This is how it goes.

At first, it hurts. And it’s dark. It hurts and it’s dark and you feel like you’re stumbling around in a freshly dimmed room without any clue as to where you are going. The worst part is knowing that when you lose your balance in that inky blackness, you aren’t going to have anyone to catch you.

You will be in pieces. Little bits of you will hang, suspended in mid-air like a lost thought. Your chest will feel like it will explode at any given moment, and it’s only a miracle that blood is still pumping when you are so deflated. Shards of what you had will poke at your eyelids, reminding you in the most painful way.

And it hurts for a while. It’s a gaping wound, only it is everywhere- along your lips, scraping your eyes, furrowing itself into your brain, pinching at your ears, and hammering your heart. And you can try as hard as you’d like to pretend to the nosy world that you are okay- slap on a smile, comb back tears, and convince your organs to work normally even though you feel like nothing will ever be normal again. Memories, once safely stashed away in a menagerie, smash you under their heavy weight; slam into you like a sickness. You’ll watch them on a spinning reel in your head, your own private viewing of a movie that will leave you battered and bruised.  Then, you’ll feel numb. It’ll feel as if you’re a parasite, leeching onto your happy neighbor’s lighthearted joy, just to scribble out all the things you’d like so desperately to forget. You’ll smile and laugh and throw your head back to the sky and admire the sunlight as it bathes you in a faux glow that you try to mimic inside. But you know you haven’t forgotten. It is all stowed away in a giant box that will take on a dusty sheen, looking tasty to prying eyes.

Things will get easier. Songs that, at one time, felt like nails penetrating your blood vessels become a little less painful to listen to. Memories will still wash over you, but you’ll be able to shrug them off with a lie to yourself that you do not care. You’ll be able to frequent places you once enjoyed and not feel like you’re stuffed into a straitjacket of naked emotions. You will start laughing again- not that forced laugh you tried to push out, but a real one, the kind that you can feel in your ribcage. Your heart will strengthen, but only just. It’ll beat, but every beat, if you let it, will hurt.

Eventually, things will stop hurting. The rain will not make you want to curl up under mounds of covers and cry. Ben and Jerry will not accompany you everywhere you go. You’ll stop listening to cheesy country music (unless you truly enjoy that stuff). You’ll feel beautiful again. You’re all stitched up, hearty and growing stronger each day. By looking at you, no one would be able to guess that you were once broken.

Then you’ll catch a glimpse. Hear a fragment. Be in that same place at that same time, and everything you’ve worked so hard to accomplish will fly into the stars and you will be stranded with wooden hands and a stalling pulse. The stitches will rip, and the seams will be jagged and open. Vulnerability will wrap you in its cloak. Eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, heart racing, hands like dumbbells attached to stick arms. You’ll remind yourself to breathe. Blink. Beat. Blink.

            And then…it will pass. You’ll be left alone with a strange sense of accomplishment and sickening dread. You’ll go home, feel shaken, but feel all the stronger for it.

            It hurts. It hurts like hell and you’ll want to run as fast as you can, in any direction, just to feel something other than a throbbing heart. And even though there is not a tape strong enough in the world to heal you, one day, you will be whole again, with nothing but a tiny scar, small enough to be overlooked by the average eye, to remind you of what you lost.

When Harry Met Sally is pretty much the best romantic movie of all time. It's high up there, at least. I love their relationship.

There is a website I frequent every day called Dear Old Love. Kristen and I discovered it when she found the book in a museum gift shop in Dublin. It's full of pithy, bitter, and sweet love notes to past relationships. Since then, we've been sending in our Dear Old Loves and sharing them with each other. They're very therapeutic and lately, I've had them stringing along in my head all the time. Here are a few of mine as of late:
Dear Old Love,
The world's a scary place, and I'm afraid you've only frightened me further.
I used to think happiness was a state of mind until I met you.
I'm glad you don't hug me anymore. I would never let go.