“…perks of dating a writer…”
More than 19 years have passed since I was born, since I went through my first open heart surgery. It’s been over a decade since I “discovered” a black hole inside myself in which I could throw my emotions and thoughts into.
When he walked into my life, immediately amazed at how I could pour my heart onto a page, I felt what we knew as an unique connection neither of us had ever felt. When he started to get to know me, I struggled to explain what went through my mind and what my heart genuinely felt. Therefore, I would write. It had been a while since I spent nonstop hours with a desire to write but, with him, the desire never seemed to perish.
I would write, and he would try to understand. I would write, and he would be able to partially see life through my eyes. I would write, and he would be both amazed and stunned at how much emotion I refused to express otherwise. He loved seeing the part of me I would rarely share with someone else. He loved having a little insight to the tornado of thoughts that I claimed constantly destroyed my mind. He loved dating a writer.
But, of course, we didn’t last.
Before I heard him say his goodbye, the piano room had become our spot at school. It was a little sanctuary-like place for the burdened heart and broken mind. It was the rest place for the girl who constantly wore a mask to see the rest of the world, and for the boy who needed the quiet place to pray and make his musical talents fly. It was where he could express himself musically through playing the piano, playing the guitar, singing, etc. It was the safe haven that was an addition to the couple he already come to love, and the one she needed so, so much.
The first few weeks of school, despite the strongest desire to step into that room, I avoided the area with thoughts of bumping into him in the back of my mind. I didn’t want to revisit the pain. I didn’t want to wake up the memories in him. I didn’t want to make an encounter just dreadful for the both of us. I felt this hurricane of thoughts yet couldn’t bring myself to write; every time I sat down in front of my keyboard, like I have for millions of times, I would not be able to find the right words to say or would do my best to avoid writing to the one who broke my heart. “…perks of dating a writer…” somehow transformed into “…perks of dating someone broken…” in my mind.
I knew going to the piano room would be the push I needed to let my heart bleed once again. I believed I was doing the right thing when I turned the opposite direction of where my feet wanted to lead towards. But , after a while, I went. With a few deep breathes, I followed my feet and chased my heart to the one place I really wanted to go. With my nervous heart racing, I tried to keep my mind from spinning too.
I sat against the wall behind the large wood desk in front, as I once did countless times before. And I cried. I sobbed, not remembering the last time I had remembered how broken I was. But, I didn’t cry with pity for myself; I didn’t cry as anger fueled my heart; I didn’t cry with desperate measures to get back what I once lost; I cried…without reason at all. I felt my heart crack with what felt like stone covering my flesh; I felt my blood rush and my heart bleed with emotions I could not describe. The writer in me was silenced and the urge to say something slowly vanished for the thoughts that ran through my mind and the raw emotions that flowed from my heart could not be explained with some hundred words or any kind of witty comparison.
I had expected for the memories to rush through me and invade my emotions, so when both mind and body remained calm I knew something was terribly wrong. The room that once felt like ‘home’ – a place in which a person feels wanted, welcomed, accepted, loved, and cared for; a place where one can be 100% themselves without much fear of judgement; a place where there was safety and security, love and warmth – now, only felt like a room that once was.
When I cried, I felt myself lose restraint. I had lost what I knew was a sanctuary. I had lost a part of myself that I had known for so, so many years; I lost the writer in me; I lost the part of me that felt whole. “…perks of dating a writer…” truly felt like “…perks of dating someone broken…”
About two months had passed since that day. And I miss my safe haven everyday.