I wonder sometimes if there is such a thing as PTSD of the heart. A sort of post-heartbreak panic. And I wonder if there are little bombs placed randomly throughout my life: A song here, a scent there, exploding without warning. Taking me by surprise.

I wonder if there are cues in my psyche that signal when the end must be coming. Because even the most trivial of things can appear to put me in survival mode. And I start to think we’re all done for. And I start to believe I’m sinking. I follow the steep staircase of stress…down, down, down. Step by rapid, yet agonizing, step.

I take the hurt in my heart and throw it like a ball of fire into the air, knowing full well it will burn everything it touches; feeling so assured that the damage is done. With eyes closed, I hold myself close. “Tell me when it’s over,” I say to no one in particular.

Silence.

There’s a tug at my throat saying it’s OK to speak up, a stir in my stomach saying I’m safe.

(Thank God for it. I’d be shut-down and scared for days without it.)

One mistake does not a disaster make. One misunderstanding will not cause me to come undone. I am not a perfect mother, girlfriend nor worker. I am a tangled soul of love, overwhelm and good intentions. But the most of these is Love.

The most of these is me.

In spite of heartbreak, in spite of mistakes and misunderstandings, I keep on. Settling into a new way of thinking, relaxing into a life of letting go.

Whoa.

OK.

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