There’s a huge part of you that feels like you’ll never heal.
That instead of getting better, you’ll spiral downward and begin to die inside.
For three years of my life, I felt like I was dying inside.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
I’d wake up, stare at the dark purple walls in my bedroom and try and talk myself into starting my day. Then I would. Eventually. But I wasn’t my normal bubbly, loving self. My actions were always mechanical.
I felt like a robot and that in a lab somewhere, some mad scientist was controlling me with a remote. I functioned like I was supposed to, but that was about the extent of it. It didn’t take me long after that to shut down altogether.
That time in my life always made me wonder things.
Things about myself.
Things about my relationship.
And things like, if the heart wasn’t meant to be broken then why does it break so easily?
There were days, no, months where I hated myself.
I hated myself for loving him so much.
For allowing him to make a fool of me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Those three words can do crazy things to a person. They can leave in you in despair, make you drift in deep depression to the point where you feel like a zombie. And sometimes, they pave the path for a descent into madness.
I was so mad that sometimes the anger felt like a parasite.
It fed on me.
Day after day.
Month after month.
I was always bothered by the fact that I loved so hard.
I did.
He didn’t.
I know this with certainty.
The crazy part of it is that I am a sane person. I always told myself that I’d never let love bring out a different side of me. The side of me where I shriek hysterically.
Can’t catch my breath.
Feel like my heart has exploded into a million red gooey pieces. The side where I felt so captivated by him yet broken at the same time.
Until Ella m
oved back, that is. I owe a lot of my recovery to her. Sure, I have other friends, and yes, they were there for me like I would be for them if they were in my situation, but it wasn’t the same.