I write about my life and life itself seen through my eyes for who can write through the experiences of others if not their own?

Sunday, May 23, 2010


Years after the insurmountable pain and despair of a broken heart, I still experienced several set backs. Not as frequent as in the mending months but more often than I had anticipated.

Those relapses decreased in frequency over time but their intensity remained strong. Their intruding recurrence would startle me.

There were days when the pain and the anguish of losing the person I loved so much felt fresh and real again similar to the days after I learned it was over.

At times I would open a box or a book to find a letter, one of the many letters I wrote in tears hurting so deeply I thought my pain would travel through the air to find my love but if it did, it was dismissed. Those letters I would file away never mailing them. They were written to get the feeling out of me and stop it from suffocating me. Every time I found them they would bring me back instantly to those moments I thought I had left behind. There were so many moments.

The summers, the second, the third summer alone. The sadness. The intensity of the pain.
The many times when I tried, the many rejections, the hurt, that incredible hurt. The sleepless nights, the drives through tears, and the days coming home alone staring into space hoping the wine would ease the pain. Hoping and praying to get through the night.

Still now after all those years a light drizzle on the right day can bring me to that night when I left my house and walked miles in the rain, the salty drops mixing in my mouth. My memory and my heart remember then the ache, the devastating ache and the urge I kept fighting of running back to the arms that made me safe and begging “don’t let it end”.

It did end.

Eventually the memories that made me cry in the beginning faded and all that was left was the hurt of the break up. The hurt of knowing only I hurt.

It is difficult to escape the ghost of the “you” I loved. Sometimes I have wanted to never escape it so I could keep some of it with me, and some of it did remain for a long time: hurt, nothing more.

That’s what I was given, that’s what I kept.

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.” ~ Paulo Coelho