Sometimes, when you walk around with a broken heart long enough, you start forgetting what it felt like to not have one.
When you ache for something so deeply for such a long time, you succumb and it becomes a part of you, that heartache. Cutting it out starts seeming as scary as cutting off one of your limbs…you don’t know how to function without feeling a certain way.
When you hide a secret pain for long enough, you forget you can ever talk about it. You forget that someone else could know, someone else could help you. But then you dig yourself deeper and deeper into your pain and heartache, and you feel too far in the hole that no one could even hear you yell.
So you don’t yell. You don’t talk about it, you don’t ever, ever mention.
They want to help you, these people that love you. They see it in your eyes. You spin your feelings to others, you slant the truth, you long for scars you can talk about and make do with the ones you have. And in the process, you sometimes create such a different portrait that you’re shocked when someone holds up a mirror to you ...and you realize you don’t recognize what’s looking back at you.
But you knew me so well, you think.
So, you work yourself through the pain. You work your friends through their pains, stay silent, and go on. You get yourself up off the bathroom floor. Put a cold washcloth on your own forehead.
You save your own life.
You pick up what you can salvage and get it ready to give to someone else.
There are a hundred thousand heartaches in this world, and only a few are mine.