This post is for all of you; those who read my words, who write to me, who share my blog, who leave comments. You are all the reason that I write. The knowledge that my broken world is not too much for yours; it can be enough to keep me going.
From the bottom of my heart, thankyou. Jess xxx
“You don’t love someone because they’re perfect. You love them in spite of the fact that they’re not”
And there it was. Nine months of first love, first nights, first introductions and first fights.Tears, laughter and the ache of missing. A not quite complete calendar. And there it sat, blinking at me, words spat across a screen. It all came down to this moment.
I don’t give a fuck
The world slows. Tears fill. Lips tremble.
Let me tell you this; Before a heart breaks, it slows. It slows it’s own beat. It slows time itself. The world softens at it’s edges. Your ears will fill with silence’s song. Your lips will part and taste the breath which fills you. Your heart slows all. It buys you a few seconds, certainly no more. Treasure these seconds, cling onto them. Hold onto them with everything that you have.
Because soon they will be gone. And your world will fall apart.
But, I can’t help but wonder. If the rest of you is already broken, wouldn’t a broken heart fit the last place of the puzzle? Could one more break only make you whole?
The world is so worried about not being enough. Not skinny enough, not pretty enough. Not enough money, not enough time. They are forever in search of something more, the idea that soon they will be complete. They are searching for their missing pieces. But you see, we aren’t all the same. My Nanna tells me that God created us equal. But that’s not true. Sometimes you end up like me; Sometimes you are just too much.
I try to remember the day that I first realised I was too much for one person. Maybe it was when Mummy sobbed in the shower, because I had too many infections. Maybe it was when Daddy worked on all the days when the sun rose, a desperate attempt to fight too many medical bills. Maybe when J screamed, refused to step foot into the space which once could have been called a home.
Do you know what it’s like to live here. Too many tears for one brother.
Maybe I realised when baby brother refused to speak to me, too many days spent in the hospital. Their tears, their shouting at one another, the sobs were their only release. They were filled with me. I was overflowing in their lives.
I warned him, of course I did. Of all to expect. I placed screams in his hands, and expected him to hold them in the night. I fed him salty kisses, as my lips trembled and I begged release from a monster he could not see. I burnt his wrists with the touch of my own, clasping, desperately, as my muscles fitted. The rasp of my own breath filled his, and still, I was so certain he would keep breathing.
You can keep breathing. But only as long as your heart continues to beat. People worry about being short of breath. It doesn’t occur to them that too much breath is equally fatal.
You can always add to a recipe, a letter of ink, a canvas. But you cannot take the chocolate drippings from fondue, the postcode from an envelope, Mona from Lisa. Because, as much as we like to pretend that less is more, our heart knows otherwise. Our heart knows that without the last piece, we have lost something special along the way. That we have lost ourselves.
Well meaning faces smile at me, for a cure is surely not far away. The church prays each week, a miracle certain to reach me soon. The White Coats scribble for more powders to coat my throat, a desperate attempt. And I smile and thank them, and send them love and light, for they all mean well, in their own way. But I don’t need a cure, a miracle, or a wonder-drug.
I just need someone who has space in their heart for my extra beats.
Do not fool yourself into thinking that I am one of a kind, unlucky. That I drew the short straw, and the rest of the world lives in a milkshake dream of long, curly slurps. We are everywhere. You just need to open your eyes.
See the girl that you stared at on the morning tram. The one who coughed in violent wracks, crackles much too deep for someone so pretty. You stared and turned away. Maybe thoughts of cigarettes and poor diet danced across your shadowed mind. For, of course you couldn’t understand. Your heart doesn’t recognise that each breath she takes without a machine is an achievement. And now see the boy she goes home to. See them rest in one anothers arms. See them laugh and speak of their day, as he kisses the scars from her lines and IV’s. Know that she will never be too much for him, and he for her. See that their space for one another reaches into the stars.
See the man at your university. See that his legs are plastic. Maybe if you took the time, you would know. You would know that Meningococcal robbed him of his ability to run at sixteen. You would know that now he is a paralympian. See his darling waiting for him at home, smiling beneath sheets of paper and her own prescriptions. See their wedding album, and the child they will likely never have, yet try all the same. See that his plastic meets with her broken flesh. See that they are a perfect match.
See the girl in the supermarket, the one with the deepest of eyes. See that you stare when she pauses for a rest. See her wince as she bends to reach the basket. And now see the girl she goes home to, a relationship so much of the world does not understand. See that this girl loves the other. See that she strokes her cheek as the vomit stains her lips. See that she knows the places too sore to kiss. See that she feeds her the mornings medications as she speaks of her days plans. See that the world blinks twice when they see them hold hands. See that she never blinks when her darling loses the ability to walk.
See that she can hold so much more than another could.
And now look at me. Meet your lashes with mine, and see only that you do see. I see you point at the bandana donning my frayed locks, my body now too tired to maintain that which is not essential to life. I see you whisper with your friends, as my bones poke from each edge. See how slowly I walk, how quickly my chest rises. For you, I have too much bone, too much frayed hair, too many heartbeats, too many medications. I was too much for him. I am too much for you. I am too much for most.
But there is a heart out there, whose beat waits for mine. A heart that will hold me in it’s arms, so that I can dance. A heart which understands I wish to live in a blue house, and is not aware that I live in a nightmare. A heart which lives to hold Maxalon, mucus, music and memories in equal breaths.
There rests a heart which will beat the same as my own. A heart which can love all that is broken, and hopes only to remember the moments that have been.
Before a heart breaks, it slows. It slows it’s beat, it slows sound, it slows time.
When a heart fills, it slows. It slows it’s beat, it slows sound, it slows time.
There is only one difference; a broken heart gives you time to prepare for your world to fall apart.
A full heart gives you time for your world to be pieced together.
My broken world will never be too much for yours