Up until today, my plan to cope with my heartbreak has been going pretty shitty.Three cheers for me.
I’ve been attending a crash course training for work. By the 10AM coffee break, the aching in my chest turns breakfast into an up chuck reflex.
Confirmation: semi-digested cereals are a disgusting sight.
Visual aid: one morning it was coco pops. You’re welcome.
I have never had my heart broken. I always wondered why people could not move on. Now I know.
The pain stems from the fact that you are now un-linked from each other. It grows from the slash that person leaves when they rip you away cold turkey from the chunk of common life you both had. The blood is in subtle things, like knowing someone accepted you despite your flaws and a guaranteed person to lean on during tough times. It’s throwing up in a bathroom at a training center and my first instinct is to call him. At some other point in time, he would have cared this was happening to me and he would have made it okay. Except, I’m throwing up because of him and he doesn’t care anymore.
“You hurt me.”
How I wish that could still mean something to him when I am the one saying it. A three word sentence to try to convey an emotional pain so intense it translates to physical ache and bile. He left me a few days before Christmas through jumbled text messages about how we should go our separate ways. Since then, I froze in a mix of break and denial.
I drove myself to tears, repeatedly, hating everything that ever made me who I am.
My hair. My laugh. My size. My voice. My lips. My clothes. My feet.
All of me.
It got to the point where I hated my name because I felt it no longer reflected who I had become. Everyone around me seemed to be using it to refer to a more complete person I once was and that had long gone missing.
I went on believing that at any moment he was going to come back and tell me how my absence in his life mattered. I got off work every day only to scan the faces of strangers under the office searching for the comfort of his features. In some of the less rational places of my mind, I had whispered to myself that he’ll be there one day, waiting for me with his boyish smile and his warm hands. It wasn’t something I was aware I was doing. It wasn’t a logical thought process. My eyes just searched deliriously. Maybe my subconscious self destructed too.
Then he got with that pouty Boobzella.
I lost even more sleep, weight and whatever remained of my ability to be good company.
But the tiniest spark lit up in my soul today, one for me to live again. I want to feel okay with being myself again. My turning point was earlier this morning. I got sick at training, again. I wash up and pinch my cheeks to add a little life to a sunken face. On my way back to the course, I caught sight of a girl in a side mirror. It took my brain half a second to recognize it was me, but I had already thought to myself “god, she looks miserable.” And I do. I look like shit. I am a sad, faded outline with sunken eyes.
I finally saw what everyone else had been seeing. I have been walking around looking like the misery train hit me right in the face. Me… I used to be bubbly and giggly and energetic. I would be buzzing around my day wearing the brightest colored clothes instead of my current monochrome selections.
The pity fest is not who I am, and I want to be me again. Even if it is someone he no longer wanted, I want to find myself again. For no better reason other than I miss the peace of my mind that comes with knowing and accepting yourself.