When I was in the third grade, I got stung by a bee while taking a spelling test. He came out of nowhere – traveled up my 90’s acid-washed jeans, and bit me – and I screamed in unimaginable agony.
“What is it, Sheena?” Mrs. Inglis yelled to me from the other side of the room.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Inglis. But it hurts real bad.”
I was in the third grade when I first felt what heartbreak feels like, only I didn’t know it then.
Two years ago, a guy whom I loved deeply broke my heart. There were no warning signs that I should’ve stayed away; if there were, I was just a girl in love, too docile to notice, and too dumbfounded to care.
Even though what happened went down two years ago, the loss is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It irrevocably changed me. Sometimes, I feel like I’m okay, and everything is okay, and everything will continue to be okay.
But other times, I feel a sort of endless pain, resulting from a darkness that takes over without my consent. It feels like emotional rape. And when this happens, everything else in life merely feels like a distraction from what’s really going on inside my wounded heart, rendering me unable to perceive what I’m doing at face-value; dating becomes futile. A wine tasting is a trip down memory lane. Kickboxing is just beating up a bag with my ex’s face painted on it. I carry he who broke my heart around with me everywhere I go. I feel him in every fiber of the parts of myself he took from me.
for the heartbreakers, who may never understand the capacity of the absolute tragedy they’ve bestowed upon those who loved them most;
One day, something good came of my loss: I was given a professional opportunity to have my voice heard by millions around the world. I started this blog because the pain, when I do feel it, is like that of a bee sting. It’s sudden, but overwhelming. Not too long after I began blogging, I was fortunate enough to quit my job for a paid venture that I initially only embarked on with the sole intention of curing the indubitable hole in my heart; the one that’s yet to be filled. That is, I write.
Sometimes, the darkness gets to be too much. Hell, before I began to pen this, I was curled up in a fetal position on my couch crying hysterically to some Enya-knock-off yoga music (hey, it brings out the feels). Sometimes it can, and it will, get to be too much for all of us. After all, there’s only so much the human heart can take.
Because sharing my pain with others has helped alleviate my own, I encourage you to do what makes you feel alive, and to do more of it. If you can’t sleep, do *that* thing. If you have to stay home on a Friday night to do it, in lieu of getting drinks with your friends because Friday is the only time you can fit that special *thing* into your schedule, then do that. Just stop, drop, and roll. And then, do *that.*
I may never fall in love again. That sounds like a naive declaration, but it could very well be true. And, in the event that I don’t fall in love again, I’ll be prepared, because there is something else I’ve found to half-replenish my soul; doing it doesn’t feel as good as being in love, but it comes as a close second. Equip yourself, and always keep your equipment close, for it’s okay to stay guarded. The one who’s meant to stay forever will have hands heavy enough to break through your walls.
And so, I write. What’s your weapon?