Wildflowers
Is it cracking open, or is it breaking?
I rub the place over my chest as I stare at the tiny photo on the screen.
Flowers he had sent her, posted to her Instagram profile.
He did the same for me when we first started dating. Whenever we were apart, he’d look up a nearby florist and have fancy flowers delivered.
She got hydrangeas. I always got wildflowers.
They say heartbreak can be healthy because it opens you emotionally — one becomes more present for themselves, for others.
The jagged edges of a broken heart turn into authenticity, which in turn becomes one’s truth.
On a larger picture we connect that way.
On a smaller one, seeing this courting cliché was breaking me.
First, flowers. Then, she posts forgettable photos of craft cocktails (his favorite).
After that, a classic selfie with the chin tilted down just so, full cleavage on display.
I wanted to gag. Instead, I cried.
I was killing time at a place called the People’s Car Wash in Oakland. The sides of my face were rinsed with salty tears of which I was ashamed (since this was all so lame).
I missed him.
I missed what we had and what we had been working towards. I missed the home we created together. I regretted how hard we were on ourselves and each other in a city that was tough enough to begin with.
On that day, I made the decision to forgive myself. For a lot of things.
For choosing what is easy over what’s right.
For forgetting all of the reasons why it didn’t work out between us.
For placing blame, for feeling regret, and for doubting myself when he said I had problems or wasn’t strong enough or good enough.
As I choose myself, my voice grows stronger. I feel it in my chest where something begins to crack open. Rather than be sad I want to nurture it. I want to release it, to water an entire field of wildflowers.
Originally posted in http://losangelestonewyork.tumblr.com/
More about the author: http://nicolecifani.com
