Sunscreen
So, you’ve just had your heart broken.
There isn’t a word to describe how this feels. Your stomach is hollow, your chest is full of rocks. Sharp, black rocks. You would rather go blind than watch her walk away from you.
Time slows. It slows until you can feel every beat of your heart, until you are inhabiting every moment, counting each second as it goes by. You think, “If I have to feel like this for the rest of my life, I might not make it.”
You sit. You sit and you sit. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to do anything. You start canceling all your plans — even the really important ones, like the ones that will have serious implications for your career. You can’t face leaving the apartment let alone going to a dinner with people that knew her. Know her.
You wallow. You wallow and you wallow and you realize that continuing on like this will turn you, not so slowly but surely, into a gelatinous sack of human garbage. You think to yourself, “Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad.”
So, you’ve just had your heart broken.
Now, what?
Sit as long as you need to. Then get up. You won’t have an appetite. Force yourself to eat, even if it’s just a string cheese and a handful of Cheerios. You won’t want to exercise. You have to exercise. Get to the gym. Go for a run. Do some sit-ups on the floor — whatever, as long as you’re moving.
Go on auto-pilot. Eat, work out, sleep. Do your laundry. Keep showering. Shave at least once a week. Maybe twice. These are the little things that will occupy your brain, that will prevent you from thinking about her.
Then, lean.
Lean on your friends. They will pick you up. They will distract you. They will tell you what you need to hear even if you don’t want to hear it. You will feel embarrassed and vulnerable. You will try to hide the fact that you’ve been crying. You will not make it without them.
Lean into the sun. Sunflowers are heliotropic — without sentience, they bend toward the light. Bend towards your light. Watch the entire series of 30 Rock for the sixth time. Go for a walk in your favorite park after it’s closed, when it’s just you and the moon.
Write. Put your fingers on the keys and let the words flow. The only way to get through this is to let it out. Keep writing. Read what you’ve written. Reread it. Send it to your friends.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
One morning, it will happen. You’ll wake up and you won’t feel like a gorilla is sitting on you. It may only last a few seconds, but you’ll have felt it — that cool breeze, that fleeting succor, that salve on the cut.
When the pain comes back, let it. Don’t try and cauterize the wound. Don’t pretend you’re over her. You’re not. Let each feeling in — then let it go.
Allow yourself to be sad. Allow yourself to feel nothing. Allow yourself to enjoy the crunch of warm bread, the sight of a skyline over a hill, the sound of a muted trumpet.
Your feelings will come in waves. Just keep swimming. Remember what, on September 30, 1859, Abraham Lincoln told the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society: “And this too, shall pass away. How much this expresses — how chastening in the hour of pride, how consoling in the depths of affliction.” And Lincoln, of all people, would know.
So, you’ve just had your heart broken.
But you’re still standing. Put one foot in front of the other. Walk. Keep walking. Go outside. And this really has nothing to do with anything, but a little sunscreen never hurt anybody.
