Who Gets Custody of the Breakup Story?
Who Holds the Power Over the Breakup Story?
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When it comes to heartbreak, some people see it as a golden opportunity. They view their pain as potential material to be cashed in as a byline. It’s like an emotional pawnshop, exchanging angst for a byline. And I, dear readers, have often fallen into this trap. I’ve subscribed to the misguided philosophy that all my hurt is valuable as long as I can turn it into prose. Because, you know, if I write about my baggage, it has mileage, right? But let’s face it, I’m not the only one who’s been sucked into this thought process. Look around you, and you’ll see breakup discourse has become a genre of its own. From TikTok to DeuxMoi, from Olivia Rodrigo’s ballads to the Jonas-Turner PR battles, breakup stories are everywhere. Taylor Swift, the guru of all things breakup, has taught us that public-facing art is the perfect platform to taunt your exes. And as consumers, we find solace in this voyeuristic solidarity.
But hold on a minute! What happens when the breakup art focuses on both parties in the relationship instead of just one? Taylor Swift’s chart-topping singles may leave little room for nuance, presenting only one side of the story. But hey, a relationship involves two people, not just one. So, in the realm of breakup art, who gets custody of the narrative?
I once wrote in an essay, “writing about my ex was a way of lingering,” attempting to explain why I continuously used him as inspiration. If I could capture the essence of our relationship in words, it felt like he hadn’t completely disappeared from my life. But here’s the thing, I had never named him in my work before. We had an unspoken agreement that he would appear in some form in my writing because, well, he loved me, and loving me meant consenting to become a character in my prose. We joked about it, fantasizing about the memoir prospects. But I never sought his permission or blessing when it came to publishing stories about us. Until now.
“I always thought this day would come,” he responded to my text, as we both reconciled with the fact that this story would feature him intentionally. We had limited contact since parting ways, exchanging sporadic birthday wishes and the occasional “this made me think of you.” Small gestures acknowledging that we had been something to each other. “I imagine it’s harder for you to be asking these questions than it is for me to be answering them,” he added.
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Storytelling, in its purest form, can be medicinal. As Joan Didion famously said, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” And in the age of social media, you don’t need to be a high-profile artist to share your story publicly. Just ask Amelia Samson. She coped with her breakup by posting candid video diaries on TikTok, allowing others to witness her healing journey. Her tear-soaked kitchen floor became a communal space, a source of support and solidarity.
Breakups may breed loneliness, but breakup discourse brings people together. It creates a sense of camaraderie, celebrating vulnerability, and shared experiences. However, there is a catch. Sharing your story publicly can tip the scales of power. It transforms storytelling from a private act into a public spectacle. Launching a hit single about your ex is quite different from performing a ballad at an open mic night. And journaling is not the same as publishing a best-selling book. The question is, does the imbalance of power matter?
In the words of Joshua Speers, “Tough shit.” The unfairness is a given. If you date a songwriter with a larger audience, their version of the story will inevitably dominate. But in the world of art, the truth takes a back seat to a good story. If a song is melodic and truth-adjacent, it’s considered art, regardless of its veracity. As Lily Sullivan puts it, writing about men is her way of standing up for herself. It’s about having the final say, controlling the narrative, and seizing the power. She wields her pen like a sword, defying clichés and claiming agency.
But for Haley Nahman, writing about a breakup requires emotional distance. The post-breakup haze is not the time for insightful reflection. It’s when the hurt has crystallized into something coherent that writers can truly articulate their experience and offer solace to others asking the same questions. As Nahman wisely states, we can only own our own perspective. We are unreliable narrators from the start. So how true is anyone’s truth when compared to another’s?
Art is a process of shaping reality. It distills chaos into coherent narratives, cheating the margins of real life. But here’s the beauty of it: a story can continue to evolve, even after its theoretical end. People can keep happening to us, even when they’re gone. As I discovered, penning a breakup essay, as remarkable as the prose may be, doesn’t mend the person-shaped hole left behind by my partner. It took me a while to realize that my intention in writing shifted. It became less about raw, acidic pain and more about reclaiming myself. The more I wrote, the more space I occupied, and that space belonged to me.
So, who gets custody of a breakup narrative? Nobody, and everybody. As Jake wisely shared from Alexander Chee’s book, “We are not what we think we are. The stories we tell of ourselves are like thin trails across something that is more like the ocean.” We can only own our perspective, our story. And as writers, we owe it to ourselves and our subjects to honor that truth.
