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Can anyone relate to this?


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I wrote a blog entry earlier today and it's partially about the breakup of my three year relationship. I am 19 and my boyfriend (first love, first everything) broke up with me three months ago. Writing is definitely one of my favorite forms of therapy. Here's what I wrote. Let me know if you can relate to it at all... it's strangely therapeutic to hear that what I'm feeling has been felt by another human being.


Here's my post


It’s been a while since I sat down and wrote a post like this. It makes me slightly nervous to put forth my emotions in such a vulnerable, unfiltered, and public way. I don’t want to be judged for complaining about a broken heart or my daily power struggles with the chemical balances in my brain when there are people in the world who cling loosely to life. But honestly, if I have learned anything from these past few months, it’s that I should never discredit my own pain. I’m not going to apologize for fighting my own battle. Each person’s pain is like a currency that cannot be converted. There is no universal ranking and comparison system for emotional turmoil.


I want to talk about feelings, about loss, about the rivers of an almost-adult brain. About losing people, through death or other means. I’ve been unlucky enough to bury several people very close to me. When you come from a family as abnormally huge as mine, the human losses seem to happen pretty steadily. It’s ok; it’s been healthy for me in a sad way and I feel like I learned to process the cyclical nature and shocking brevity of life at a young age. That being said, I’ve always been rather overemotional. People around me, my closest friends and loved ones included, have never understood why I feel things so deeply. When something happens to me, it really happens to me. I take it in and I let it wriggle around for weeks and give it free reign to take hearty bites from the very core of me. I get shaken up by things in a way that I cannot describe. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but I experience emotions in my whole body and for long periods of time. I just have to let them ruminate and work their way through me at their own pace. It sounds masochistic, but there’s something therapeutic about letting myself feel pain. I write about it in black ink and spew my thoughts at the ones who will listen and cry on the dining room floor like a tired child throwing a temper tantrum. And then, usually, my pain subsides. It has run its course and I can resume my regular existence. The sun shines again and I quickly remember the good things that continue to surround me and the people I care about.


But these past few months have thrown me for a loop. I’ve never experienced this kind of pain, and it’s so far from therapeutic that I can’t even think of a word to describe it. How do I deal with the death of someone who hasn’t physically left this world? How do I pretend to bury a best friend or the embodiment of a hope or whatever I thought it was? What’s tougher to grasp, I think, is the realization that I was let go too. That the idea of my pseudo-death wasn’t painful enough to stop the progression of actions. That maybe I didn’t mean what I thought I did, maybe my eyes were so clouded with rosiness that I missed some kind of glaring warning sign along the path.


I have nothing good to say about death or about watching suffering manifest itself among the people I love. But at least true physical death is not (usually) a choice. At least it leaves no room for retrospective bargaining and weary, clouded fortunetelling.


At least it is something I can put into words.

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