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Heartbreak Hangover Pt. 2

We met in darkness, your face lit with a smile. I could feel the answer before we spoke, could feel the weight of your words before you said anything. Two weeks of complete silence and I had created a completely separate reality of what would be, but when I saw you I suddenly woke up, remembered everything, remembered you. And I knew it was over.

Here is where I am:

I’m not sure, after today, that I have had my heart broken before. Things have made me very sad, and relationships ending have made me feel sick and miserable without a doubt. But my heart has always felt okay, just weak. Maybe. Again, this is all perspective. I have experienced depression and disappointment in other arenas in my life, but actually having my heart broken— I’m not sure. What I felt today was a cracking in my chest, a physical splitting of something inside me. Instead of all of your hurtful words pouring in, I felt all of my pains pouring out.

“I just can’t see myself marrying you.”

Alongside your defense, I was reminded of the only other verbal confirmation of rejection that would come close in my memory: “I am just not really physically attracted to you anymore.” That, and memories of hurt came flooding out, my own wrongs and hurts I have spread filled my entire body and I could physically feel the weight of all the pain I had caused. I remembered the driveway and telling some boy from a long time ago that we would never be. And I remembered how sick “doing the right thing” made me feel. And how I’m not sure that telling myself it was the right thing to do will ever make it okay that I did it. I don’t activate these memories unless it comes out by accident somewhere in my writing and I’m never sitting at home just remembering things like that. Maybe it was good to do that just this once, to be completely split open and to let the pain just pour on in, to let it fill me up, to drown me. The weight has since passed and now it’s time for bed and I can grasp the idea of being okay. I think being staunchly aware somewhere inside me that this was there the whole time has made it less surprising, though not any less miserable. We all know how much I do love being right.

We don’t owe anyone anything in this life. Maybe doing the right thing is being brutally honest or maybe doing the right thing is riding things out until something else rips us apart. Maybe doing the right thing is ignoring your problems until somebody else makes you face them. Maybe doing the right thing is some combination of all of this. Or maybe none of it. I’m not sure. I am sure that whatever happens is just another thing that happens. Every day something happens and we live and we do the best we can. We can carry these things with us, but the hope is that we are aware enough in the moment to not let those things control our path.

I will take it with me, but I will not take you. You are not like the others. You are not like anyone. Being with you was (most of the time) like living in some weird dream, and now that is how it feels, like a false memory, like something I just made up. Perhaps this is because all of the worlds I live in are just ones inside me, ones that don’t actually exist. If that’s the way I am, though, that is the way I will continue to be. But I will erase you from those places as much as I can and you will be out of my life forever. You are empty space on my walls now. You are not a reason or a motivation- you are nothing now except a character I remember from a place that never was. As a person, I will speak well of you, forever and ever. As a lover, I will never speak of you again.

And this is the end of another of Kate’s fairy tales, another ending to a another grand romance. Right on schedule…

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Among the Roses

Today, I went for a very long walk. I left out of the white picket fence and stopped into Hannah for a coffee (okay, it was mostly just milk…) and was greeted by the friendly baristas. I walked along The Alameda. I walked by the place where I got my Harold and Maude tattoo. I walked by the churches I’ve never been to. I crunched through the early Autumn leaves. I listened to kids playing, babies laughing, moms on cell phones at the park. I photographed a picture of a girl releasing bees from a small house. I crossed the street. I sat among the roses, and thought of you.

I thought about the book in your hands now. I thought about the pictures, how when they came in the mail, I ran my fingers along the white edges smiling in remembrance and in hope. I thought about coffee brown cartoon eyes in all the pictures. I thought about Christmas. I thought about you not talking to me, thought about what you could be thinking about.

If I know you at all, you are not thinking about me too much yet. You are working. Listening to the Hipster International playlist and petting your dog’s smiling head. You are getting things out of the way. You are in your time. You are thinking about how good it is to have things going on, getting things accomplished. You are doing fine.

And in my way, so am I.

This is the thing: I am not looking to “feel better.” I am looking to feel. My whole life I have seen people trying to fix other people and trying to repair their sadness and I have watched tv seminars late at night about people helping other people “get over” heartbreaks and failures, etc, etc. I have heard people go on and on about self-help books and workshops and I have had a psychiatrist who didn’t even listen to my story tell me that I had something distinctly wrong with me. I have had people closest to me find their rescue in those things, and in alcohol, and in hitting rock bottom, and in entering programs. But I am not those people.

I believe in my heart of hearts that those programs and books and teachers guide people in the right direction. I think some of the most valuable stuff of this earth is the human capacity for compassion and helpfulness. I think it is really beautiful to stand somewhere and say I am broken, help me get better.

But that’s not where I’m coming from.

It’s funny how when you tell people about a distinct sadness or broken thing of your life, they begin to give you advice, list off books, tell you not to “fall apart,” tell you how strong you are— and as much as those people are trying, I am not sure any of those people are listening. Or at least I’m not sure that they know me. I’m not looking for a solution. I am looking just to say — this is where I am. This is my heart. It’s okay. It’s just cracking. It’s just life. It’s just feelings. It’s not a problem. I am not looking to “get over it” or get better. I am not looking for a solution or a book to read. I am looking to sit with myself and process my emotions and understand that the person I am is a person I love and respect enough to let follow her own path, whatever that means. I’m not yet concerned with getting better or listening to other people talk because none of those people have actually listened to me. As much as I appreciate the people in my life who just want to help Kate be Kate, I have to know that only Kate knows what Kate needs.

Heartbreak is not a disease or something I am looking to get over. I am not even sure if things have ended yet. I am only sure that in this moment, I am very sad. And I don’t know what’s going on. And that’s okay.

Now, I am sitting in my bed and thinking of a time where you fell asleep on the couch behind me as we were watching Ghostbusters. I remember thinking when you were snoring just how nice it is to be together and alone at the same time, with the same person, in the very same room. I am not ready to let go of you.

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