Breaking

I have been heartbroken. I have had a hole the size of a small country bored through my heart. I have been knocked out silly. It’s devastating. But I’ve pulled through.


I remember my healing process.

My heart healing felt like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. I felt a blistering larva boil over, some flowing southwards to upset my stomach. After settling in, I felt it begin to cool. I could feel myself coagulate. It happened fast, like I had been placed inside a huge freezer.  I felt all softness wash away and instead, a pounding rock formed.

I have never been weak. Right from childhood, I have been strong-headed and tough. I was never a love-struck teenager. In fact, all through puberty, I thought boys were dippy and dubiously cheeky. Long story short ... I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was of legal age. And I didn’t think much of it. My ideas of love were never in the standard ‘Cinderella and the prince’ form. I simply thought that was fool’s gold. I didn’t believe in ‘knights in shining armour’. Quite the opposite! I didn’t dig the polished type. Well, that’s what I thought then. Now I may think a smart, groomed man in a tie is absolutely ravishing. But back then, I though a some level of unkempt roughness was essential in a man.

I eventually did fall head over heels in love, a couple times. The stories of how my scrawny little heart got broken, mend and broken again aren’t novel really. I think it is for weaklings to tell of getting their hearts broken. I boast of my scars. I think they show that I’ve lived and loved. I’m a proud woman. I don’t lick my wounds; instead, I turn to philosophy (read cliché quotes) for consolation.

I was surprised that I could be overpowered by frail feelings alike a love-struck teenager. I found it baffling I had begun crying myself to sleep. I felt foolish, but I didn’t stop drenching my pillow. Actually, I made a habit of it. Not that anyone could tell. We grown ass women know how not to wear our true emotions on our shoulders. After weeping all night, we apply powder to conceal our swollen faces and we dash bright lipstick to steal any attention from our bloodshot eyes.




 
Then I healed.

Yes, that’s what this is about. I healed.


And I didn’t like it. I could feel myself become somewhat vile. As the larva condensed and took solid form, I could feel that I wasn’t going to be malleable. I was sure I’d be a carnivore. I felt an unquenchable thirst build up. I was ready to break a few hearts (OK, more than just a few).