother may think). You can want to be with someone in certain moments of vulnerability — when you get the phone call with the very bad news; when you catch yourself holding your own hand as you fall asleep at night; when you do, after all, walk Cornelia Street again — without wanting to be his girlfriend anymore. You can have sex with someone new, someone whose mouth tastes like cigarettes, and pretend it’s him the whole time, but still count this as moving on. And you can continue to be loved by him and reap the benefits of that love, even if it is a strikingly, and often painfully different love than it was last fall.
“I’m actually doing well, really,” I reassure him before we hang up. “I mean, I miss you so fucking much, but I’m mostly good, seriously.”
“I know you are,” he tells me, and I believe it more when he says it back to me. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
