When Every Breakup Ends in a Restraining Order
There are men who process a breakup by going to therapy.
There are men who hit the gym, buy an unnecessarily loud motorcycle, or suddenly develop strong opinions about cold plunges.
And then there is Derek.
Derek processes a breakup by visiting the courthouse.
To Derek, a restraining order is not an extraordinary legal remedy intended for serious circumstances. It is simply the adult equivalent of blocking someone on Instagram—except a judge does it for you, there is paperwork involved, and Derek gets to wear a collared shirt.
His philosophy is straightforward:
Courts give these things out like candy, so why not get one?
Did an ex-girlfriend send him three texts asking when she could retrieve her air fryer?
Restraining order.
Did she tell a mutual friend that Derek was “emotionally exhausting”?
Restraining order.
Did she appear at the same Trader Joe’s despite knowing that Derek occasionally shops there on Tuesdays?
Your Honor, the pattern is undeniable.
Derek does not believe he is dramatic. Derek believes he is proactive.
Other men establish boundaries through direct communication. Derek establishes boundaries by purchasing a manila folder, printing screenshots, and announcing that he has “retained documentation.”
He retains everything.
Texts. Emails. Venmo descriptions. Instagram likes. A blurry photograph of a Honda Civic that may or may not belong to anyone he has ever dated.
He keeps these items in a file labeled EVIDENCE, which is stored beside another file labeled MORE EVIDENCE.
Naturally, Derek’s relationships tend to deteriorate.
At first, everything is wonderful. He is attentive, intense, and deeply interested in knowing where his girlfriend is at all times—not because he is controlling, he explains, but because he “values transparency.”
He asks for her location.
He dislikes certain friends.
He has concerns about her clothing.
He believes her coworker is “clearly trying something.”
But the moment she objects to any of this, Derek becomes frightened for his safety.
“I just don’t know what she’s capable of,” he tells people, referring to a woman whose most threatening act was changing the Netflix password.
Derek’s genius lies in his ability to transform any attempt at accountability into evidence of persecution.
“Please stop contacting my family,” an ex might write.
Derek reads this twice.
Then he leans back in his chair.
“Interesting,” he whispers.
To ordinary people, this message means she wants him to stop contacting her family.
To Derek, it is an escalation.
Soon, he is explaining the situation to a clerk using phrases he learned from television:
- “Pattern of behavior.”
- “Credible threat.”
- “Ongoing campaign.”
- “I fear this may intensify.”
What may intensify is never entirely clear.
Possibly the request for the air fryer.
Derek loves the courthouse because it offers something his relationships never did: a captive audience required to listen while he speaks.
He arrives early.
He brings exhibits.
He calls screenshots “communications.”
He calls arguments “incidents.”
He calls being unfollowed “digital retaliation.”
He once submitted a six-page chronology beginning with the sentence:
“On or around March 14, she became distant.”
Derek is especially fond of the temporary order.
The temporary order is perfect because it arrives before anyone has had the opportunity to examine his personality in detail.
To Derek, this proves the system agrees with him.
“See?” he tells friends. “A judge signed it.”
He leaves out the part where temporary orders may be issued based on initial allegations pending a fuller hearing. That detail does not fit comfortably inside Derek’s personal documentary, in which he is simultaneously the hero, the victim, the lead investigator, and the executive producer.
His friends have gradually learned not to ask follow-up questions.
The first time Derek filed, they were concerned.
The second time, they were confused.
By the fourth ex-girlfriend, they began wondering whether the common denominator might be the man carrying the accordion folder.
Derek rejects this theory.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “I attract unstable women.”
It is an astonishing coincidence.
Every woman is different.
One is a teacher. One is an accountant. One manages a dental office. One fosters elderly dogs.
Yet somehow, each becomes dangerously unhinged at the exact moment she decides she no longer wants to date Derek.
The odds are remarkable.
Derek sees no pattern.
Patterns are for evidence, and evidence is something other people create against him.
His former girlfriends have developed their own informal support network.
They do not meet intentionally. They simply recognize one another at the courthouse.
“Oh,” one says, noticing the familiar manila folder. “You too?”
They exchange the sympathetic nod of people who have survived the same bizarre customer-service experience.
Eventually, Derek begins dating someone new.
He assures her that his exes were all dramatic.
He explains that he hates drama.
Derek hates drama in the same way an arsonist hates smoke.
For several weeks, everything is perfect.
Then she disagrees with him in a restaurant.
Derek grows quiet.
He studies her face.
Somewhere in his mind, a printer begins warming up.
The next morning, he purchases another folder.
Just in case.