ode to a broken heart.

Monday, October 26, 2015


So much has happened... and for the most part, I wish I could forget it all. But I've realized that, as an adult, even when you think that the whole entire world will stop on its axis, it doesn't. And sometimes that's the most comforting thing that you can have: the fact that even the worst days-- the days when you want to hide under the covers and cry yourself into oblivion-- they all begin and end; they don't swallow you whole (even when you wish they would). Loss is hard, especially when it happens so close to the beginning-- the times when all you can see is life and possibility stretched out in front of you like heaven on Earth.

But what can you do?

There's no instructions or handbooks on how to deal with life and its lack of fairness. There's no supervisor that comes out of the sky when something bad is happening and says, "well, you've done everything right, you've paid your dues, you've survived all these hardships before, so no heartache for you this time." Oh, if life was only fair; if it didn't tear your heart to pieces the second everything was going right.

If it didn't take every opportunity to remind you that no, you can't have it all. (I hate to think this, but it's hard not to sometimes.)

But what gets to me the most-- as an adult-- is that there's no big answer on how to deal with this stuff. No one knows any of the answers. As a child I thought that when I got older, that my heart would be ironclad. That I'd know exactly what to say and do in every circumstance. That I'd know what kind of person I was. That the world, in its ever-perplexing state would finally make sense. And then you get here and realize that none of it makes sense. Not one part or speck or molecule of any of it. And that, if anything, your heart and spirit is broken more, and that you are more directionless than when you were younger and knew in your bones where true north was. That helplessness and cruelty and bullying run even more rampant because there are no teachers or parents to parole it.

That there's no big explanation for why life hurts. Because sometimes it just does for no reason other than it's a Tuesday or your shirt was red or, in fact, none of those reasons at all-- it just hurts and breaks and scars because it does.


But what can you do?

You do what we all do, I suppose. You get up, you get dressed, you go to work, you come home, you sleep--all the while pretending that you don't have a heart at all. You pretend that you're okay. You avoid everyone and everything that believes otherwise. You pretend that the pink elephant in the room doesn't and never existed. And you wash, rinse, repeat until one day it really doesn't exist. And that moment that ended your world gets filed alongside skinned knees and trifles. Shoved in the back of a filing cabinet deep in your mind to forget about (though you never will). A scar on your heart that causes just enough pain-- and, over time, only a wince--when unearthed.

But what can you do. 

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