A text message exchange I recently had with a dear friend sparked this post. It went as such:
“Life can really fucking rock your world when you least expect it.”
“That seems to be the only time it does.”
Allow me to be the millionth girl to blog about heartbreak. Maybe trillionth. It seems as though everything that could ever be said about heartbreak has been said before. And frankly I doubt I have new perspective to add to it. So why am I writing this post then? Because heartbreak is important. Necessary. Merciless yet benevolent. Inspiring yet depressing. It is the best and worst thing that can happen to a person.
I’ve allowed heartbreak to shape my life in a way it should not. I’ve allowed heartbreak to tear me down and keep me there. I’d say I’ve had my heart truly broken twice, by the same person. I’ve blogged about him before, and I would be lying if I said that experience doesn’t still affect me. I think about that phone call more days than I care to count.
The point is, I let heartbreak ruin me. I hated my emotions and what they were doing to me. I felt like a victim in my own mind; unable to escape these feelings of worthlessness and wondering what she had that I didn’t. But here’s the thing. Love doesn’t break people.
Love didn’t break me.
He didn’t break me.
I broke myself.
I broke my own heart. In the moment, and for a long time after that, I couldn’t see it. I see it now – I can accept that no matter who the guy was, it was always going to be me who broke my own heart.
And I needed to. I needed to come completely undone, to lay all the pieces on the ground and not pick them up right away. I needed to look at my shattered self . I needed the pieces to stay on the ground while I rearranged them, tried some pairings that didn’t work, started over again, and then eventually, started to put it together in a way that felt right.
I can’t say if I’m arranging the pieces correctly, and I don’t think there’s a sure way of knowing except in hindsight. And I love that. I am on the floor, piecing myself together, and I feel stable. I can restart at any point, but I don’t need to. I like the direction I am headed.
I broke myself, and I’m rebuilding myself. I don’t know what this means for me moving forward. I think it means that I keep piecing it together.
I think what I’m trying to say is don’t pick up the pieces right away. Look at how they reflect the light differently. Their edges are sharper now. They will cut you if you pick them up too quickly. Don’t throw them away; they are not garbage. They are not worthless. The broken pieces are inspiring yet depressing. Let them evolve into something more beautiful than you previously imagined.
They are you.