It happens to everyone, just so you know. We have all been trampled on, taken advantage of, shamed, embarrassed, or dumped at least once in our lives. Rest assure, some handle it with grace instead of vodka, but to each their own. At the end of the day, you still go to bed alone and it still sucks. I feel you, I’ve visited that dark place more times than I care to mention.
You need to grieve and accept the feeling of depression. And I know what it is like to have nothing on your mind but the distraught state you are in and the reason you feel that way. Naturally, your friends will get sick of hearing about your pity party and demand that you suck it up, right away, and move on. But that simply is not how it works. You’re allowed to be sad, upset, hurt, mad, all of the above.
But don’t you ever, ever forget that you are allowed to be happy, first.
You can only be a victim for so long before you realize that it’s not a good look. It has to be your own idea to be happy. You literally have to decide that you are going to take a shower, do your make up, wear a cute outfit, and seize the day. No one else can make you do it. You become at least 100% more attractive once you wear your confidence on your sleeve.
Ya know, it’s so surreal to me to even talk about heartbreak at this point in my life. I haven’t felt the feeling in a hot minute, but I will never forget the first time I was stricken by heartbreak. You know that saying “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger”? Well, there is far more truth in that statement than you can imagine. It’s unfortunate, in a sense. After so many blows, you just become numb. It’s good to feel, but resisting the temptation to fall victim to your emotions is the tricky part. The girl who falls victim to her emotions is the infamous a**hole we know as “Debbie”…you know, Debbie the Downer? Yeah, her. Don’t be that girl. Grieve. Shower. Wear the heels. Do the hair. Walk the walk. Talk the talk. And lean on a good friend. In the meantime, keep this in mind:
Take it from someone who was in a physically and mentally abusive relationship for 3 years and is now getting married to the man of her dreams in 4 months, it gets better. But it only gets better if you stop living your life on repeat. If you take zero chances if you continue to return texts from what’s-his-face if you never decide that you are in charge of your own happiness, if you stay after abuse or cheating, I cannot help you. Like I said, this has to be your idea. But once upon a time, it was my idea, and apparently, it was the best idea I’ve ever had.
Look, everyone has this insanely unrealistic depiction of what a life of love means, of what partnership means, of what marriage means. Our generation didn’t stand a fighting chance when it came to love because a lot of us were busy picking up the pieces of our parent’s broken marriages, all while having access to tweet about it from too young an age. We see movies that convince us that love is waking up every day to flowers and notes and horse carriage rides to date nights. No, that is so far from what love is. That stuff is petty compared to what a fulfilling, loving relationship has to offer.
Allow me to elaborate: when I was at school in Stillwater, I had a major health scare. I was told there was a tumor attached to my hearing canal. At the time, when I was waiting for my MRI results and doctors appointments for more answers, I could not have cared less about any of the flowers Clint bought me, or the notes he left me on my mirror (and trust me, he does both a lot. Gosh, he’s amazing). All I cared about was having someone to hug me, pray with me, pray for me, and tell me that everything would most assuredly be alright. I needed a foundation, someone who was stronger than I. Someone who would see to it that I didn’t miss a class, an assignment, or a meal while I was at my most vulnerable point in life. Someone who would carry me to bed when I was too weak to even make it out of the tub. Someone who would see me through the hard times, and revel with me in the good. That is love, and it is rare.
I have anxiety. I don’t know a lot of people with as severe a case as me, but they may also just handle it better than I. No boyfriend or friend has ever understood my anxiety and depression like Clint. Wanna know why he understands it? Because he cares. You know how I know he cares? He asks questions. Inquires about my well-being. Genuinely observes my body language and develops a thesis as to why I may be feeling the way I am feeling. Communication. You know, that thing we had before the 3in x 6in piece of technology took over our lives.
I wish, so badly, that when I was involved in my abusive relationship (for too dang long, might I add) that I would have known then what I know now. I could have saved myself a world of hurt, hate, regret, embarrassment, abuse, I could go on. But then again, when I talk to God about it, I tend to thank him for the lessons I learned the hard way. They have so much more of an impact than the old’ slap-on-the-wrist. I’ve learned many a lesson by taking the road I wanted to take instead of taking the road I should have taken. It wasn’t a scenic route, but it made for good endurance. It made me strong. I had to climb over hurdle after hurdle with bloody shins and scraped elbows. I never knew this, but all along I was headed to the same destination. The view is beautiful from the top of the mountain, and worth the pain.
I am happier now than I have ever been in my entire life. I’m stronger, smarter, more motivated, inspired and I am, indeed, lovable. You are too. One low blow to the heart is not enough to keep you down, and if it is you need to read some of my other blogs about loving yourself.
Love is wonderful, yes. But it is not in its purest form when it is rushed. So many girls just want love and flowers and carriage rides and fireworks, but that isn’t loved. Most of that is a novelty, and it does fade. Looks fade. Clothes go out of style. Sex life changes. Money comes and goes. But love, true love, in its purest form, will fossilize in the sands of time without disintegration.
Article Credits: Corsi Crumpler
Millionaire’s Digest Team, Contributor