the nonsensical musings of a clueless twenty something

Being Broken And…Being Broken-er.

I think I’ve started to write about 36 different blogs since last week. I start typing and halfway through, my entire mood changes. I can’t nail down a point to save my life. I think that if I toughed it out, though, I’d have a novel; one holistically complete facsimile of the human emotion (aren’t words just mind numbingly awesome? It never gets old).

When I was younger, my Mom and my Grandma used to tell me that boys were afraid of me because I was too pretty.

I was a realist, though.

It was a sweet pretext, Mom and Grandma. But I knew the truth.

I, my dear readers, was fat (I was).

With an entire face full of freckles.

And a giant gap between my teeth.

I was flagrant in the face of awkward childhood genetics and morose in my daily loneliness.

Really, though, I had no idea what being lonely meant.

I did, however, write a great deal of incredibly emo poetry about it on bad stationary.

All of that is embarrassing.

It’s not, however, even going to scratch the surface of the emotional baggage I’m about to lay out here in cyber space.

So, grab your hats, loves. This one might make you sigh a little.

I’ve been love crazy since I can remember. When I was a child, I was gifted the entire Disney hardcover collection. They were my refuge; tucked safely, securely, into a little nook of the nightstand right beside my bed.

I devoured them. I was obsessed with the kingdoms and the talking animals and the lovelorn splendid magical nature of it all.

I. ate. it. up.

I still do.

You will hear me audibly sigh over a romance novel (good or bad, classic or otherwise). I despair in the messy wreckage of the plots and I rejoice when the adversity of heartache is overcome. You would cringe at the doe-eyed aura of sappiness I emit over any film that swaddles itself in the transparent clothing of romance.

It’s sick, really. And I don’t know where it came from. But it’s an endearing little quality that I’ve grown to love about myself.

My love for love is among the reasons why when I fall into it, or am on the miserable path of recovery from it, that it’s such an ordeal.

And that, my friends, is right where my size 5.5 feet are prettily propped at this very moment.

I’ll spare you the sordid details, but my heart lost its auspicious little mate this past week (i.e., I am no longer part of a couple).



This is where I get stuck on the word flow.

Every time.

Because, really, there are no words in this language, or any language that I’ve encountered, that can tee up the correct phrasing for this kind of ache.

Going through something like this is a lot like taking pictures when you go on vacation. When you get back, the first thing you want to do is upload all 339 of them to Facebook. But the 13 pictures you took of the sunset look a hell of a lot like the pictures of sunsets your friends have seen before. Unimpressive. You might get some mild interest if you went somewhere abnormally entertaining…

But, otherwise, no one cares…because they weren’t there.

So goes the woeful tunage of lost love.

I’m fairly confident in my writing abilities. I could probably execute a demonstrative, passionate epilogue for this relationship. I could compose a fairly colorful illustration of what it was like to be kissed in the rain, and what it was like to wake up laughing on a daily basis.

But, these are my pictures. The highlight reel in my head can only be truly appreciated by two people on this earth.

Nobody else was there for this sunset.

And, not to mention, revisiting those two very small memories alone is making my chest burn.

In short, it feels like the left side of my body is missing.

I don’t know what else to write here. I feel like my entire life has been Instagrammed. Everything inside of it has a slightly sad and unbelievably emo glow to it.

I have been blessed, however, with some of the most amazing friends and family a girl might hope for (and a multitude of amazing churches with varying service times).

Everyone’s favorite thing to tell me is that I’ll be “fine.”

Well, no.

I won’t be.

I will be better than fine.

The largest blessing in brokenness is getting to rebuild yourself to your liking. Nobody is super excited when their house burns down. But when they rebuild, nobody is complaining about the new custom cabinets, either (No. That’s not a metaphor for me getting a boob job (…yet (…I’m totally kidding))).

I am staring at this heaping mess, and let me tell you friends, I’m being choosy (don’t worry, I’m keeping “writer,” and “red wine lover” for sure).

I am a resilient individual. And I will continue to be a resilient individual. There are travel plans on the agenda. There is a new language to learn. There are things to experience.

And, in time, my sweet little heart will heal.

And, eventually, there will be someone in this wide, expansive, massive place we inhabit, who gets to wake up next to me every morning. And I am sure he will thank God daily that the man I can’t seem to let go of now decided to let me go.

There’s no real sufficient closing for this. But, this is the song I’ve been listening to on repeat. I don’t know if you’ve got a heavy heart…but maybe it’ll help.

More to come, I’m sure.

Love, love, love you all.

This entry was published on May 15, 2012 at 6:46 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “Being Broken And…Being Broken-er.

  1. You will definitely be better than fine; you will be wonderful.

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