Peaks and Flat Lines


This past weekend, I was sitting in my childhood bedroom going through stacks of notebooks; written from the time I was 7 and writing the stories I played out with my Barbies, through last year, when I turned 21.

I found this entry from 2014. It's so interesting to look back and read about feelings I had that I couldn't even imagine having now, just two years later. If you take anything from this, it's that you should keep journals. You'll have really interesting, only vaguely familiar books to read one day in the future.

I never knew love had the power to hurt you this much.

The memories of the days of ecstasy, of his body pressing yours into the couch cushions, the soft mattress, the passenger seat of his car; of his tongue exploring your lips, your teeth, your neck, your breasts, your most intimate areas; the vision of the lines around his eyes deepening with his smile when you tell him you love him.

Those memories stay with you.

And they bring  with them the pain, washing over you fresh every day, reminding you of what you had and lost. What you can never experience in that way again, even when you find your way back to a love that's good.

To get over you, to leave you behind as a piece in my past, I have to work harder than I've ever had to work at anything. I've come to our conclusion over and over again; he's gone, he wasn't the oneit happened for the best, I can move on now. I can look back fondly on what we had, feeling no desire to ever have it again.

But it doesn't last.

The next morning, a memory comes back—laying out in the bed of your truck in the middle of a parking lot, holding each other close on your bed while the cat yelled at us from the other side of the door, your forehead against mine, blue eyes locked in on me, telling me it was time for you to take us seriously. Telling me about your plans of a future for us.

And I'm back to the start.

The wound feels fresh. Tears trickling, then flooding—and the trauma continues. How long will it be before the waves of missing you stop washing me away?

I make lists, remembering why we couldn't work, remembering wanting to give us a chance to feel real happiness—because that's not what we had. We had stolen moments and insecurities; we had peaks and flat lines.

I keep praying for my heart to heal, and I pray to never experience the kind of love I had for you again. Why couldn't I understand before? It is impossible to stand in the center of a fire without being consumed by the flames.