The mending memoirs: part 1

A beautiful mess

I'm not going to tell you that everything's going to be okay (it is) or that you're going to get over it (you will) or that there are plenty more fish in the sea (there are). I'm not, because if you're reading this, it's likely that you're burning up in the red-hot and relentless fires of emotional hell.

The walls of your existence have been furiously demolished, leaving the future you'd planned scattered in shards at your feet and your dreams as fragments on the floor. The foundations of your life have been shaken violently apart, exposing and uprooting the soft and fleshy parts of you, parts that are redraw and sting in the sunlight. The world as you know it is gone  - and in its place is something foreign. Something frightening.

Your pain is bone-deep; you can feel it in every organ, every tissue, every cell in your body. Your nerve-endings are like needles, sharp and scraping. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be alive. I know, and I'm sorry.

So what you need right now isn't another 'chin up'. It isn't another 'move on'. It isn't another 'forget about them'. It isn't another pitying smile, rigid pat on the back, or limp hand-squeeze. It isn't another well-meaning but overprotective friend's Ted-Talk-worthy speech on what a b*tch/d*ck/idiot your ex is, or how you're so much better off without them, or how they don't know what they're missing. And it sure as heartbreak-hell isn't another prescription for keeping yourself busy, getting back out there, or  - worst of all - revenge-fueled rebounding.

What you need is to know you're not alone.

That's what I'm going to tell you: heartbreak is a fact of life. A universal experience. A fundamental flavour of your humanness. That bottomed-out, sky-falling-down, hope-crushing emptiness you feel? That stomach-twisting, head-throbbing, throat-aching sorrow? That sweaty, gripping, gasping desperation? I've felt it, too, as have trillions before me. This knowledge might not be new, but it can make that big, bitter pill you're choking on just that little bit sweeter and easier to swallow.

Heartbreak doesn't discriminate. Like a burglar in the night, it creeps up silently on even the most stable, successful, and secure of us, and robs us of what we love. No matter who you are, where you are, or how you are, if you're the holder of a human heart, at some stage or another you'll be the owner of a broken one, too. 

But when life breaks your heart, it also gives you the chance to mend it. Like a child in art class armed with scissors and a glue-stick, you get to create something beautiful out of the mess. This blog is a sort of heartbreak toolkit for doing just that. But your heart isn't a piece of flatpack furniture; there's no one-size-fits-all, step-by-step guide for healthy healing. Only you know what's right for you.

So throw on your old clothes, roll up your sleeves, and pick up your paintbrush. It's time to turn your pain into a masterpiece.

Five years of my life in words

This blog is a collection of my post-breakup writing; the poems I spun, the journals I scribbled, the letters to my ex that I laboured over but never sent, the blog posts I churned out, and the random notes I wrote to myself. It's the illegible scrawls from my notebooks, the jumbled documentation of each and every feeling, the late-night musings of my restless mind. It's the unfiltered ramblings of my subconscious, the deliciously self-indulgent outpourings of my emotions, the haemorrhaging of my deepest and darkest fears and desires and regrets. 

It's the product of my love and my hatred, my passion and my fury, my forgiveness and my guilt. It's the love-child of my relationship with my ex. It's five years of my life in words. 

I hope it helps you like it helped me.


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