Last year was different, particularly February, when my heart was essentially ripped from my chest and figuratively hurled into a dying star. Are the dramatic thematics enough for you yet? Basically, I was hurt. Badly. Horribly enough that I still hurt pretty regularly, with my own little Marla from Fight Club; the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can’t. I’m trying not to be a pussy about it but, alas, this pussy is a pussy when it comes to getting her heart broken. Boy, do feelings suck sometimes.
“Hey, Ally, do you want any coffee?”
“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M GETTING HIT BY A BUS”
The last time I felt like this was when I lost my dad to cancer when I was twelve-years-old. I know that may sound insensitive and extreme, I mean, of course the long term psychological and emotional effects of a breakup can't compare to those of losing a parent, so that's good(?) I guess? But losing someone you love, however you lose them, is a similar sensation to having someone die.
Pretty fucking sad, right? Boo hoo me, right? I hope you’re laughing, because heartbreak for me has been a long, long time coming. Not one to value monogamy or any semblance of a long term, stable relationship I lived a hippie-dippy, polyamorous existence for the first half of my twenties. I was upfront about my escapades of infidelity with very few of my male counterparts, and those who did know were about as cool with it as a snowman chillaxin’ on a radiator. But I didn’t care, “No man is gonna hold me down!” I bellowed from my feminist turret. I was actually just being a shitty liar who wanted her cake and to eat it too. Mmmmm.. cake… FOCUS. This was all fine and good (for me, not them) until I found someone I actually cared about. Until my soul was like “I pick him” and conscious, butthole me ignored it. Until it was too late.
So much of the past year has been telling myself "I deserve this. I totally deserve this." Which, since I’m responsible for my predicament, I guess isn’t wholly untrue. But what it comes down to is, you can’t make somebody love you who doesn’t. You can’t make someone want to be with you who just doesn’t. And so in a way I do deserve what happened. I deserve to be with someone who wants both of those things. To love me, despite all of my quirks and occasional instability, and wants to be with me while we figure out our weird lives together.
I’m pretty okay with it mentally these days. It’s taken a lot of writing, some traveling, and a shit ton of love and support from my friends. You really find out who’s in your corner when you’re down and out; a bloody, pathetic mess in the boxing ring of life. And despite the pit in my stomach that occasionally peeps up like “Hi! I’m still here!” I feel pretty okay physically too. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been. I’ve been treating myself with a care and sensitivity I’ve never before been able to manage. I’m in a monogamous, healthy relationship based on kindness and mutual respect. It’s weird. Good weird. And I’m making new memories, good, albeit hazy, weed filled ones, that will be what I look back upon next year. If I can manage to remember.