I had a very vivid dream of you this week. A dream of the future we created while you and I were a “we”. The home we designed, the children we hoped to have, the life we had planned. All the small details were there; matching long boards, mismatched dinner plates, the smell of the ocean, your tattoos, my ring. It was as if a great writer snuck into our words and created them for film.
Our breakup tore my life apart. We didn’t have it all, but we were going to get there together. We had a timeline. We had goals. We had a hurricane of love. And then all of it came crashing down without warning. I was on the brink of moving my life to be with you when you told me you “Can’t do this anymore. I have known for months, I just didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if I could hurt you. I know I am breaking your heart and I am sorry.” I spent months after that night sabotaging my body. I tore my skin apart and consumed legal toxins. I became bulimic. I lost desire for art, sex, and the outdoors.
You didn’t just break my heart, you fucking broke my whole being.
I woke up from the dream and felt completely lost. Here I am, a year and a half later, and in a new relationship. A relationship with a wonderful individual who speaks of creating a future together and I can’t help to wonder if my life just hit the repeat button. That we will design a home, hope for children, and plan a life together only to have it all fall apart in tears and tequilla.
My heart has healed, but my ability to trust is still broken. Thank you very fucking much.