Will I Ever Be the Same?
January 23, 2013 by A
Everyone probably has their own Wrecking Ball. The one who hurt you so bad you feel like you came out the other side of it a different person. The one who made you cry so hard you almost threw up. The one who changed you — for worse, not better. The question is, "Is this change permanent?" Am I ever going to be the same?
When I say "the same," I'm talking about my former, loving, happy self — the girl I was before I gave my heart to someone who decided to eat it. I used to love so completely. I used to throw myself in headfirst and enjoy being consumed with/by a relationship. Now the thought exhausts me. Was it just youth? Hormones? Having a lot more time on my hands? What??
I want it back.
I used to comfort myself by thinking "We've all been there." Now I'm not so sure, and, maybe stupidly, I feel kind of bad for people who haven't. Something inside of me jumps to judgment — they're just too afraid of losing to risk loving so passionately. I mean, if that were true, they'd kind of have a point. I could barely recognize myself in the mirror sometimes when I was going through the worst of it. (An hours-long crying bender does a lot to change a face, believe me.) It was super fucking character building stuff, but who wants to be around that character anyway? At best, she's emotionally distant and aloof. At worst, she feels like a monster because she can't take anyone seriously. Or at least can't seriously consider seriously loving anyone.
A very poignant chapter of Eat, Pray, Love suggests you throw six months at it, and I do; I keep throwing six months at it, and thankfully, I have continued to change. I'm just still not where I thought I'd be after 18 months of grieving, and it's frustrating. I still tear up at odd moments. I'll never eat at certain restaurants again. Certain songs are still off-limits because I can feel the air leave my lungs on the opening notes. But I still smile when I imagine his laugh. Though he broke me and I hate him for it, I'd give so much to hear that laugh again.
And in complete contradiction to all that obvious emotion, I feel decidedly unemotional most days, devoid of excitement or passion, and annoyed by others' attempts to elicit it from me. Like, "Sorry, dude. You're too late." My heart feels shuttered. Some depth in me that was formerly reachable just isn't anymore, like some sort of swimming pool filled up with concrete.
It sounds like classic depression, and I guess it could be, but maybe this is just what happens. Maybe this is the very common aftermath of the worst of heartbreaks. Maybe I'm right on schedule. I'll let you know in July.