The Last Broken Heart

When you offer love, companionship, care, concern, passion and, if I do say so myself, really great kisses, and a guy tosses it aside, you can't help but wonder why. HE said he just "had some stuff to work out" and he "can't handle being in a relationship right now." Which I don't understand; you can't handle somebody caring what happens to you, listening while you talk, rubbing your back when you feel beaten down, sitting across from you and laughing through dinner. How funny, since that is the kind of relationship I live for.

I feel sick, dizzy. Last night, I cried myself to a migrane and I could not get my breath. I wondered if I was having a heart attack; well, I suppose in a way it was attacked, and quite viciously, I might add. The shock of it, of being so completely unloved, really should kill you. It might be kinder for your heart to just immediately stop beating. In time that isn't the case, in time, you are really glad you survived. But at the moment, and for so many moments after that, when you go through the world seeing black and white because he has, however temporarily, sucked every ounce of joy out of your life, the temptation to close your eyes and just never open them again.

Heartbreak is a great diet though. Food turns to ashes in your mouth, and you can't ever imagine eating anything again. Water is the only thing you can keep down and even that takes more effort than you feel you can spare. It is especially hard now, of course. Valentine's Day around the corner. I think I had better unplug every television I own, so I am not constantly blindsided by visions of happy women with their jewelry and chocolate. Not that I even wanted any of that crap.

It is hard to work like this. I have to teach my classes come what may. And teenagers are very perceptive, and they always want to insert themselves into your out of school life. I keep pretending I have a cold; I fake sneeze when I start to well up, so I can wipe away the tears discretely. I might not be fooling a few of them. I keep getting looks aimed my way, sympathy mixed with curiosity. No one has said anything yet, and that is good. If anyone is kind to me today, I will probably lose it altogether.

Last night, my friend rushed to console me, my beautiful friend with the adoring husband and baby on the way. She did her best, but really, let's be honest. She assures me that I will not die alone. I don't know if I believe that.

The only thing that separates spinster from married lady is the fine line that is the last broken heart. It's the one that finishes you for good, the one that kills off any last remaining trace of romantic belief. You are tired and battle-worn, and you don't want to drag your poor broken ego through that hell ever again. You start to think that another cat would be better company than another bad date. After that, it would not matter if Adonis, Brad Pitt, or Bill Gates swooped down on you, begged you on bended knees, with armloads of fresh roses, or the Hope Diamond in a platinum setting. It is too late. Never mind getting in the game. You won't even go near the ballpark. The happily married, well, they lucked out; they got the offer to go to the big show before they hung up their skates forever. The rest of us? We came through that last broken heart, that hurricane of hurt. We repaired the damage somewhat, patched it up as best we could. But we will never again test the repair with another go around.

I wonder if this one was mine.