Letter to the Broken-Hearted

By: Susanne Krenz

Thumbnail Picture by: Derick McKinney

So, you’ve spent some time entwining your life with somebody else’s. How long is not

important because intensity is a variable not measured in time. Others might ask and

judge you on your answer, but they’re not feeling your feelings, so don’t listen to them.

Perhaps you tried with all your might to keep from falling for them, or maybe you

plunged right into the depths of the unknown with eyes wide open. Maybe you spent

every waking moment together, weaving a tightly wrapped cocoon of togetherness.

Maybe you tread as carefully as you could along the edges of burgeoning romance,

keeping score of every gesture of affection as if that would spare you.

Whether you meant to or not, together you built a monster from pieces of skin and touch

and shared laughter. This creature was beautiful for a while, but slowly, it started to

wilt. You suddenly noticed one day that you couldn’t ignore the sickly-sweet stench of root rot any

longer. Or maybe the monster turned ugly real quick, its features contorting, its face

sliding off, your coupled-up efforts melting before your very eyes and collecting in a

puddle at your feet.

Whatever the trajectory of decay, the outcome is always the same: when the last door

has been slammed and the stillness descends, all you’re left with is a lump. A rugged,

cruel lump of pain that stings your insides. It expands and cowers and breathes and

quivers to fill as much space as it can claim.

Some days, you will feel it inflating your stomach and spilling over into your other

organs. From the moment you open your eyes, it will rise like the tide swiftly,

mercilessly, burning your esophagus and lingering like bile in the back of your throat.

It will render you incapable of moving, collapsed in a heap on the floor. It will make you

lonely, wounded, angry, and desperate, wondering if and how you’ll pull through. On

better days, its edges will be less clear-cut, though it still lingers, chipping away at your

self-confidence and your trust in the world.

So, here’s what you need to do: when the waves of pain come crashing down, do not

resist them. Adjust your body clock to the rhythm of the tidal flow. Remember to

breathe. The first few times your lungs fill up with water, you’ll convince yourself that

you’ll die, but trust me: you won’t. When it’s really bad, when you’re at your

worst—especially then—you must stay soft and open and vulnerable at all costs.

Too keep from drowning, perhaps you’ll feel the impulse to fence yourself in—with

solitude, liquor, cynicism, or the spit of strangers. In the beginning, that is fine. But if

your fence gets too high, too sturdy, you run the risk of impaling yourself on its stakes.

Because you will eventually try to climb it, yearning for human connection again. Don’t

make things harder than they need to be.

But if you brave the seas, if you keep moulding yourself to the ebb and flow of your

pain, trust that you will get better. I can’t tell you how long it will take, only that it will

happen. The waves will grow smaller and smaller, until one day you’ll lift your head and

the air won’t smell salty anymore. You will put your hand to your heart and feel that it is

still beating.

And that is how you’ll know that you’ve saved yourself.