Transitions: A Letter From a Broken Heart

Posted on June 4, 2011 ·

Broken Hearted Girls

Every day, I wake up and fall asleep to the same thought: ‘Why does it have to hurt so bad?’  Growing up, I never thought of love like this.  I’ve seen my mother go through hell and back, beginning with my father and ending with her last (as she’s currently engaged.)  I remember damn near hating all of them by the time of the breakup, and there’s only four I recall vivdly.  The first, I couldn’t stand his annoying son (who was younger than me), before I grew a dislike for his own cheapskate and cheating ways (I learned about through word of mouth AKA two older sisters and loud phone conversations).  The second I couldn’t respect because—as a child affected by my father’s absence—I didn’t have it in me to care for his cooking talents or generous monetary donations knowing he, too, had a son he hadn’t cared for in years.  The third was my favorite.  Besides his troubled daughter (who stole my “Notorious K.I.M” cd), his personality was so lively and enthusiastic, non-reminiscent of any of her past boyfriends.  And I honestly can’t recall how it ended. The fourth, I initially thought was the winner, and I considered his children as close friends and nearly family.  But it wasn’t until years after my mother had devoted herself to him that she came to find he was a liar and cheater as well.

Yet, my outlook on love remained romantic.  I fell in love.  Meeting whom I thought (up until two month ago) was the love of my life, always and forever, I allowed myself to fall in love and stay in love from the 11th grade, throughout our so-called (not-so-much) two years off during college, and our rekindling a year and a half ago. Almost six years.  Love.  What is love?  I thought I knew.  I always thought that if we were to break, it would be because of the long-distance that came into play after high school.  I figured it would be due to an issue like growing so far apart we couldn’t bare but to move on.  I assumed it would be mutual.  That’s if it happened at all.

In reality, it turned out to be neither.  He neither wanted to stay nor wanted to go.  He neither wanted to date others nor let me go.  But he made the choice to do so because “we weren’t ready for this commitment.”  What commitment?  Is love not a commitment?  Is this thing called loved so evanescent that you can let it go and find the exact same thing in another?  Who’s to say that one is to have “experience” before finding the “one”?  I thought I had the one.  I still struggle with my belief that I had the one.  But I’m left to find another… while he’s willingly moving on.

So where do I go from here?  The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  Worst than my six-year-old experience of accidentally falling face-up into a boiling pot of grease; worse than my eleven-year-old experience of having a best friend tell jokes about my personal woes to a class full of crushes; worse than the moment I consoled my mother on a bare floor when she felt helpless and defeated.  Nothing compares to this feeling.  The best friend I’ve grown to love, trust, and confide in no longer wants to love me.  He wants to love someone else.  He wants to hold another girl’s hands, kiss another girl’s lips, hear another girl’s laugh… he wants to spend his free time, his money, his new experiences with someone who isn’t me.  He may or may not have in mind with whom, but it hurts all the same.

Through my transition, I am allowing myself the open mind to understand his longing for new experiences and to keep him in my life.  I don’t want to neglect the friendship we’ve worked so hard to build and effortlessly cultivated.  I don’t want to throw him out of my life, even through the excruciating pain.  But I still haven’t found the middle ground.  I still cry after every text conversation, whether he or I initiated it.  I still check the ever-emotional-murderous social network of Facebook and see who has written on his page, what they’re saying and what he’s doing.  I still care.  But I don’t want to.  I still feel, even as I pray not to.  I still love, and I can’t decide whether or not this is good thing; all I know is that it’s killing me.  And the worst part of it all may be my belief that he doesn’t feel the same as I do.  I assume that now that he’s gotten it off his chest—his worries about our future and his need for a variety in experience—he’s feeling more free than he’s felt in some time.  I’m angry, hurt, paranoid, and saddened by not only his happiness, but the hate that I feel when I think about his happiness.  Some part of me says it’s selfish while the other says it’s normal.  One day I’m feeling Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” and the next I’m crying over Tweet’s “Smoking Cigarettes,” wishing I were a smoker, waiting for his phone call… the one that says he’ll always love me… the one that says he’s finally came to his senses… the one that says I’m the only girl in the world he’ll ever want and ever need… the one that may very well never, ever come into fruition.

All in all, I thank God I’m only 21.

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