skeejtastic.

thefrenemy:

The first time I had my heart broken, I used the word ‘heart broken’ because I physically thought there was something wrong with me. There was the breathing problems- the way my breath caught in my chest and I had no idea how to exhale it outwards, the kind of troubles I had swallowing, the way I’d sleep till 2pm. I wasn’t hungry, I could barely stand the daylight without wondering why it existed other than to irritate me. If I Web MD’d my symptoms, it probably would have said something very dire (like a poisonous spider bite!) and for this I felt comfort. 

Needless to say, I was obviously being a bit dramatic, but it didn’t feel very dramatic at the time. It all felt very real and all the depressing music I was listening to at the time seemed to only further my claims of its legitimacy. I was sad! I was really fucking sad, the kind of sad that I thought should only be used for non-selfish things like death or tragedy or whatever everybody else could understand. This is kind of understandable, because you feel very selfish- bringing it up to your friends, drinking too much, exhibiting every bad behavior possible. You become a jerk. When somebody leaves you that you know isn’t coming back, it makes you feel like you have done something wrong. I had the same look my dog gives me when I leave the apartment for the night: what are you doing, I don’t understand. I didn’t understand. We were so happy! I remembered the good: the pancakes (everybody has a pancakes love), all the times I spent wearing no makeup, all the moments in the car where we both laughed at some bullshit. I refused to remember the bad, because in my youthful brain it simply did not exist. There was bad, by the way. There is always a lot of bad.

Years later, I feel like I have some understanding of that sadness. In that it goes away. I can swallow now, for one. I can date and kiss and hug and not feel the lingering ‘oh where did he go’ that I felt for probably too long a time. I can really like and love somebody else, for a minute or even months. Also, it should be noted that this feeling stays. It stays not in the person itself, but in those memories of feeling something too big for somebody, and having that inability to feel that way about anybody else. Wasn’t that nice? I think. I probably couldn’t feel that anymore! This is good, because you shouldn’t want to. The first love is all about tunnelvision, and it’s about time you gained some peripheral. Once you’ve had your heart broken, you refuse to give all of yourself on a plate, and I finally realized that is a good thing. Things change, and you’ll never feel that way again, which is fine because it was too intense and too all-consuming and too stupidly stupid for somebody who needs to get things done in their life. Love should come slowly, and your first love is fast and gross and slippery, and therefore the exit is just as fast and gross. Now, I take my time, and when things work out (as they often don’t), the end of it doesn’t feel so monumental. I have things to worry about! I have ME to worry about! I love this the most.

I do not feel guilt when I remember this person. I am over how this person isn’t the greatest person in the world, and I would even argue that he was borderline average. I try not to feel angry, which I feel is often the hardest part to get over, and I never feel sad, which is the easiest. In case you’re wondering, sadness is the first to go. There are too many things to make you feel happy, and you simply cannot feel bummed for all that long. A first love is kind of nice, but you gotta do yourself a favor and remember the thing you often forget when you think of it-

You. For me, I was eighteen. I was afraid of heights, I had long hair and polo shirts, and I thought Family Guy was really funny. I hadn’t been to college yet, hadn’t written anything I was proud of, hadn’t met friends who I would love more than him, had no idea what good sex was. I realized that if I met this person I loved so much before, I would not only be so different, so much more independent, so much more sure of myself, but I probably wouldn’t have been as heartbroken as I was when he left. Or I wouldn’t have given him the time of fucking day! I wouldn’t have, by the way. This doesn’t make me stronger, it just makes me older.

Because now, I have me. A slightly more careful me, but a me that is more mature, and wiser, and not willing to fall so deeply into a puddle of bullshit as I was before. I like this me now. She likes more books. She’s more careful, but also more aware love exists. When I first had my heartbroken, I wasn’t aware that it could be broken. Now that I know it can, I’m cool with it and also okay with it happening again. Now, I know that it won’t be so bad the next time, and that the next time the time spent together will be more memorable than the aftereffects of sadness. I’m willing to wait. I can have bar kisses, and flings with friends, and crushes on every guy I meet on the subway, but I also know that there is a real thing that exists and is waiting for me. Something I can really grasp my hands into, somebody who will carefully tread and take care of all the things I have to offer. Somebody who I will say ‘wait for a fucking second’ if they do something stupid, and not allow myself to settle for excuses. The ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call’s, or the ‘maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive.’ Yes I should, you asshole. Sister don’t put up with no shit. There will be a person who knows this and likes you anyway.

So yes, you will get over it. You want to know why? Because you’re a better you. And it’s just more important to love you before you love somebody else. It was the best thing I learned from having my heart broken. Well, not broken. My feelings were hurt. Your heart, your heart will always be fine.