"Did she scream?" I remember you asking.
And I laugh hard, but my heart is heavy. It feels like my chest is sunken down and in its place, the darkest, most disorienting blackness. Once full of answers, now unknowable questions.
How can a memory be simultaneously heavy and light?
How can our love still feel so real when it's just a collection of stories replaying in our minds?
I finally told you that we should stop talking. For 7 years, you've been my best friend. Through healing trauma, the death of loved ones, a pandemic, you were my home base. When everything else was ambiguous and scary and stirred up, I could lie my head on your chest and just feel still.
I don't know how you could do this to me, to us. And to be honest, I don't want to be with someone that would ever risk losing me. And that means that I don't want to be with you. But I don't know what my lesson to learn here is. Is it that I choose the wrong partners? That's all I can think of.
The truth is that I like being guided by my heart. I love being in love. I love caring for someone. I love feeling loved and cared for too. Is that bad? Does that lead me to make bad decisions? How much logic should be involved in falling in love?
But there's someone new that I've been falling for and it feels like someone is lifting the rug that I've been sweeping my anxiety under. And dust is flying everywhere, burning my lungs, making my chest ache. Shallow, unsatisfying breaths. It feels like there's a hand gripping my throat. But whose hand?
How can I trust anyone? I've told myself that I'm not going to let your betrayal take away from my ability to fall in love again, from the joy of finding connection and comfort and excitement in a person I never knew existed until now.
Isn't that beautiful? That there are people out there that you've never met that you are going to love with your whole heart? It's one of the few thoughts that bring me hope.
But as much as I've consciously decided to not let it affect me, it does. I'm checking things again. Scouring for information. Any shred of evidence that I can use to validate the scared voice in my head, in my heart. The voice that says that no man will ever love me the way I want to be loved, that no man could ever be faithful to me, that I'll never get married, that I'll never have kids with a man I adore, delighting in the ways our kids got his best parts and mine.
I take my medication everyday, but I wonder if it's working. Maybe it is. Maybe even though I still feel depressed, it's cancelling out a good chunk of what I'd otherwise feel. I want to get off of it. I don't want to need it. I don't want to feel broken.
I've always gone off of my feelings for someone, but that's a trap for someone with a big heart, the ability to love anyone. I love learning about a person, getting to know them deeply, being trusted with their happiest memories and loneliest fears, learning their sense of humor so I can make them laugh the hardest.
I think I was lying to myself before when I said I didn't know what the lesson in this heartbreak was. I think I do know what the lesson is: to have discernment and to learn how to use that in combination with my feelings for someone.
You might as well tell me to learn quantum physics in Mandarin.
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