I felt broken the last time we spoke. It had only been a few days since my dreams of rekindling romance with who I believed was l'amour de ma vie transformed into another terror I needed an exorcism from.
What’s a priest, a cross, and holy water when you got a Substack and the pizzazz to overcome heartbreak with stories and wit? I wrote so I could admit to myself that it was over. That it didn’t work. That I had to let go and move on.
If only it could be that simple. The anxiety was overbearing. The loneliness suffocating and the cognizance of another failed attempt at a romantic relationship was too much for me to manage. Sadness lingered for longer than comfortable for this kid on the other side of C-PTSD.
Once again I tried to write through my grief but the truth on the page, quite literally anguished me. I noticed the ways I used prose to soften the heartbreaking realization that I love men in the ways love was modeled for me by my family. It’s faithful and treacherous. It’s overbearing and neglectful. It’s accepting and resentful. It projects the desired devotion of an eternity that could never be because at my core, I believe I am unworthy of him, of love, of my own life. I felt sentenced to Dante’s second circle of hell, right here in my own apartment.
I lived with my face in the toilet for weeks. Appetite deserted me. I either slept too much or not at all. Hopelessness was too close for comfort. A podcast interview with Jane Fonda made its way onto my feed. “Resilient people know when support is there and they can take it in.” I shifted. I’m resilient. I have support. And I believe everything Jane Fonda says!
I decided to step outside and search for love in all that I see.
Oh, it’s been a summer.
Broken hearts heal.
Fall is the anointed time to finish the book.
Fall is the anointed time to finish the book.