My heart hurts.

I suppose it hasn’t helped that I’ve been listening to Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” album and am currently watching “An Affair to Remember.”

I am clearly a masochist.

But my heart’s been hurting for a while.

I’m tired of sounding like a broken record.

I’m wondering if I will ever get to a happy, peaceful place.

I feel like I’m stuck in a current that only lets me up long enough to take a breath to keep me alive.

The year of trauma.

Trauma comes in all different forms.

It sounds like the day she was on the phone and I heard her say that they killed him. How I spontaneously burst into tears, helpless from this side of the country.  The image of her uncle’s blood surrounding that chair and the bloody handprint on the wall burned into my head. The broken toilet sill. The drops of blood leading to the door. The house filled with remnants of someone no longer there.

It looks like the pain in her eyes, when she realized I was already gone. The memory of laying in bed with her and finally ending it on a Saturday morning seared into my brain. The angry way she pushed me out of her life and said she never wanted to hear, see or talk to me again unless necessary. The dark circles under her eyes, knowing she hasn’t been sleeping weeks later. The neglected state of the house now, knowing that it’s because of me. Because I’m no longer there.

It feels like the cracking of my heart that Friday afternoon when I got his email, telling me he was staying after he had started making plans to leave just two days before. The three excruciating hours I had to tape my heart together because I was working and had to put on a decent face like my chest hadn’t just been kicked in. The way I held it in until the second I got into my truck to go home and sobbed the whole way. One and a half hours. The way I didn’t stop crying for two weeks after. The way I cry still. For a  relationship that is no longer there.

I do want to believe that love wins in the end. That happiness is attainable to a certain degree. That all my years won’t be as trying and traumatic as this last year has been.

Please may this be the worst of it.


About samlobos

I am an avid fan of creating narratives in my head about random experiences and quotes for future books I will probably not write. I harbor a 15 year old girl in my psyche and like to solve world issues when I'm half asleep. View all posts by samlobos

8 responses to “Black

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