Holiday Healing

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Despite being a heartbroken wreck who cries all the time and sometimes can’t pluck up the courage to leave the house, I made myself a promise in my last post. A promise that I’d try to enjoy my upcoming family holiday as much as possible. That I’d smile. Wear bikinis. Eat too many desserts.

And I did.

It wasn’t easy. I cried in the shower. In bed. In my dark room before the door even had time to shut behind me. I swam alone in the pool one morning, sobbing, because the “soothing” songs the hotel had picked were all about love and romance and happiness.

But I smiled, too. I laughed when my brother’s grumpy mini dachshunds gave up avoiding rock pools on the beach and jumped right in. I screamed in the crazy Atlantic waves. I basked in the sunshine and heat and good company. I cracked jokes. Took pictures. Dressed up. Did my hair. Ate SO MANY desserts.

For the first time in months, I had prolonged periods of not feeling depressed. Not hating myself. Not thinking about the thing I need to stop thinking about.

And it was fucking fantastic.

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The Dangers of Imagination

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In a way, my imagination and ability to daydream is a gift. It lets me think up complex stories, work out plots and characters and settings, and fills me with joy when I get lost in a wonderful vision for a minute, an hour, an afternoon. It makes me a great storyteller. But it’s not just fiction I think about. There are memories, faces, people, experiences. Real ones. I like to replay good moments, imagine conversations in my head, think about the future and all the wonderful things it holds.

When I was happy and in love, this was amazing. Every day was full of exciting, real possibilities and smiles and hopes.

Now that I’m heartbroken? Not so amazing.

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Writing Through Heartbreak

Writing Through Heartbreak

I met up with an old friend a few weeks ago. We chatted about a lot of things, reminiscing and swapping stories, and she mentioned she hadn’t seen any blog posts from me in a while. “Have you been too busy being happy?” she asked, smiling.

And I cried.

Because for seven months, that was the case. After years of loneliness and sadness and self-doubt, I had a boyfriend. A real, wonderful boyfriend who I adored. And that meant dates, doorstep kisses, tight embraces, in-jokes, late-night chats, hours and hours of eye contact, whispered promises, smiles, squeezed hands, ‘I love you’s, and a feeling of happiness and safety and worthiness I’d never, ever felt before.

And then he broke my heart.

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