Why are heartbreaks so underrated?

It crushes your entire being. Why did they call it heartbreak anyway? When every little bone in your body feels like crumbling; when every muscle is pained; when every inch of your skin feels bruised and chapped; when your stomach feels like it’s going to throw itself up; when your eyes get so puffy from crying out loud until your tear ducts get so juiced out; when your teeth hurt like hell from clenching your jaws as you cry; when your head feels like it’s going to pop like an atomic bomb with all the hundreds and thousands of thoughts flooding your mind. Yet all these lexicons summed it all up in a ten-letter word involving only a single organ! The heart isn’t the only body part that mourns over lost love. I’d rather call it soulbreak or a near-death experience because you are so wounded that you’d rather die with all the hurt.

Heartbreak is an encapsulation of misery, loneliness, pain, hurt, agony, sorrow, desolation, despair, anguish, torture, suffering, grief and all forms of physical pain one could ever hold up.

But it’s not the word that matters though. At the end of the day, you crawl up on your bed in fetal position, cry your heart out and you just… break. And you either curse the person who broke you or you blame yourself for falling into the pit of something you knew was never going to last. You blame yourself and vow to never fall prey to them again. But because you have never felt something so strong before, you try to win them back so it becomes a cycle—of getting them to stay, then eventually they start to drift away again and on and on until you get tired of running in circles like an old merry-go-round. Few more spins and then you give up. You let go of the rope, jump off the ride, throw up and swear to never ride those plastic horses again. The throwing up stage is the hardest because along with the puke comes the regret—that you shouldn’t have fallen in line for a dreary ride that’d only get you woozy, that you should’ve bought a cotton candy instead and watch how people look stupid and awful as they scream for dear life in all those rides.

Stay in your bleak bubble, that’s how you’ll never get hurt, but never live to feel the ecstasy of love and its many splendid marvels.

Right now, I am making an experiment where the test subject is me. I don’t know math, but when you’re suffering from a gut-wrenching phenomenon called heartbreak, you get to do things you never imagine doing like walking in a dark road, unafraid of the dangers that may be lurking in the shadows of the dark.

I call this experiment my 100 Days of Rehab. My ex was my drug, my ecstasy in my once bleak world. I was addicted to him for a good one year and still, I am, present tense, addicted to him. And you know what drugs do to people. They light your world with an iota of happiness, and then leave you high, then wreck your life and then kill you. No, seriously, you become so depressed, but you don’t die (if suicide has never crossed your mind, yet. Don’t worry, I don’t have a suicidal tendency). Now I have come up with a self project where I allotted a time limit for healing, hence;

X= y-z / 100

X will be the dependent variable. Y is my moving on phase minus the Z, all the hurt and pain divided by 100. 100 days. An experiment that shall be limited to a hundred days. I know it’s kinda absurd and no one really knows the exact time period for healing, but I’m positive that in a hundred days, all the traces of my ex will be wiped out clean. But I sure am gonna miss him forever.

It hurts like hell, you know. But this too shall pass. I know.

About Amanda Jean

Amanda Jean is a 21 year-old Public Relations writer for a university in Zamboanga City.