Don't tell your parents

My advice to you is this: Don’t tell your parents that you and your girlfriend have broken up.

Just don’t.

Telling your parents that you’ve broken up with a long-term partner is impossible, because they won’t really hear what you’re saying. Try and get a sibling to do it for you or better still just never tell them and let her gradually slip from their memories.

It’s not that they won’t understand, or they don’t care, it’s just that they are simply unable to comprehend what you’re saying. They don’t get it. It’s not in their nature to hear adult problems coming from their children. The very thought that you might be stuffing things up for yourself just as royally as they did freaks them out. To them you’ll always be a kid, not a thirty-something slacker. It’s boring; it’s frustrating, but it’s much safer and easier for all concerned that it stays that way too.

Remember what happened when your backpack was stolen in Athens and you were left with nothing but the clothes you were wearing.

Beep beep beep

Mum: Hello

You: Hi mum.

Mum: Oh, who is it?

You: Me mum, Bill-

Mum: Oh, but you’re in Greece –

You: Mum the money’s going to run out, can I –?

Mum: Oh, OK, I’ll just get your father.

You: Mum!

Dad: Hello son.

You: Hi Dad, listen can I –

(Mum in background: “Ask him what time it is?”)

Dad: Your mother wants to know what time it is.

You: It’s 3am, dad can I just –

Dad: 3am love.

(Mum in background: what day is it over there?)

Dad: What love–?

You: I can hear her Dad. It’s Tuesday.

Dad: He says Tuesday.

You: Dad, have you still got my credit card details-?

Dad: Yes I’ll just go and get them.

He puts the phone down.

You: No da-!

Beep beep beep.

The phone cut out and there went your last chance of having them wire money to you and have you ever tried to sell a watch in a Greek pawnshop?

Exactly the same thing will happen when you tell them that you and your ex, the one they thought you’d be with forever, have broken up.

No matter what you say, your mum will at first just not hear it. You’ll have to say it over and over again until it finally sinks in, and when it does, look out, because things just start to get very weird.

One of two very disturbing things will happen: either she’ll think it’s your fault and that something you did must have pissed off that sweet girl who’s been putting up with your irritating habits for years, “and does that mean I’ll not see any grandchildren?” or she’ll suddenly be so scathing about your ex that you’ll be left stunned and bewildered, wondering what she’s really been thinking all this time when she’s been offering her a slice of sponge cake and a cup of tea every third sunday evening of teh month.

You’ll finally see the non-mum side of your mum. You’ll realize, perhaps for the first time ever that she’s actually a person, that she’s got feelings, and that she’s just as fucked up as you. She’ll see you in a new light too. She’ll see the potential, idealised her-perfect-son version of you replaced by the actual and much less appealing real you; she’ll realize that her little boy is just as messed up as she is. You’ll go past the polite conversation and pleasantries that pass for much interfamilial communication and hurtle straight into a full on mano a (wo)mano slug fest, in which your mum pulls off the lovely oven gloves you bought her for Christmas when you were ten and goes bare knuckle, toe-to-toe with you.

She’ll treat you like an adult. She’ll want details; she’ll ask questions; she might even ask you about your sex life; she’ll want to know were you shagging around; was she? She’ll get upset and your father will stand up and put his hands in his pockets and look out the window humming a marching tune while you try and comfort your mum, who just keeps dabbing her eyes, holding up her hands and repeating, “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of a shock.”

Pretty soon though she’ll pull herself together and head off to the kitchen to get the dinner on.

When she comes back in, eyes red-rimmed, she’ll pretend that she’s, “fine really,” but you’ll see it in her face – she can’t hide it - and every time you look at her you’ll wish there was some way you could make her stop worrying, and so her pain - which is really your pain - becomes yours again, only doubled, and so you clam up, and you can’t tell her anything more. You become testy, touchy, and of course this just adds another layer to her unease, and every time she so much as touches you, you can feel her anxiety sucking at you like a baby at a tit, and now you’re the one worried. You feel like the parent and you wish there was some way you could make things better for her, but you’re just not right enough in the head to cope with that. You’re not selfless enough to cope with someone else’s load. You’re so self obsessed, so sorry for yourself that there’s just no room for anyone else, and even though you know you’re being a silent, moody arsehole to the two people in the world who are truly willing to listen to your grief you can’t stop.

And when mum finally clears away the plates, and you’re left alone with dad, who, after a suitable silence, asks you if you watched the match yesterday, you’re still grumpy, but you’re on familiar territory and you wish you’d just told him instead. Because he’ll be gutted, he’ll be shocked and he’ll eat his insides out with worry just as much as your mum, but he’ll do it quietly and without any fuss. Like her, he’ll lie awake all that night, wondering whether you’ll ever find happiness. He’ll spend silent moments remembering how you used to be such a happy little boy, or maybe he’ll look back and remember that he always worried about your state of mind, about whether you were the kind of person who’d sail through life without any troubles, or whether you were always the type to trip himself up or to get tripped up.

But he won’t let you see that. The most he’ll say is, “Ah well,”. Dads know better than to say any more than that.