A cornucopia of heartbreak is set to plague your life. Whether you are 15 or 55, its inevitable you won’t be able to manoeuvre through your time on this earth without gaining a map of cracks in your porcelain heart.
Those pathways of pain suffered throughout life is what makes me extremely vulnerable in certain situations. I will forever wince if somebody comments on my being or the food I am shovelling down my gullet.
The puzzle pieces of momentary confusion are what makes me unable to watch my best friend cry over a boy without reacting. A wave of hotness roars selfishly in my eyes. I have to shake my core as a reminder that this is not about me.
They can drive me to throw myself on the nearest boy and demand their life story in the pizza shop whenever I have had too much to drink. A fascination with being accepted has already been discussed in a post I scribed last year.
But, most importantly, the heartache I have endured alters my mindset on every decision I ever have to make. I would not wish heartbreak on my worst enemy, but it is unlikely that you can flit through life without it.
Over the past few years, I have come to think of this pain as a sadistic lover. That dull buzz that occasionally resides in my head and pangs in my chest? An uncomfortable reminder that the past happened; that I was there, and they were too. It actually happened; I am not making this up.
Of course, it does not take a genius to tell me that this enjoyment of torture is unhealthy. It is ridiculous to harbour and feast on those fleeting moments of time that broke your heart. Why would you find pleasure in reliving those moments? I am trying to unpick these stitches and wipe away the scars as we speak.
I used to fantasise about sleeping. Because, in my dreams, the people that broke my heart were still with me. They would talk to me, and they would adore me unconditionally. They would sidesplittingly laugh with me and they would kiss my forehead goodnight. They would pack my bag for school and they would invite me to theirs on a Saturday morning for instant coffee and brown sugar in plain white mugs. Those people still live in my life, when I dream. They survived at night time.
By reprogramming and rewriting the script of how I deal with heartache, I am having these blissful, harrowing dreams less. It is a momentous task to put a stopper in something you have no desire too, but it is a task I am messily discovering is possible.
The main thing? Stop the dwelling. Stop the romanticism of situations. I had my heart broken for a fucking reason and I need to remember that the ghosts of the past are simply now only shadows for a good reason. Without them, I would not have a crack in the porcelain. But, because of it I know I can survive.
On dark nights, I still fantasise about the ghosts who live in my dreams. But I no longer wish they were my reality.
A guide on surviving with heartache? I am not the person to tell you that, I do not have the authority yet. Live for now, not for then. Your heart is still beating without them; that should be some comfort at least.
I am Ella Scott, and I am suffering from heartache.