phoenixmackenzie said: what's your best advice on healing a broken heart?
being heartbroken is a strange, desperate feeling. my friend described it as this: when you end a relationship, you’re left with all these free-wheeling touchy feelies that you don’t know where to direct since they were all just wrapped around one person. you’re going to have to get used to the idea that for a while, you’re going to be running around with all these tender spots. as if your body is an exposed bone. very vulnerable to sunlight. very vulnerable to touch. to wind. to all of it. after i broke up with my last boy-person, for a couple of weeks i felt my body like a little pond. every once in a while a feeling rises to surface for air. a leaf would fall on me and my entire body would ripple. imagine the damage that skipping rocks did. every once in a while something would happen that would wreak havoc on my emotions. a small bird flew to my window one morning and i couldn’t open it up to give the little blue jay some bread. & as if it were feeding time at a fucking koi pond, all the fish flit with their sharp fins to the surface and i was just a watery, sloshy mess of person. the mirage of calm water broke and all of a sudden i was laying on my couch with my face pressed into the cushions’ butt crack with a blanket over my face because i couldn’t take anything at all. i don’t know about you, but when grief comes into my life it brings all of its friends with it. i’m a happy person until i am a mourning widow. the dead husband being nineteen years of existing.
in other words, a bird made me cry.
yo. heartbreak is hard, and you’re talking to someone who gets a kick out of letting herself feel all of the diddly-doos and drops of life. let yourself feel through it. don’t suppress your sadness, your loneliness. learn from it. try to understand that wild creature, those dark horses that are running through you unbridled. let yourself feel through every low so that you can reach the high, and vice versa. be sad, and be okay with being sad over someone, because there will be a moment where you will be walking down the street in a few days or a few weeks, and you’ll see petals strewn underneath all the trees on the sidewalk, and the air will feel like a sweet mouth against your mouth, and you’ll find yourself suddenly grinning with your arms open, and all of your touchy-feelies have returned back to your body, and you will have gained yourself back - after however long you did not belong to yourself - and you’ll realize that you’re whole again, that you’re you again, and that is a breath that will mean so much when it comes.
I have never once in my life rested my head and felt safe for even one moment. Everything had always been pending, timed, and waiting like a plastic device in a roasting birds side, waiting for the right time to say “You’re done” and move me on out of the frying pan, and into the fire.
Everything burned here, everything ever surrounding me was my mothers curse, a gypsy soul was hers, and I am caught always somewhere between coming and going and meeting this image of myself somewhere in the middle.
And I’ve never felt …comfortable, either in my own skin, or in any building, and I have never rested one breath in any man’s arms because I knew then, like I know now, not one of them had ever once knew how to love me.
Disquietude and unrest were all I’ve ever had, and although I had learned once or twice to appreciate what I had while I had it, there was always that dread, hanging overhead of everything being ripped away as one more punishment for one more time, I couldn’t agree to allow the abuse to reign and manage the smile to call it mine, and call it good enough despite itself. And here I find myself, half dead and waiting yet again for yet another person trusted, to rip the life line from my chest, and watch as my heart dies of it.
I’m that pressure and rub in their mortar and pestle. The machinations of motion that magically makes someone else’s something somehow better for my ground up Adam’s bones as some bitch get’s to pick me from her teeth with a golden tone, for his adornment and reward.
And instead, they used me, as a little bit of spittle in someone else’s Taj Mahal. I am brick, and mortar and I do not know what home is, what it means, or what it feels like to be…safe. Everything with me, has always been entropy. Like sand castles eroding slowly in the wind.
And each one of them will undoubtedly blame me for that somehow. When the truth being told from birth to when we’re old, is this. A man’s honor is, not contingent upon what he can avoid, or ditch. But what he stays to endure, and help, and fix because he loves her.
There is no reason, no rhyme, and no excuses. The measure of love isn’t found in the ease, nor the enjoyment. It comes at the test, and they’ve all failed at best and each of them blamed me for it.
“At some point it becomes true that all stories are love stories. all making, love making. I didn’t make this rule. but it binds me all the same. I wish there were a law against condescending against love. against the economy of fear that says your joy means less joy for me as if love were pie, or money, or fossil fuel dug or pumped from the earth, gone when it’s gone. it’s just not true. the heart with its gift for magnificent expansion is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar cringing in its wallet. when you say darling, the world lights up at its edges. when mouths find mouths and minds follow or minds find minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow – how about you call that sacred. how about you raise your veined right hand and swear on the blood that branches there, yes. I take this crush to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy until the bending’s its own pleasure. I will memorize photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance, and dance – there’s a perfection only the impossible kiss possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked in the dark of a room to which you will never return. anything that moves the world toward light is a blessing. why not take it with both hands, lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this is the substance that holds our little atoms together into bodies. this sweet paste of longing is all that binds us to the earth. and all we know of the gods.”
— Marty McConnell, “Three of Cups”
When it’s night time and quiet and the clouds
resonate, symmetrical, woven-glowing like
the fruit of stars, orange peel and pink passion,
it’s always still until a Bill or a Jane wake from their dreams
their dampened bed sheets, their dim glow bulb flickering
to keep the monsters away. The shutters crack and let
images loose, he’ll say, and a pinch of the arm will scream love
and terror all at once. Am I not too young? she’ll say
and the monsters will howl and bite the ears of silence until
every crevice, every stem of Godfear, shaking, poisoning
the cold plummet is nothing more than shafts of gold
and white light, crawling through the smokey glass that sits
stained with bad words and trickles of sweat and secrets
that a ripened moon of fruit-blue illuminates for blind eyes.
It’s not her bed; she never even slept in it.
Neither had her mother and new stepfather. It was their marriage bed, but her stepbrother decided he wanted to break it in when he tried to maneuver her between his body and the queen mattress. Later, when she moved to her new apartment, her mother offered her the bed as a farewell present. But she refused to let the bed and the demon that was born during that struggle follow her into her new apartment, into her new life, into the peace that she found finally being away from her brother.
Now, fifteen years later, her kid sister sleeps in the same oak frame with sturdy curved pillars, the same pillars she used as a brace against her stepbrother’s advances. It still even has the same geometric comforter that he sat on and fondled right before he lunged for her arms. She wonders if the bed retained the imprint of the assault in the padding, a violent handprint pressed deep into the foam. She wonders if her sister can feel it when she sleeps, if the dent in the bed gives her bad dreams, the same nightmares our girl relives in her own bed hundreds of miles away.
It’s not her bed; she never even slept in it; but it’s a bed that defined her, shaped her life, gave her more to fear than just the dark.