It seems like everyone is getting their heart broken.
A friend laying across from me in bed, tears slipping into my pillow, asking why he made her wait for so long just to lie to her. She's one of many struggling with a pull she can't quite seem to control, the desire to possess what poisons her. She's strong but not impermeable. Things hurt. She has never been defined by who she puts into her arms but it's hard not to be shattered to let someone in so deep who then seems so intent on destruction as they leave. He did not break her in a clean line. Her ribcage is jagged.
She's not the last nor the first to tell me things like this. This past month has been mired by women treated terribly. I've been tempted to pass them off as adventures in miscommunication but that would be a lie; most of the agony is a result of deliberate actions.
We're not made for this, I think as I field texts and tears. This is not how people should become entangled and then extricated. We jump heartfirst, we offer it all to have it vomited back to us. We are taught to be a slave to our hormones. It happens constantly.
We're not made for this, I whisper into the dark of my room.
We're not made for this, I cry in the front pew at my church.
We're not made for this, my head and heart finally agree.
You're not made for this, a voice says from deep within, and yet it happens anyway.
There have been quite a few times this year when I angrily asked God why. It seemed as though everything short of death had something to stab in my back. My health, mental and physical, kept spiraling downward until it plateaued in not one but three new diagnosis and a dependence on daily medication. My emotional life was wracked by worry over my sister's custody battles, the threat of my parents separating, the devastation of losing the house and my car, and the grand finale of my impending divorce by infidelity that was not mine.
I did not turn to God at first. I turned everywhere else. I went out and drank. I turned to sex with an albeit wonderful man who had no idea what he was getting into, and then threw myself into that relationship. I spent not entirely wise amounts of money on clothes. I carved regret into my left arm. I said terrible things to hosts of people. I curled up on the shower floor after slicing from palm to wrist after I couldn't take it anymore.
The voice was still there, though, reminding me I was not made for this.
Then why, I called out.
"I have no idea how you f*cking did it." My roommate said at the kitchen table, red-rimmed eyes and one hand on the vodka. Her own relationship had been ended by her volition but not necessarily her choice. More heartbreak. "How did you stay in this apartment, in that room?"
She hugged her cat to her chest. "I can't do it. I have to leave." She continued. "All I want to do is talk to him."
It was with complete sincerity that I rested my elbows on the table and met her gaze. "I have been there." I whispered. "I understand every feeling. I know what it's like to break an attachment to somebody. It's like an addiction. You can't give in."
I let a tear go. It was the second time I had ever cried in front of these particular roommates but suddenly I had not a care in the world. She needed support. "You are a wonderful person and I can't watch you suffer. Protect yourself. It hurts now, but in the long run it's better."
Thank you for being my friend, and being relatable, and empathetic. She wrote later.
I looked into my coworker's face later that week and told her the same thing, that in the moment there was no pain like hearing words of rejection but it would get better, that she could not fix someone who did not want her.
My friend cried into my pillow two days later and I held her, repeating the words I had told myself so many times, that his behavior was not something she needed to judge or take responsibility for, that she was not devalued or defective from this.
I cradled a screaming toddler as their parent walked out of my classroom and soothed them, whispering into the top of their head, "I know, I know. I know how you feel. It's alright. I won't leave you."
I held my sister's hand as she prepared for court and shared her fear of being stripped bare by someone she once trusted, and I meant when I said I understood.
I ascended the steps to the Sanctuary and told myself no one would stare when I walked in to sit with my parents. The acoustic guitar of the worship leader strummed and I stood with everyone, grateful that I could melt into many voices, and mumbled my way through some hymns. The maroon carpet proved to be more interesting than most of the faces and I trained my eyes on it. "Good morning, church." The Pastor began as I was acclimating myself with the thread count. "Today's sermon will be about trusting God when you don't understand."
I bawled openly.
I realized this aching in my heart was not an accident. The walls I had built allowed me to pass terrible judgement and see people in black and white instead of shades of human. I told myself that no one had helped me so no one else needed help. Empathy is a muscle and every time I neglected to use it the fibers calcified. I became a tower; proud, strong, my foundation a mixture of indignation and concrete.
When it was smashed the heart inside was raw and reality hit me with all the tact of a hurricane. I fought my feelings at first, but try as I might I couldn't retreat into my shell. The gate had come down, the castle was swarmed, and there was nowhere for me to hide. No, I struggled, screaming, I'll never love again.
Yes you will.
No.
You will. And it will be frightening but glorious and full of promise and devoid of pride. You will care. You will empathize so deeply it will cut you but when you bleed tears you will heal. You will grow and gain. This pain is powerful and beautiful and cleansing. Let love burn you, and let it scar you twice because it is better to have felt the heat than to live in the chill.
I'm not done with you yet.
You are becoming something beautiful.
How could I have supported my friends without knowing the shape of the dagger in their back, or how could I have held the child who felt she was being abandoned and pour myself into her tears that I understood, without first suffering? I had muttered to myself that I never wanted to be vulnerable, to lean into someone so strongly, to put such faith in things that were mutable. I had promised solitude. And then I failed. I empathized, I cried, I bled, I broke, and I rose again.
Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
My purpose is to love again.
devotedly yours,
A.
