On Heartbreak

    There are those fortunate ones who have fallen in love, grown to love, and have somehow managed to experience the magic of eternal unconditional love. The closest I have to that is the commitment that my parents have made since their acknowledgement of my existence and the love I have forged with myself. The latter being forged out of desperation and necessity. It has come to be one of my unregrettable decisions.
    However, before I grew into love and formed the magical blissful eternal love with myself, which is certainly a work in progress, I experienced the weight and load of depressing heartbreak. In some ways, I am still climbing out of that depression.
    My earliest heartbreak was a result of my exultation of my father. I absolutely adored him. He was my pillar. My hero. His words were law and held the weight of finality. To me, the words that escaped his lips were the truest gospels.       I was around six or seven when my heart was broken, though it was not yet shattered. The obvious disappointment my father displayed when he disproved my behavior was what broke my heart. My innocence at the time shielded me from the fatality of a shattered heart. However, the wretchedness that came with the sense of disappointment and perceived rejection of my father was as painful as any heartbreak could be.
      Unfortunately, my psychological response to the perceived rejection and anger that I experienced when hearing my father's booming voice each time I displeased him was not the only experience I had with heartbreak. At times, I suppose, I wish it were. I had my first "crush" when I was in third grade. Like my father, this crush of mine became a demigod. Of course, he did not reprimand me or get angry like my father did, but the rejection I experienced was still a blow. With that sense of rejection came the seed of self-doubt. Yet, my innocence remained a protective shield.
      As time passed, I learned to hide my emotions, particularly those of affection. It was not simply the one or two crushes, but rather the constant beating I gave myself after each perceived failure or rejection. When adulthood arrived, I was emotionally and spiritually beaten. By then, I rendered myself hopeless and disgraceful. I dreamed of possibilities that I believed impossible. My lack of faith won me over in my relationships, especially those that required a higher level of intimacy.
     The day I decided to love myself was the day I decided to relieve myself of the stories I carried with me since my earliest years. Stories about my worth, about power, about love, about others. It took a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and a lot of self-talk. It took tears, screams, inaudible cries, and persistent nightmares. It took honest conversations with strangers, friends, family members, and myself. It took (and still takes) constant re-evaluation of my self-perception and the perceptions and ideas of others that I allow to influence me.
      I am experiencing the regenerative powers of the heart. I am appreciating the fact that hearts do not break, not really. At times they may not function as they should: they may be missing a tissue, disconnected at some nerve, dysfunctional as part of the circulatory unit, but they do not break. With time, and sometimes external assistance, they heal and regain their function. They get to beat as they should, sustain the body as they should.
     It is so with our emotional hearts. The pain that comes with a sense of heartbreak may be unbearable at first, but it is not irrepairable. It is not unmendable. If anything, the heart has not really broken but has lost sense of its original function. Perhaps with time and rest it will heal on its own. Perhaps with the help of a professional, the causative issue may be resolved. In either case, the heart mends and is restored. Then one can love just as freely and openly as one intends to.