Ramblings of the Broken


Status courtesy of my lovely coworker.


Status  —  Posted: October 28, 2014 in Status
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I’m tired of saying goodbye. I feel like I’m always saying goodbye. I have very little memory of hello.

I feel like I did when I was little and I was headed to the top of the snow covered hill with my sled tucked under my arm. The first trek up the slope wasn’t that bad. I barely noticed it because I was focused on the trip down I that was about to experience. When I had had my first thrill ride down, I picked up my sled to go again. I looked up at that rise of ground, and I could have sworn that it got steeper.

I made another hike up the hill, but this time with far less gusto. After another quick ride, I found myself back at the base. This time I was positive that the hill looked more like a mountain. I did not want to make another journey up. I dragged my feet and pouted a little, and eventually made my way to the peak.

I was ready to give up after my third ride. I’m sure my dad made me go a few more times, but I dreaded it and no longer found the short slide down worth even half of the effort required to reach the top. It was fun the first time, but each time after grew harder, and lost a bit of its appeal.

I could plug my relationships into that story and only replace a couple of words, and it would perfectly describe my history. I’m at the bottom now, and the uphill climb seems formidable from here at this point. I also don’t believe that the ride back down is worth crawling out of my bed, let alone scaling a summit.

So, I’m cruising along in one of the lower spots along my path of life relationship-wise. That’s no secret. I managed to pull off the monumental task of going to the grocery store today. That’s something. Anyway…I of course retreated back to my fortress of solitude that is my bedroom after begrudgingly putting the groceries away. I settled back into my routine of perusing through my mind in search of a trivial matter to obsess over. What I finally homed in on, was why anyone could honestly believe that they would want to live in a perfect world.

First off, like anything else, perfection is relative. My idea of what constitutes a perfect world, would certainly differ from anyone else’s. So, there’s no such thing as a perfect world, or a perfect anything for that matter. No one would want to live in my perfect world, or rather, I don’t imagine anyone would. It would be a kick-ass world to me, but riding around on unicorns and relying on Twinkies as a main source of sustenance, would understandably not be everyone’s cup of tea.

I have no idea how long I was preoccupied with the visions of mythical horned creatures and snack cakes dancing through my head, but I eventually found myself getting into the car to come to work. I became fixated on what the world would be like without adversity. It is inevitable that a compilation of similar suggestions, that could be agreed upon by the majority, would result if we were all tasked with identifying the experiences and circumstances that we wish we didn’t have to fall victim to.

It was at this moment that I pushed play on my stereo. I anticipated hearing the same song that I have listened to every time I have been in the car for the last week or two. I’m a creature of habit, and this ritual is of some comfort for me and my chaotic mind. When the music started to play, I was prepared for the upbeat song that I had been stuck on. I had forgotten that I had gone to my songs list earlier while en route to the store, and that I had hit shuffle. I had been attempting to avoid the inevitable sighs and grumblings that my son would have bestowed upon me, had he been held captive, dragged to the store, and forced to listen to a song from the Pitch Perfect soundtrack on the way. Don’t judge me.

I was surprised to instead hear Eminem’s abrasive, but mesmeric rhymes crying through the speakers. It was then that I had either an epiphany, or a moment of insanity. If it wasn’t for the heartbreaks, pain, sadness, struggles, conflicts, strifes, tears, battles, losses, failures, bumps and bruises…we would be missing out on so many wonderful things. Oh boy, here we go…

I love Eminem, and find myself in complete awe of his ability to take the hurt and anger that he has inside of him, and turn it into a work of art. His wounds are discernible in every song that he bitterly belts out. He’s a fucking genius, and has a finesse with words that should be envied by all. I understand that not everyone can appreciate his controversial lyrics and vehicle of delivery, but I think his work is beautiful. It is disheartening to recognize the amount of suffering he has endured that has induced this talent, but what an amazing gift. A gift that would be absent if the world only consisted of “good.”

Of course my mind’s thirst for obsession was not quenched with Eminem. I started to compile a mental list of all of the things that had been anxiously assembling in a line behind Slim Shady. I almost chuckled at the thought that there would be no sad songs or need to cry along with their melancholy lyrics. Wouldn’t this mean there would be virtually no country music industry? What would they croon about if hardship, infidelity and heartbreak didn’t exist? I am not fond of country music, but I do acknowledge that there would be a giant void without the depressing, southern-accent infused choruses and guitar arrangements, that are likely composed by veterans of troubled times.

