Another breakup. More heartache. More pain.
Somedays, mornings are a battle.
I just want to close my eyes and let the sleep continue all day because when I rise, gravity gently tugs at the tears in my eyes until they fall down my cheeks.
When I walk to the kitchen, the cracks in my heart ache with each step I take, with each duty I fulfill, like a sore muscle that just won’t heal. The smell of coffee, usually stimulating and a source of joy, makes me sad and filled with longing for the past. I eat because I know my body needs nourishment—the food tasteless and bland. I socialize because I know that is what helps ease my mind.
My heart is heavy and sad, and lonely.
I say my mantras, that this will pass, that I can handle challenging things, that I am lovable and smart and fun. I remind myself of how fortunate I am—I have a job, I have my health, people care about me. People care about me! People care about me! I shout it in my head, in hopes that my heart is listening.
My heart is stubborn.
It is still the heart of a hurt little girl.
This little girl is the part of me that is hurting. She still wishes that she had a father who had better known how to show her love. My brain understands that he probably tried—he did his best. He was broken too. The little girl in my heart still doesn’t understand; she still needs hugs, and kisses, and words of reassurance.
She longs for that so badly that she tries to prove herself lovable to all of the wrong men. The men who resist her. The men who can’t hold her the way she deserves.
This little girl still grieves for her stepfather. The man who she trusted and adored. The first man to which she had willingly let into her heart. The man who walked out the door—without a goodbye. My adult brain understands that he needed to leave, that he did the right thing, that he ultimately left out of love. But the little girl in my heart does not trust that the good men won’t leave.
I talk gently to her. There is a song that soothes her, “Orpheus,” by Sara Bareilles. I listen to the words and sing along softly to her,
“I’ll show you good, restore your faith
I’ll try and somehow make a meaning of the poison in this place
Convince you love, don’t breathe it in
You were written in the stars that we are swimming in.”
It feels as if these words were written just for her, to console her, to help her develop a trust that together we can heal, and we can accept real love from someone deserving. I try to convince her that we will be okay.
She and I have these conversations every day—working to try to soothe the ache of the little girl in my heart, while I feel like I am faking my way through the adult world. I know that this pain, this hurt is temporary. I know that I’ve had happier days. This depression is situational. It will subside.
It will be okay.
I will be okay.
We will be okay.
So I rise, and I do my best to navigate through the days. I smile, I learn new things, I try to find reasons to be excited about the future. And the little girl in my heart tries to trust in me to get healthier, to make healthy decisions to protect her.
Every day, I try.