Reflecting

I've been reading over my old posts, and realized...I've never explained what exactly happened to me *after* my heart was broken. Well, I never explain anything exactly, I merely give the shape of a feeling.

A new friend (rabbit) made me realize how important that particular part of the story might be.

It was...the darkest time in my life, and darker so because before it all had been so bright. He was a white hot light, and I could handle his heat. But slowly the flame began to blue, and then yellow, orange, and then there were just the black, mucky ash left. Since then everything has been a shade of gray...though now and then, my grays have some blue in them.

Needless to say, I don't like remembering those days, but I am starting to think that maybe sharing it could be therapeutic.

In a way, I should have seen the disaster that has swallowed my life coming. Everyone around me seemed to think I should have anyway. That's how I know none of them have ever been in love...but that's another topic for another day. The point is, there was no one to go to, no one to talk to, no one who didn't think it was my own fault. Including me. I didn't think I had a right to grieve. I was cut open, hallowed out inside, and I simply closed myself up, and continued life devoid of feeling. I was so sad, but I wouldn't let myself be. Every time I wanted to cry I swallowed the lump in my throat and said no. I pretended to keep being the person I was even though I was entirely altered. I was friends with all the same people with no real affection for them. I could no longer talk to people. All I wanted to say was how much I was hurting, but I wouldn't allow myself the release. I had it coming. I should have known. I had no right to be sad.

I lost every part of myself. My writing. My heart. My love. Myself.

I had every right to be sad. I had every right to cry and cry and cry. I had every right to call on every one of my friends, and be that pain in the ass complaining about their broken heart. But no one said that to me. No one made me face it. No one even noticed I was shutting down, and breaking off. No one noticed the panic attacks I began having. The first was in a movie theater. All of the sudden I couldn't breathe, and a sudden wave a realization hit me of how alone I was, and what an impossible endeavor it was to go back to having nothing. I just thought "I can't do this. I can't do this." My two friends sitting on either side of me noticed nothing. There was no one who knew me. No one except him, and he didn't want me.

None of that matters though, not really. Because what I discovered once I finally fessed up to myself that I was still hurting 7 years later, is that I do not have it in me to recover from what happened. There is no getting better for me. There is just acceptance.

And the chance to not do what was done to me.


Oh...and that tiny bit of hope I can't seem to kill that maybe, just maybe...I might find someone who gets me again. Even if we're not in love...even if they can't protect me from my host of personal demons, to be understood again...to feel at home again. It would mean so much. It would even more to again find my heart...to take a breath and not have my chest feel tight.

It's been so long.