What else would we miss if unhappiness were to be removed from the picture? The way people unite and rally their energies to offer help to those in need after a catastrophe, death, or sickness, would no longer be necessitated. There would be no provocation to establish charities or volunteer. In a perfect world no one would be in need. I can’t imagine that anyone would argue that this would be wonderful, but people need to be needed. There would be no warrant for compassion or empathy, and without these, we would not be whole. Not everyone exercises charity or benevolence toward their fellow man, but as a conglomerate, these are important and fulfilling components.

Imagine if there were no fires, crimes, car accidents, diseases, or wars. Yes, this would be fantastic, except that it would leave us without fire fighters to admire, and police officers to idolize. Without the injuries and illnesses, some would miss an opportunity to emerge as survivors and the resolve to adopt a new outlook on life. Without soldiers, who would we celebrate as heroes? There would be no heroes.

There are so many glorious and coveted things that are the by-products of unjust circumstances and events. The world would suck without the fruits of hardship. There would be no inspiration to persevere, no incentive to be compassionate, and no drive to unite for a common cause.

It would be a fake, boring, and shallow existence to pass through life without ever experiencing adversity. There would be zero appreciation for anything. Look at how spoiled children tend to behave when they never have to work for anything and never hear the word no. With how some of these children turn out, and view the world as if it owes them something, it would be a good indicator that the world would be comprised of mostly assholes in absence of the necessary trials and tribulations that define us.

I, for one, would hate it. I can’t imagine what kind of person I would be, had I not lived through the harder parts of my life. My bruises and scars are the result of events that have molded my being. I like who I am because of my struggles and the determination that has pushed me this far. I am not who I am despite my rocky waters, but rather thanks to these tests of my will. Although I dread the hurdles that lie ahead for me, I welcome the experiences that will provoke me to appreciate the beauty that can be found in the most improbable places, and the person I will be from having lived through them.

Now that my thoughts have been regurgitated all over this page, I’ll get back to my current default state of brooding.

Perhaps another piece of evidence that supports my theory that this girl is the one…is the fact that today we have decided to take things one day at a time from here. I never doubted that she loved me…but her insecurities and fears coupled with my struggle to find a way to let her help me when I need help, almost removed all hope.

For once…holding onto what faith I had…has proven to be worth it. Now what the hell am I going to write about?

I’ve heard it said many times, that if women remembered what it felt like to be in labor with a first child, they would put far more thought into the decision to have more. I am a mother, and I would have happily endured labor a dozen times. I felt this way just minutes after I had my first child, and trust me, I remembered exactly what it felt like at that moment.

It must be the same with love and heartache. Maybe we are still brave enough to try again after experiencing heartbreak, because each time we fall in love we think it will be the last. Or, maybe we think, like mothers do, that the risk of pain is worth enduring. Whatever the reason, most people unfortunately experience the agony of a broken heart at least once in their lifetime, and for a lot of people, several times.

Falling victim to heartbreak even one time is too many. It sucks. It’s almost impossible to describe, and no two people suffer the same symptoms. As much as I despise the feeling, I am fascinated with reading and hearing others describe their experience. It saddens me, but it also makes me feel less alone.

When my heart is broken, it is the single most miserable feeling that I have ever survived. I have had children, broken bones, migraines, back surgeries, kidney stones, and many other painful and stressful events in my life. Nothing hurts as intensely and deeply as the torture of being trapped with a broken heart. There’s no escaping it. There’s no medication that you can pop in your mouth and quickly remedy it. There’s no comfort available that will truly ease the suffering.

Friends, family, and coworkers are always quick to offer the “time heals all wounds” spiel. If they had really ever been through a heartbreak themselves, you have to wonder how they wouldn’t realize that you want to stab them in the eye with a rusty fork for even attempting to sell you that line of bullshit. Of course it’s true, but it’s useless information when you are knee deep in despair. I personally prefer the supporter that starts ripping my ex-lover apart and tells me how wonderful I am. That’s not a healthy alternative, but it beats the hell out of the rainbows and unicorns, look at the bright side malarkey. That’s just me though.

If I had to describe heartbreak, which again is an almost insurmountable task, I would start by saying it is like an internal death. I literally feel like a zombie when I’m suffering from it. If my insides had one color, or if there were some sort of mood ring used for internal analysis, it would be black. The deepest, darkest, gloomiest pitch black imaginable.

Normal thoughts vanish from my head. Feelings of hunger and thirst cease to occur. Everything from my point of view that makes me human goes into a shut-down mode. A state that finds me huddled in a dark room longing to hold my love one last time, or wondering why I even exist.

