When I was 22, I couldn’t wait to turn 28. I was certain that once I hit a certain age of “adulthood,” that I wouldn’t dwell over trivial things like: popularity, clothes, spring break, and LOVE. For some reason, I thought that something magical happened in your late twenties that disabled you from crying over boys.
What I’ve learned is love has no limit, and nobody is exempt. You figure that if it happens enough, you’d get used to or at least numb to getting your heart broken. But no matter how many times I’ve experienced it, the pain never subsides. You never get used to a broken heart.
I received a text message from a friend the other day that made my heart bleed a little. It read, “Why do I keep doing this to myself?” It’s the same question I’d myself whenever I’m in the same position. I ask it every. single. time.
It’s like a hangover. It’s always fun getting them, horrible getting rid of them. Yet, we continue to cheers to the freakin’ weekend, even though we already know what’s going to happen. Then we say we’ll never drink again. And we don’t – until we do. So why do we keep putting ourselves in positions to get our heart broken? My answer is always a toss-up if not combination between “Because I’m stupid,” and “I don’t know”. But I do know why it hurts so much.
Like my friend and many others I know, I love hard. Even if the other person doesn’t. Even if the other person doesn’t love me at all. And I know it’s done nothing but land me on the floor, crying into my knees, but it’s the only way I know how to love. Why would you want to love any other way?
No one ever says, “OMG I love you so little!” That doesn’t even make sense. It’s either you love someone/something, or don’t love it at all. So it only makes sense for unrequited love to hurt the way it does. Like they say, “Go hard or go home”. And if you love something, you love the shit out of it (in the most healthy, non suffocating way possible of course). It may get you hurt at the end, but at least you know you’ll survive. Every. single. time.
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