L.A. Affairs: They did things big — including the breakup

Ignition

Her name was Sharon. Wild, untamable and tempestuous, she really taught me things about loving and living.

She was platinum-blond and shiny. Blunt. Happy and high-energy. A Mexican Irish girl, full of fire, with a singsong siren laugh that knocked the wind right out of my gut.

Our chemical reaction was less fireworks, more atomic bomb. It was a sight to behold, as was the fallout. Like Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy once said: I’m attracted to creative people and train wrecks, and there’s no shortage of that in Los Angeles.

She was on a date that night we met. My brother knew her, so we sat down. I cracked a few jokes and could tell by her laugh that the fuse was lit. A couple days later, my brother and I ran into her and a girlfriend at a bar. We smoked cigarettes and drank beer. In an hour or two she was in my lap, laughing softly in my ear. Like the cowboy in “Dr. Strangelove,” I was riding this one to ground zero. Sharon, without exaggeration, was the wildest girl I have ever dated.

Boom!

Like two sticks of dynamite we went off drinking, dancing and celebrating life together with wild nights turning into mornings. I would make up absurd cantos amores to sing to her. She was Priscilla to my Elvis. We blew up Facebook with our carrying-on.

We held on for four months (which is the average time experts give a relationship before a breakup) at the epicenter of the shock wave. Arguing ensued about who ranked No. 1 and No. 2 as the universe’s best kisser. It was a blast for sure, primal yet modern, magical yet scientific. Neuroscience is making great strides in brain chemistry and physical reaction, but research shows dopamine, oxytocin, pheromones and adrenaline play major roles in a love affair.

We had plenty to spare.

Fallout

Inevitably the light fades, regardless of time. There were a few epic fights. Then the fallout. She wanted to see other people. I didn’t. I turned from the ways of a man and played the fool.

I shrank into a child, throwing temper tantrums. I was jealous, lashing out, saying some pretty awful things. She pulled out her knives and cut me down too. (Thankfully, we have made peace and forgiven each other.)

The toughest moment? Me running my hand down her back, kissing her forehead and whispering, “I wish there was something I could do or say to change your mind,” and Sharon turning her head, saying softly, “I do too.”

Nothing but a smoking crater remained.

Having gone through this — and cancer — I knew the realest form of coping would be the Kübler-Ross model, the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Initially created to deal with death, this cycle also applies to PTSD patients and the lovelorn. Some say that breakups are almost the same as recovering from drug addiction, with the same chemicals at play.

Aftermath

Breakups are part of the human condition. Everyone has been there. Sometimes you’re the breaker, sometimes the breakee. We survive.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about Sharon. She was everywhere — in a favorite song we had, the places we visited.

A poll by YourTango.com found 81% of singles think about their ex too much. Clearly I was doing exactly that; then I started doing the math. It varies, but if you look around the entire globe and assume everyone has a 70-year life span and that we all average two to five breakups in our lives … then roughly 530,000 to 1.3 million breakups occur every day. For a little perspective, the average daily traffic on the 405 around Seal Beach is only 380,000.

The universal nature of this phenomenon was of little comfort. I looked elsewhere. The winner of best advice? My older brother. “There will always be hurdles in your life. Just don’t carry those hurdles with you,” he said. That and, “Spray an extra coat of Teflon on your heart.” I clung to that idea vigorously.

Like the character in the Bukowski story who had been shrunk down, I was feeling 6 inches tall. Perhaps some reflection was in order. I held my behavior up to the mirror for inspection. My own care and feeding needed a jump-start. One morning I hit the pavement for a jog and just started smiling. Finally, it wasn’t about her anymore. Time the destroyer was also time the healer.

Having zero tolerance for self-doubt and recrimination, I made myself remember who I had been before all this. I grew. Now I stand up straight again, a man, ready for the next Big One.

Eric Greenwell is a freelance writer.

L.A. Affairs chronicles dating and romance. Past columns and submission guidelines are at www.latimes.com/laaffairs. If you have comments to share or a story to tell, write us at home@latimes.com.