I still maintain enough life to manage to go to work, drive my car, and to grunt hello, goodnight, and have a good day to my kids, but it’s a pathetic effort. I look human, or at least like a human with red and puffy eyes, sunken cheeks, and anguish written all over their face. But, I am the walking dead. I’m a caliginous, puddle of putrid, liquid wretchedness, encased in the skin of what once was a human.

Logically, love is an emotion and shouldn’t be blamed on the heart muscle. But, when the person I adore is ripped from my life, I definitely feel the majority of the heaviness, ache, squeezing, and paralysis, right where my heart is located. I feel like it is harder to breathe. I feel like a place that was once comfortably full, is now either empty and throbbing from the need to be full again, or that what once filled it has been drained and replaced with cement. At times my brain jumps in and decides to flip through every horrible thought that I have filed away inside it. As if it feels the need to have a partner in crime, my brain then recruits my heart to join in the destruction. Despite the obvious limitations of my heart, my brain runs it as if it were Jillian Michaels, and she just caught my heart in the closet cozied up to a super sized Big Mac extra value meal. It pushes and pushes until I feel like my poor, struggling heart is going to explode and burst from my chest like a scene from Alien.

This goes on for days or weeks. Just when I think I might feel a little better…a memory, text message, email, phone call, comment, picture, article of clothing, restaurant, song, movie, awkward encounter at the grocery store, smell, Facebook post, inquiry from an acquaintance that hasn’t heard the news, or the sight of a fucking toenail clipping that missed the trash can and has somehow outwitted the vacuum until this very moment…activates the launch sequence that rockets me right back to square one. It’s a miserable existence, and even as I’m typing this I must ask myself why I would ever want to risk ending up there again. But…I want to love again. I’m sure I have an illness, addiction, or I’m just plain stupid, but I want the chance to try again.

Oh how I love to love. To hunger for the taste of her lips. To lie awake at night and still be able to smell her hair as though she were right there. To long to have my arms wrapped tightly around her and bury my face into that warm, soft, place where her neck meets her collar bone. To feel her smooth, delicate hand in mine. To share something I’m embarrassed to admit, only to have her chime in and say, “OMG! Me too!”

Yes, I want to try again. If and when I find myself zombified and in a broken state again…just shoot me in the head.

I’ve always been a lover, as if it is what I was born to do. It’s ironic considering that I was unwanted. Like a broken bone that heals and becomes stronger than before, perhaps so became my heart.

I’m quite sure I came into this world with a broken heart, and not just from my genetically imperfect chambers and valves. My mother had no desire to have me. Whether or not a fetus is affected by the hatred of the person that they form inside, is a question that will probably never be answered. But, once I left her body, my mother made no effort to hide her resentment of my existence.

Cry me a river, right!? Well, I have no hunger for sympathy in that regard. I’m fairly convinced that I was meant to be here despite my unwelcome presence. I might have a different perspective if it wasn’t for my grandmother. She was such a strong, beautiful, and loving woman. She made it seem as though the world was made just for me, and that I was the one thing that was missing from her life. Oh how she loved me. I don’t know if she was overcompensating for my mother’s lack of interest in me or not, but she did an amazing job of making me feel loved. I never once doubted or questioned her feelings for me. Even when I was at my worst and she was cursing and swatting my ass with a yardstick, I knew she adored me.

In some ways I believe I have been searching for this kind of love my whole life. This unconditional, undeniable acceptance and complete security that afforded me the knowledge that I would never be alone as long as she was still breathing. I have fallen in love so many times that it would be impossible to even begin to measure, but have never experienced a love that could even hold a candle to the love my grandmother gave me.

Maybe I’m sabotaging myself by comparing anything to this ideal love. I am always optimistic when it comes to love. I enter each new relationship as fearless as I can be, and am always sure that each time it will be the last time I’ll have to fall. I fall hard. Once I decide that the object of my affection is worthy of knowing me, and they pass a few checkpoints, I am all in. I love faithfully and passionately, and I try to insure that my partner never questions my feelings and always has the security of knowing that they are loved.

Unfortunately, I think I often fall victim to my own turbulent emotions, and fail to see that the relationship I have envisioned is nothing like the one I’m living. Then I’m stuck in love with someone who doesn’t even feel a fraction of what I feel. I become a slave to the will of my partner, and the relationship crumbles around me as I frantically try to glue it back together armed only with my love.

It never seems to be what I think it is. It’s something, but it’s not the love I yearn for. I still believe that I can one day have a comparable love to that which my grandmother granted me, but my confidence is slowly weakening with each new wound that my heart receives.