It’s been 45 days since I broke up with my boyfriend of three and a half years, and I’m watching as my life slides into an uncontrolled spiral filled with heartbreak and confusion and getting completely re-lost in a life I thought I’d already found.
And this is exactly what I wanted.
There is no better feeling in the world than waking up on a Sunday morning, rolling over and placing your foggy minded head on the chest of the person you love, listening to his heart thumping, skipping a beat–almost exactly in tune with your own–when you look up at him, smile and let your emotions ease into your mind as you think to yourself, “I could do this every day for the rest of my life.”
Trust me when I say, I truly believed–I still believe–I could do that. Every day. For the rest of my life. Which is why I’m still shaking with heart ache when I write that I broke up with my boyfriend of three and a half years 45 days ago…and I woke up this Sunday morning, alone.
For me, comfort is a beautiful yet harmful thing. It’s the warm embrace of a familiar scent when you walk through the doors of your childhood home. It’s all those tiny butterflies aching to be free in your stomach when a song comes on the radio that reminds you of your 16th summer spent with your best friends in your topless jeep, always heading to the same lifeguard station at the same beach you’ve been going to with the same people for years and years and years.
But comfort is also the leash that keeps pulling you back when there is so much of the world to discover and see and glide along endlessly…free.
Many people have and will continue to ask why I would ever walk away from something I care (present tense) about so much, but at this point in my life–a 25-year-old woman with so much left to figure out–that unfaltering comfort made me entirely uncomfortable. The comfort of being with someone who loved me endlessly was a thrill, but what about the discomfort of being completely alone? Of waking up on Sunday in an empty bed? Of a cell phone that’s been silent for three days because, no, he’s not going to call?
That’s another type of thrill
I’ve realized that in order to truly understand the woman I am destined to become I need to be tested and put through experiences that cause my heart to rattle with emotion and my brain to spin uncontrollably, to startle my fears, ignite new passions and awaken my soul with what it really means to truly be alone…and alive.
I need to be fully aligned with these things within myself before aligning with someone else, and this is why I call it the “art” of breaking up. It’s something that–through all the craziness, the opposing strokes and little congruencies–eventually creates a masterpiece…
So I am going to keep writing in this series called “The Art of Breaking Up” as I continue along what I’m calling is my journey of self-navigation and soul seeking–if for anything, to help anyone else out there who’s going through the same roller coaster that I am.
And with that I have one piece of inspiration: Sundays may make me miss the heart beat in your chest, but come Monday, I know I’ll be stronger for it.