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“And it’s so hard to do, and so easy to say. But sometimes, sometimes you just have to walk away” – Ben Harper

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.

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“The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.” – Gary Jules

I just want to be able to sleep again.

That is all.

To sleep, without falling into memories. To wake up to an alarm clock, no matter how shrill, instead of the sound of my own crying.

To no longer look so old and drained.

I just want a normal night’s sleep. That state where you are neither alive nor dead, just unaware of whatever your reality is.

If you are reading, I hate you for the pain you have inflicted to the furthest corners of my mind where I should be able to retreat and regroup.  You sneak into my subconscious while I toss and turn trading sanity for sleep.

I hate you for everything you ever were to me, every burnt memory replaying behind eyes forced shut, every color you once added to my life- I hate you because I cannot hate you at all.

I used to tell him he was the blood in my veins, the beat to my heart. Horribly enough he still is.

“That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world. A beautiful, little fool.” – The Great Gatsby

I went to the cinema hoping to forget about my own scorched heart, I walked out musing on love and the illusion of it we fall into.

I suppose that is what distinguishes The Great Gatsby as a story.

To think the book was not considered a success when Fitzgerald first published it. If it can transcend time to reach a 21st century girl and keep her thinking for days, he must have written something right.

How I wish my own RS could have been a Gatsby.

One of the wide eyed hopefuls so loyal to his word and so fiercely in love he would have turned the world inside out for me. Built a house right opposite mine for the comfort of knowing I was a few miles away, threw parties just to entertain the smallest hope I might come wandering in.

Once more, I was surprised to find myself crying.

I didn’t even notice until a tear drop landed on the rim of my glasses during the movie. Daisy is walking around Gatsby’s mansion for the first time and he says something along the lines of “doesn’t she make everything more splendid?”

With that one line, I saw a new depth to RS leaving me. I did have a man, or maybe a boy, who offered me the most beautiful words of enduring love no matter how society threatened. I had the promise of affection as indefinite as Gatsby’s was for Daisy, one that would not be tarnished by absence should it ever come to us no longer being together.

Only.. My promise was a lie.

And just like Daisy would have never been able to live up to Gatsby’s perfect image of her, I eventually fell from the pedestal RS had me on. Sometimes I feel he loved me so much, he forgot to accept my flaws in the process. Some other times I feel maybe that’s a contradiction right there. Maybe loving someone means accepting how broken they are.

All the same, somewhere in my damaged soul I still hold on to a notion he poisoned me with. The thought that a heart,  his heart, can go on beating for me even though cultural rules already sunk their barbed wires into who we could have been.

That is what he spiked my life with, tales of unconditional love no distance, no separation could ever bend.

Yet, there he is. Him and Boobzella, Boobzella and him, and that ugly, ugly dog that I always hated and that she apparently loves.  All together. He carries on with his life. Mine splinters, diseased by romantic ideals only alive in a Fitzgerald novel.

So yes, I cried for my own naivety.

Foolish, foolish me.

“Will I ever laugh again?” – Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

After Big doesn’t show up to their wedding in Sex and The City 1, a completely depressed Carrie asks her girlfriends: “Will I ever laugh again?”

I love that quote. If any sentence could ever describe a person’s emotional state after they have been left, it is that one. And I have been asking myself that same question a lot these days.

Out here in the real world, happy endings are a little rarer to come by.

I don’t have Manolo Blahnik’s, Jimmy Choo’s or Louis Vuitton’s in my closet to soak up some of the pain. Forget the labels, I don’t even have the luxury of time to indulge in a heart broken depression.

Some of us quite literally need to earn their living.

You can do it all to forget. Send your emails, go to your meetings and put on the best forced smile ever. When it is time to come home, you still end up curled on a couch consumed by thoughts of him and her until the next morning.

And I really do ask myself, will I ever laugh again?

My very own Mr Big, known as RS, has moved on to another after leaving me, no explanations given, on Christmas eve.

Some days have been easier than others. Even full weeks have sometimes been easier than others.

But I always crawl back to the pain. I relapse into unanswered questions and sleepless nights.

I wonder, over and over and over, to the point where it is almost an obsession, I wonder: will the day come where I will stop trying to forget because I simply would not remember?

And will I ever forgive him?

When heartbreak hits home.

