Last night, I experienced pain that I had never felt before. Not of the physical kind, but of the broken heart kind. The love of my life and I broke up less than a week ago and, while I understand his reasons and understand that this is not the end, the pain that I endured last night was nearly unbearable. The only reason I say “nearly” is because I woke up.

I’m pretty sure that the entire Capitol Hill neighborhood heard my screaming. From an alley. With my friend trying to console me. I had gone to the bar with the intention of having a beer and leaving… only to wind up with three (or four) vodka drinks in me on a somewhat empty stomach. I remember now why I don’t like to drink when my I am in turmoil. My friend saw me at probably the worst I have ever been.

This heartbreak… it is different from all the others. It is different because I know in the deepest depths of my soul that my love and I are supposed to be together. While some may doubt me and say “you’ll get over it” or “you’ll find someone better”, that’s just not true. This love… it’s the kind you see in movies. It’s the kind that keeps people up at night. It’s the kind that people write about in books and dream about, wondering if they’ll ever find such a love. It’s the grow-old-together kind of love.

It hasn’t even been a week since my love and I ended our… well, before the intermission. I understand that the first week is always the hardest. It is always a test of endurance and strength. I cannot sit here and say that I will be ok when it is all over and truly believe myself. The week isn’t over yet. All I know is that what happened last night… that has never happened with any other break-up. While the vodka may have had some part in it, the screaming, the pain that released itself from my body, the pain that I felt as that pain left… the vulnerability… all of that was new.

Being vulnerable and being forced to recognize that even the strong must fall sometimes was hard. I have always been strong for other people and felt that I did not deserve other people to be strong for me. I have adhered to the idea that when you are strong, you are strong alone. Even the notion of “needing” other people to help you through it was a sign of weakness. It isn’t. It wasn’t. It won’t ever be.

I am not going to sit here and try to come up with reason after reason for what happened last night. I am not going to pretend that it won’t happen again because it very well may. Or it may not. I don’t know. All I know is that my tears, my blood-curdling screams, the feeling of something dying inside me, there was a reason for it. Something did die inside me so that perhaps something else could be born. I’m not sure what that is or what it looks like. For right now, I just… am.


About Rachael Moyte

Food. Art. Music. Pillow forts. Hula hoops. Beanies. Bass (the instrument, not the fish). Denver. Traveling. Friends. Butterflies. METAL! Comfy pants. Books. Books. Books. Writing. Beer. Walking. Sunshine. Rain. Sugar skulls. Tattoos. Lots more.

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