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Day 4. A letter to the person involved in my last heartbreak.

February 7, 2018

Dear me, well done. Brava!!

You’ve gone and had your heart broken one more time. How delightful this will feel once you’ve stopped lamenting how much it sucks. I know, right now it sucks, but it will get better. You’re intelligent enough to know that, thank fuck.

Thank fuck and all the other deities whose names are expletives that get screamed to the heavens, cried into pillows or whispered in the dark while having tribute offered in the form of fleshly delights that we do have enough of a brain to understand that all this heartbreak is the means to an end that will ultimately end well if we keep learning from it.

Yes, we could go with the Leonard Cohen perspective of cracks are how the light gets in, but honey, there’s plenty of light inside already. That’s not the issue. The issue is the same with us that it’s always been. Fear. Not of success, that’s bullshit and you know it. Nah, try the being afraid of sucking at something. In the bad way.

You’ve tested the waters a few times, considered that intimate relationships might not be so bad, until the feels showed up and then you ran, so so scared of the way a heart seems to so easily crack open and feel hunger once it’s tasted affection. And every time it cracked, it hurt so much that you swore to never do it again.

Remember that time you decided you wanted to learn to do a chinup? And started with pushups because you couldn’t do one of those either? And it sucked and it hurt but you kept doing it, one or two more every day and now we can do 10 pushups (so what if it’s from our knees! It’s still good! Boobs are heavy, fuck!)
It’s the same with love. It gets easier every time. Going slow is not a bad idea. You don’t build a fire with logs, you cut up some kindling and patiently let it catch, encourage it, give it air.
How are you going to learn to do a chinup from a dead hang when you can’t even support your body weight (boobs and all) while you’re lying down? Baby steps, girl.
And connection doesn’t have to be synonymous with shackle. Intimacy doesn’t have to suggest monogamy. Love doesn’t have to look the same to you as it does to anyone else.

So why am I writing this letter to me, instead of to the one who broke my heart? Because I am the one responsible for my heart breaking. Every single time it’s happened, I was the constant. I was the only factor present during each instance, ergo, I am the one who deserves this letter. 

I take full responsibility for the reality that sharing my heart does not allow me to have any expectations of the one(s) I choose to share it with. I’ve often said, what’s the point of having a heart if you don’t open it wide enough to break sometimes. But perhaps by exercising the muscle, it gets to a point where it doesn’t break anymore because it’s not so fragile, and strong enough to support itself, boobs and all.

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