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.

Who Am I, Not To?

   What does it mean to love myself? What does it mean to bathe in a sea of conscious love, owning my ugly, and allowing myself to be open and vulnerable for the world to see? What does it mean be able to walk about in confidence, knowing in my heart that I am truly free?
     Too long have I shackled myself in self-condemnation; too afraid to embrace, accept, and own all that is beautiful in life. I have battered and beaten myself so low that some days it literally took all my will and strength to simply open my eyes. I have hated myself so hard, that every compliment that a person told me was a knife piercing through my heart. I have killed myself so many times that I fear that death may be afraid of me. I have unwelcomed myself so many times that this very existence feels foreign to me.
    What does it mean to love myself? Who are you, not to? My brother told me that in response to the tears that streamed down my face as he acknowledged me. I was touched. I was moved. I was so moved that I began to repeat that question. Who are you, not to?
      Who are you, not to love yourself? Who are you? What does it mean to love yourself? To own and embrace even the ugliest and dirtiest parts of you? Who are you, not to love the parts of you that have loved you before you knew the word "love" existed? Who are you, not to love the parts of you that everyone sees, knows, and loves? Who are you, not to love the intimate parts of you that you know you want to love, but choose to hide away from?
      I have struggled every day to own my ugly. To stop hurting myself. To keep myself focused on the now, the present. I have given up and tried again, beating myself up after every failure. Then rising up again, hoping that maybe today, I will get it right. I have embraced every form of verbal abuse, allowing it to become my primary language with myself. I have forced myself to learn the new languages of love, replacing the abusive words with kinder, softer ones. I have set countless rules and limits to keep myself in check, just in case. I have given myself every possible excuse to wallow in self-pity and still possess the audacity to refuse the pity of others. I have given myself every reason to stop, yet muster every bit of energy I have to encourage others to keep going. I have sinned so many times against myself, yet fail to seek redemption. Yet, here I am, writing. Free to live and experience another day.
     Who am I, not to love the innocent child within me? Who am I, not to embrace and heal the broken parts of me? Who am I, to hide away from myself constantly?
     Today, I can no longer hide. The tears have long dried out. I have outgrown my shell and have taken up the practice of self-exposure. The games that I played with insanity and death have gotten old and are requiring longer commitment terms. I can no longer play those games. Too many times have I knocked on death's door awaiting a response. It has taken her catching up to me to realize that Death and I are not even on the same playing level. I was at a disadvantage. But I suppose, now, I have a chance to get serious with Life.
        My heart is calling. She wants me to return home. Back to Life, where I presently belong. Back to Life, where my heart has always remained. I am returning home, back to the heart that loved me before I knew who I was. I am returning home, back to the love that embraced me when I did not, could not, embrace myself. I am going home, back to the heart that kept beating, long after I begged it to stop.
    I am not immortal. Neither are you. This life, this experience, this moment, will only allow you to choose so many times before you run out. There is only one you, right now. Who are you, not to love that person?