Ink Therapy
Twice now in my still-short life I have felt utterly heartbroken. Â The two men I met who made the world stop moving left under less than desirable circumstances. Â With each of them I cried until my soul cracked.
I was trapped in a whirlpool of self-doubt, anger, and sadness.  In my head I was being ridiculous.  The relationships were truly inchoate.  No real promises were broken.  No furniture needed to be divided.  I didn’t even have to replace my copy of The Big Lebowski (again).
But for different reasons, those two heartaches stopped me. Â Letting go seemed no less daunting than telling gravity to take a hike – or worse, like a personal affront to some great cosmic plan. Â If I let go too soon did it even happen? Â Was it a test to see if I could hang on?
Each time, out of despair and a need to explain why my crazy was justified, I began to write my love story. Â What happened was that I got bored.
It’s hard to listen to yourself whine after fifteen pages.  After five pages I was only pushing forward so that mankind could benefit from knowing about the sort of love that never really existed in the real-life version.
And it turns out the excuses just don’t hold up long when you see them in clear type.
Each time I found that I would rather do something than think about things that were already my past. Â During my first epic love story, I remembered that I needed to change a headlight on my car. Â Laundry was sitting there, waiting to be done. Â Socks needed to be purchased. Â The mundane details of everyday were more important.
I wasn’t over either of them, but life had moved on, and I was swirling along with it.
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about 12 years ago
Its like you read my mind! You seem to know a lot about this, like you wrote the book in it or something. I think that you could do with a few pics to drive the message home a bit, but other than that, this is wonderful blog. A fantastic read. I’ll definitely be back.