Some would say it takes me longer than your average geek to come to terms with my feelings. Some are not wrong.

My Christmas Eve this year was not the best. On that very day, a person I mistakenly took as my other half.. Well.. dumped me, to put it bluntly. And ungracefully at that.

But I kept going.

My Valentine’s day consisted of rented movies and cheap take out.

Still pushed through.

Our would have been anniversary came around.

A little tougher, but I managed to keep it together.

And then today happens.

Almost 5 months later, I felt it should be safe to check on what he has been up to since he abandoned me. I don’t know why I did that to myself. Boredom? Curiosity? A desperate attempt to drown out the hum of questions about him fermenting in my mind?

It would seem he has been re-kindling old “friendships” with a girl whose boobs remain too big for her to have ever been just a friend. I see little hearts they post to each other, inside jokes and one liners on his part to compliment her pictures.

And then I see a tear drop on my keyboard. Surprisingly, that came from me.

I would have thought any sense of pain to be dulled by layers of consumed ice cream by now. It had to be. I aimed to feel nothing and did all I can to achieve it.

Despite my unceremonious kick to the curve, we managed to keep a pseudo friendship going, some hybrid child of awkwardness and fake decency. I venture to ask him if he’s seeing someone or more specifically Boobzella.

My questions turn to accusations.

“I no longer answer to you.”

Bam. Just like that.

For the first time since my heart broke, I felt it.

I consider ice cream again. I consider chocolate. Then I consider dealing with long overdue feelings of hurt.

He is not wrong. He really does not need to tell me anything anymore. Our lives are no longer intertwined, there is no more “us”. Unfortunately for my ragged heart, I still live in a deceased reality where I am not a stranger to his life and Boobzella is most definitely not part of the picture.

He could have been kinder about my delusions. Let a crazy girl down easy. But then again, it would not have been like him to see the ache behind every sentence I typed that night, from “hello” to “you’re right, never mind”.

“What do I stand for? Most nights, I don’t know. Anymore.” – Fun.

When I graduated a few years back, I had dreams. Big dreams.

In my cap and gown, I scribbled on a little paper what I hoped for out of life within a few years time. My classmates and I are standing in line, just about to walk on stage. We giggle, we fret, we fix our tassels and tap our feet waiting for the Pomp and Circumstance graduation march to begin. It was our turn. After 4 years of midterms, finals and last minute cramming, we made it.

“Quick! Gimme your back!”

I lean on a girl whose name I no longer remember and list down the first things I think off. I sign it off “Good luck me!” with a star and a heart.

For a while, that little paper was framed in the first ever studio I could afford on my own. I made the frame myself. In a brand new one bedroom apartment, the frame was placed behind a few take-home projects on the mantle piece. There, it shifted places several times from living room to bedroom.

In a spacier apartment with a killer view, that black and red Rolling Stones frame I so carefully crafted was thrown out and the list I once excitedly wrote was added to my university memo box. It was meant to serve as a reminder for me not to stray too far from a wide eyed dream.

None of those goals ever materialized. My career path took a sharp turn into unexpected territory. Like most things we compromise on, it started out as a means to pay rent. I can’t pinpoint when my current profession officially swapped places with my first job aspiration.

But I can live with that.

I am passionate about my work even if it is distanced from my area of studies. The hardest thing to accept is that I no longer recognize myself. Not that I had a clear idea of who I am at graduation, or at any point in life really. It is just worse now. I have been doing things so out of character it is starting to scare me, no matter how blurred the lines have always been around what defines me. Somewhere in those years that elapsed since graduation, I either changed or lost the few concrete things I knew about myself.

Maybe I am re-calibrating to the person I was before I met the young man who left me a few months ago, also known as RS. I let die the smallest one millimeter spec of who I am to compromise for him.

Or maybe I was already changing before he left. I never really got a clear explanation for him leaving. I tried to find sense within the scraps of reasons he offered. The best I could figure was we must have grown apart somewhere down the line. Maybe he too no longer recognized me.

Or maybe, just maybe this is that horrible thing they call “growing up”.

I just don’t know anymore. I can tell you who I was, and who I became but there is one hell of an empty gap where “who I am” should be.

Dubai’s Sandstorm in Picture

Dubai's Sandstorm in Picture

Speaks for itself. The view at about 4 PM yesterday, and in Dubai of all places.