Several weeks back a friend asked me to share the intimate details of my broken heart. It was assumed I had suffered from one, and therefore, had war stories worthy of exposing. I debated the question with my alter ego. While I am clear on the details of past heartaches, the question has remained unanswered. It’s not that I don’t want to disclose the particulars, rather it’s the concern my story is lackluster or maybe it’s the opposite, controversial. It could go either way depending on a listener’s point of view. I’ve pondered why my story might be different from others or why it would be of interest. Wouldn’t my flight from Singapore be more gripping than a lover done me wrong tale? If would think the later is far more intriguing, but that’s not the question I’ve been tagged to answer.
Of course, there were love affairs in my past, all memorable but not all left me in one piece. Romantic love in the best of circumstances is not unlike skydiving. Sometimes the chute opens and the lover floats upward towards bliss and arms promising ever-after, and other times, everything goes awry. I’ve always believed loving and losing is a rite of passage. Most of us have at least one tale of woe. I’ve survived heartache more than once. Does this make me an expert on love having survived the wretched ethereal aftermath of Cupid’s poison arrow or just foolish for giving my heart so freely? Frankly, I haven’t a clue. What I do know is I wear my losses as badges of honor. I didn’t give up and have never stopped believing, which has paid off. I have long since landed in my own patch of goodness and remain a proponent of love and all its possibilities. How can I not?
My inclination is to explain to my friend that the telling of all love stories requires adult libations, Celine Dion or any sappy love songs written to evoke memories, and boxes of tissues. Disclaimer: all love stories are distinctive; how lovers arrive at their passionate destination is generally particular to the couple. However, where there are shared elements is when ( or if) love is lost or taken away. What is universal to all lost loves is the residual ache and sense of emptiness left behind, also the lack of faith life will endure. Right? Maybe. Probably.
On love and other maladies:
- At nine I had Chicken Pox and was out of commission for two weeks
- At twelve, I fell for the boy next door and silently carried a torch for him through my junior year in high school
- At seventeen I caught some strange virus and had to helicopter to Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles where numerous tests were run, including a spinal tap–the longest needle ever
- For a decade I caught a cold or flu more often than I gave my heart away; I had several near misses, changed my mind, and/or got cold feet
- Then there was the one. He took me down faster than a new strain of flu can do to an unsuspecting immune system
- After the one, I frequented The Bodhi Tree–a New Age bookstore–in Hollywood, read several books, drank weak, straw-flavored tea, and pondered my greater purpose
- At some point–no idea on how long I was disconnected from the universe and no sense of the passage of time–I came back from the dark side of the moon, lit a match and found passion again… and again… again.
- I loved. I loved deeply. I lost. And then I hit pay dirt, I found my ray of sunshine.
This is probably not the exact answer sought to the query, but it does beg the question: how does a heart get over a heartache? A subject worthy of exploration. Have you checked Amazon lately? Hundreds and hundreds of how-to get over LOVE books.