R.I.P. Here Lies Heartache.
Losing love is like mourning a death. A part of the heart is tainted, it continues to beat for that person, pulsing to appease the need to rewind time, to reclaim what was lost, to repair fragments that could never be fixed in the first place. I have been doing research on the subject matter for some time now and the conclusions I have drawn show the difference in losing a love over a life is that the pain eventually dissipates. There is a morning when the moment you wake is not clouded with what ifs, a morning when the sun greets your face and smacks you silly, a morning when your first thoughts do not relate to him but rather, are rooted in how you will conquer a piece of the world that day. The focus shifts from faintheartedness, frustration, and F-yous to remembering how intoxicating the journey of life is. The heart stops hurting and the pulsing changes its pattern and begins beating for you again.
As the sorrow-stricken statuses on Facebook have revealed, two months ago, my ambitious romance of language barriers and country borders ceased. Strangers on barstools and those unknown to relationships outside of a two-block proximity, preached it had been doomed from the start because of distance. Negativity waged war on my first experience with love. However, my feet remained firm on the battlefront, fighting for something I needed to find out for myself. Despite what personal preachers told me, I learned distance does not equal impossibility or failure. Instead, distance provides the key to deciphering the deepest of understandings. Though I may be no expert in the area, I know true love has no boundaries, it knows no limitations. Distance was not the problem, it was the lens that allowed me to see the flaw in my picking.
Tiago was never the man I envisioned myself falling in love with. He was not the partner in crime I dreamt up, not the person who'd pack his bag and set sail through the world with me, building empires along our way. Be it as it may, he made me feel something I wasn't quite sure I was capable of being consumed by. When that consumption was no longer a healthy one, no longer one that made me happy, I knew it was time to put an end to our relationship.
The hardest part of moving on was wondering why he was no longer the person I had given the words 'I love you' to back in Schipol Airport, the person who left me skipping barefoot down the streets of Amsterdam. The man who once wrote love notes to me, who held me by the sea in Setubal calling me 'Kourtney Coehlo' became the man incapable of contacting me outside of convenience, who cared not to concern himself with the commencement of the new chapter in my life.
Throughout the past two months, I've built up heaps of anger and resentment, crusading for closure as I questioned if what we had was ever real. I cried a bathtub full of tears, betrayed by bullshit excuses and brainwashed by 'te amos' and 'I miss mi princesas.' I longed for a day where he'd squash my doubt and would prove himself as something other than a sack of poorly-google-translated crap. I grew petty, childish, always coming back to the question WHY? What could have possibly changed? How could he go from wanting to spend his life with me to not noticing that all forms of communication were blocked? Why did he not care? And more importantly... why did I still care?
The process of mourning a love is a long one. The difficulty is dependent upon the person. There is no time limit for grieving. It takes courage, company, strength, and wee bit of sunshine to get through it. The most important thing is knowing that there will be a morning when the moment you wake up, your mind is free and all you want to do is solo dance party to 60's music and seize the day. That day has finally dawned for me.
As the sorrow-stricken statuses on Facebook have revealed, two months ago, my ambitious romance of language barriers and country borders ceased. Strangers on barstools and those unknown to relationships outside of a two-block proximity, preached it had been doomed from the start because of distance. Negativity waged war on my first experience with love. However, my feet remained firm on the battlefront, fighting for something I needed to find out for myself. Despite what personal preachers told me, I learned distance does not equal impossibility or failure. Instead, distance provides the key to deciphering the deepest of understandings. Though I may be no expert in the area, I know true love has no boundaries, it knows no limitations. Distance was not the problem, it was the lens that allowed me to see the flaw in my picking.
Tiago was never the man I envisioned myself falling in love with. He was not the partner in crime I dreamt up, not the person who'd pack his bag and set sail through the world with me, building empires along our way. Be it as it may, he made me feel something I wasn't quite sure I was capable of being consumed by. When that consumption was no longer a healthy one, no longer one that made me happy, I knew it was time to put an end to our relationship.
The hardest part of moving on was wondering why he was no longer the person I had given the words 'I love you' to back in Schipol Airport, the person who left me skipping barefoot down the streets of Amsterdam. The man who once wrote love notes to me, who held me by the sea in Setubal calling me 'Kourtney Coehlo' became the man incapable of contacting me outside of convenience, who cared not to concern himself with the commencement of the new chapter in my life.
Throughout the past two months, I've built up heaps of anger and resentment, crusading for closure as I questioned if what we had was ever real. I cried a bathtub full of tears, betrayed by bullshit excuses and brainwashed by 'te amos' and 'I miss mi princesas.' I longed for a day where he'd squash my doubt and would prove himself as something other than a sack of poorly-google-translated crap. I grew petty, childish, always coming back to the question WHY? What could have possibly changed? How could he go from wanting to spend his life with me to not noticing that all forms of communication were blocked? Why did he not care? And more importantly... why did I still care?
The process of mourning a love is a long one. The difficulty is dependent upon the person. There is no time limit for grieving. It takes courage, company, strength, and wee bit of sunshine to get through it. The most important thing is knowing that there will be a morning when the moment you wake up, your mind is free and all you want to do is solo dance party to 60's music and seize the day. That day has finally dawned for me.
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