Hollow

I ache. In my center, in my throat, in the back of my head. The ache of suppressed feelings, of just trying to get through the day. And yet, this is so insignificant in the face of so many other things. I think about how it felt to lose someone I really, truly loved. And as much as that hurt, I wanted that person to be happy, so that brought me some peace. In this case, I can think nothing but venomous thoughts, rage coursing through my veins, an ache in my throat becoming almost unbearable until some of it leaks out and rolls slowly, hotly, down my cheeks – then I can be calm again. Until the next song, the next movie, the next flashback memory. Some not so long ago. But still, it is not a broken heart. It is simply a sadness. More wasted time. More damage from which to recover, more baggage to lug. So much fucking baggage. I should be svelte from lugging all that shit around.

So I cuss, and I deny, and I suppress, and I fervently write angry unsendable emails to release venom and maintain my appearance of cool. To get through the day.

I think more than the actual facts, what’s hurting me are the other memories that are flooding back. Past broken hearts, broken for real. Shattered and taped back together, only to be shattered again – that’s my heart. This is merely bruising, not the real thing. And although bruises hurt, too, I don’t think your heart can ever hurt as much as it can at 18, when you’re desperately in love with someone who has to go away, someone who comes back different, no longer alone. What they say about first love is so true. I will never be that vulnerable again. Only once can someone be so naïve and open as to allow themselves to hurt that much. Only the young, only that first time.

Now I’m grizzled, with duct tape holding my heart together. Having lived through several false loves and one true love, then falling into the rut of a barren, hollow love. I’ve never been good with endings. I like to always have a glimmer of “what if” hanging out there, but sometimes shit happens and you know that that glimmer is truly gone, gone for good. That is the hardest thing for me. Finality.

I’ve been reading a blog since November, written by a young father whose young, healthy wife became suddenly ill and was dead within 5 days – and they still don’t know why. Reading through his process, his grief, his shock, the phases of his acceptance, it is amazing. Simply amazing. I am so aware that I have not lost, not really. This man began blogging for himself, to prevent himself from exploding (and I sure do know about THAT), and he has gained so much support he never expected, never dreamed of. He has touched so many lives in the telling of his story. In the face of his loss and the loss of his children, I feel blessed. I really do.

Blessed and angry.
Sad and relieved.

Finally.