Aftermath of a Break-Up

The first few weeks after a break-up are the worst. The pain is unbearable. So you try everything within your power to bury that pain with distractions.

A relationship, or the feeling of love, is nothing but a chemical imbalance in your brain. As long as the relationship is present, there is a sufficient amount of chemicals inside your mind to keep you going. Your partner is your support system. But when the support is taken away, you fall. The chemical supply in the brain stops. You go into withdrawal. Symptoms start to show.

What I’m going through is fear, panic, loss of appetite, insomnia, emptiness, rage, loneliness, depression, irrational thoughts, distorted thoughts, and feelings of being powerless.

The most powerful of all the symptoms showing on me is denial. I deny being unhappy. I mask unhappiness by my heightened interest in movies, chocolates & ice creams, sleep, younger guys (because, of course, single guys my age are rare), and solitude.

Flirting makes me feel great. To be precise, the idea of being in a relationship all over again, feels great. I feel like the chemicals are back in my brain. But when I see that they only perceive me as some poor girl who needs attention, I sober up and come to my senses. I realize that flirting for fun or flings would eventually leave me more empty. That realization brings rushing back all the pain of loneliness.

I know I should grieve and mourn, cry and talk about the six year long relationship with someone but all the other not-recommended stuff seems easier to go back to. And since people around me are only curious and not interested in me as a human being, finding empathy in them is like a far-fetched idea. So I keep everything inside and keep going. I guess time will heal all wounds.

Or maybe the wounds would just go sore.

Maybe, this time I’ll ask for a stronger dose of antidepressants. Meds are my support system now. Kudos to the one who invented them.

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Pain is Good

It’s 8 pm when I am done with work. I get off the elevator, turn to the street, and start walking towards the bus stand. While walking all alone, I realize that this is my life: walking alone is my life. I’m a loner. Perhaps I should make peace with that fact. The idea is too much to take. So I decide to eclipse the crappy thoughts in my head with music. I pull out my earphones and plug them In my ears. The music is offbeat. Zayn Malik is beautiful crooning away in my ears,

“I’d love to hold you close, tonight and always
I’d love to wake up next to you.”

It’s cold, so I tuck my hands in my jacket pockets and walk on listening to the music, trying to push back the troubling thoughts, watching people that pass me: children, people stuck in traffic, shopkeepers … And then I come across a couple of beggars.

The ragged woman is holding her husband in one hand and a begging bowl in another. She sees me with her sad but defensive eyes and starts to beg. I get curious as to why that is man not looking at me. So I concentrate my eyes on him only to find out that he’s mentally retarded.

I see him and the next thing I feel is my heart being overwhelmed by a rush of emotions. My eyes moisten but I hold my tears inside because I don’t want to appear to be a lunatic to the people around. (How I wish it was raining then!)

The man is a lost cause. He could be cured with some psychiatric help, but who would pay for his therapy? Me? A person who’s herself on medication? I could, but I choose not to because I wouldn’t know how to talk to those people, leave alone convincing them that I mean no harm.

I observe him looking at something on the ground and mumbling things. I feel his surrender to life. I feel him devoid of the will to fight, to survive. Then I shift my focus to the woman. I feel her helplessness; her’s is another life full of harsh struggles. I feel her desperation for bringing food to the dinner table. I guess her kids have grown up and probably abandonment the both of them. I feel the feeling of abandonment. I feel how insignificant their life is to them. I feel everything.

I cannot help but connect with them on an emotional level.

I feel.

Perhaps I feel too much.

Does that make me human, or just a really sad person?

Is being human, being sad?

I guess we’re all connected; pain connects us. Pain is good. Without the pain, there wouldn’t be any sharing and bonding. And still, we’re too proud to share the pain. Why are we so screwed up? Life’s simple: talk, share, bond.

Come out and share your stories. I would feel happy that I’m not the only one going through life struggles.

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