SOMETIMES I WONDER IF PURGATORY IS REALLY JUST HELL IN DISGUISE

0439Yes, THREE posts in two days is utter ridiculousness (can we really count last night’s tho?)…but I need the catharsis of writing shit out…so I’m gonna need to sort through this verbally/textually…If you’re not interested in rambling musings and contemplation of love lost, then just stop reading now…if you are, I’ll try to make it as dramatic and interesting as possible, but forewarning, there’s a chance I’ll actually be serious…

Clearly if you’ve been reading my blogs you know that I’m single AF (‘AF’ = ‘as fuck’ for those of you not hip enough to understand texting language)…and that “AF” description is added not only because I like the acronym, but it accurately conveys the depth of the situation…as in, no viable prospects.  And the closest I’ve come to dropping the acronym was this past four or five weeks…in fact, the past few weeks I’ve just been “single” with high potential of moving to the “dating-but-not-labeling-it” description…Due to unforeseen circumstances (i.e. me losing my god-damned common sense (see featured meme), I’m back to the AF category.

I’m sort of struggling to not make this personal — because getting into the personal aspects of the situation makes me  extremely sad.  So, best I look at the situation rationally in hopes of learning something.

And the lesson is….I’m human.  I’m positive most if not all of you knew that….but there was a very long period of time I forgot.  Drawing from yesterday’s post , being a rational human being sucks sometimes…so when life hits you with latent emotions and feelings, it’s a huge reality check.  One of which I most likely needed.  I believe strong, independent women oftentimes forget how vulnerable they (we) are…We’ve gone so long taking care of our own hearts in their little iron cages that when we start to let them free, we forget that the falling sensation, though thrilling, oftentimes leads to obliteration – which REALLY sucks.  You can’t drop something from a thousand story building and expect it to bounce…We are not X-Men, unfortunately.

The tricky part of scraping up one’s smashed heart is the process of regeneration…you can’t get a new one, (of course NOT medically speaking) so putting it back together and letting it heal is the only option.  For those of you who don’t know anatomy, the heart is a muscular organ…and muscles have memory.  (I’m not gonna pull my PT expertise out, so just take me for my word and #BelieveEverythingYouReadOnTheInternet).  So as you pick up the pieces, know that each of those bits have a memory of some experience attached to it.  A heart, metaphorically speaking, can be put back together…It can heal with new love (for someone else, for a dog, for a chicken…whatever) or it can remain gnarled and scarred with memories of ache and sadness…however, just because you heal it with love doesn’t mean it won’t remember the pain of heartache.  Hopefully my heart has been fucked with enough now that I can permanently imprint the pain into muscle memory so it can be my drawbridge if/when potential love ever comes ’round again.

As for me…I’ve read and reread the above paragraphs about a million times already and I’m already sick of me.  So I’m going to end on this note — aside from my rediscovery of human emotion, I’m also faced with the decision (yes, it’s a fucking decision) to rationalize pessimism and bitterness as results of a scarred heart carrying the memory of this latest situation…or I can hang on to the falling experience, and continue to search for THAT.

I think, for now at least, I’ll choose somewhere in between…sort of like love purgatory (yes, I know it’s ironic…it’s my blog and I can do that)…so, in essence, right back to where I started.

#ScarsSuck  #SoDoesAdulting

 

 

 

 

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