This Broken Heart Is A Gift

I remember the first time my heart broke. The pain was physical as my chest burned and my stomach dropped. I filled pages with dramatic words as I attempted to describe my hopeless existence – daydreaming that maybe one day, you’d read them all.

I am crushed, I feel ashamed that somehow I wasn’t enough. I relived our relationship – over and over in my mind – torturing myself in order to feel something, in hopes I’d no longer want to feel anything.

I gave up my heart far too quickly and way too young.

I was desperate to be loved; he said he loved me and that was enough. Nonetheless, my heart was crushed and disregarded, time and time again.

This is my broken heart. I feel the actual ache and am convinced there’s no putting it back together. I cry until I can’t breathe. I listen to the saddest songs and drag my heavy body where I must; I’d lay in bed forever if I could. His voice becomes my soundtrack, and I can almost feel his breath on the back of my neck as I hear him say:

You are not enough.
I do not love you.
God, you’re fucking dumb.
Why do you have to be so fucking crazy?
You’re just a whore.
How could I be with someone as embarrassing as you?

I play those words over and over, like my own licensed mantra, and soon I believe them to be true.

Brainwashed by heartbreak, I am convinced without you I don’t exist, and I obsess over my personal worth being nothing without your approval.

I drive myself mad, believing I need you again – did I ever have you?

There were millions of toxic moments. Trying over and over to force something, like oil and water, attempting to mix something that never should have been, all ending in years of pains and regret.

After all was said and done, I was left lacking self-worth, emotionally unstable, craving turmoil and abuse, while cradling a broken heart.

And I had no idea how to put myself back together. First, I tried to slap a bandage on the cracks, assuming the Band-aid would fall off when I had healed. Then, I choose to ignore it, hoping it’d disappear – like an itch you can’t reach or a nightmare that eventually fades.

Yet, whether I ignored it, thought about it, or drowned it in booze – my broken heart remained.

It felt like ages until one day the I finally tripped right over the answer – I have the power to heal this broken heart. Me. Not men, not parties, nor friends – me. And now I am forever grateful for every single piece you broke.

I’m grateful you convinced me I was ugly – I learned for myself, that I am not. I may not be pretty like her, but I am pretty like me, and that is enough.

I’m grateful that you called me a nuisance, told me I embarrass you with my dumb jokes and my stupid quirks. I had to learn – I am nothing to be ashamed of. (And, maybe my dumb jokes don’t like you!)

I love that you told me I’d amount to nothing, for when I was ready to bloom, I clung on to those words for motivation. When I longed to quit, I thought to myself – this is where you can prove him wrong.

And here I am, perhaps I’m blooming in a field of wildflowers, but I’m blooming all the same.

I’m grateful for how awfully you treated me because now I know how to appreciate my man. He is everything you weren’t, and nothing you were – and now I can recognize how lucky I am.

I’m grateful that this broken heart thought I could never live without you, for now I know, I could live without anyone if I had to, because I am enough.

I am grateful for you, the one who broke it over and over and over again, bc I’ve had to learn how to forgive.

If you’re walking around with a broken heart, carrying every sharp piece while you stumble down the road of heart-wrenching agony, know that you have the power to ease your pain. We aren’t guilty for all our wounds, but we are responsible for our healing process. And that is a lesson I am grateful for.

Melissa Kreutz

A sober boy mom & former self-loather. Coffee drinker, horror enthusiast and recovery advocate. | I’m not superstitious but I am a little stitious.

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