My Heart of Glass

It was the pink lined tables in the middle of the aisle, drawing my attention to the terrifying looking stuffed animals holding hearts with sappy sayings. I indulged my imagination in an alternative universe where it would be appropriate to walk over to the rows, swipe my arm down them and stomp all over the animals.

How come it makes me so angry to see Valentine’s Day things at the grocery story? I mused internally. Because it’s the GROCERY STORE. My more passionate side yelled back.

I already get overwhelmed at the grocery — the people, the sensory overload, the decisions. So now, my senses are assaulted with the pink and the red and the hearts and the things. I’d liken it to probably what a woman who longs to be a mother but for one reason or another is unable to feels on Mother’s Day. Or maybe when you’ve lost your father and everything “Dad” starts popping up in June. My anxiety levels are at an all time high this time of year. Even when there has been someone special in my life, I’ve hated it.

Because love is the great war of my life.

The battle between my head and my heart. The tension between rational and wild. The never ending go round between what I know and what I feel.

I’m in the war of my life
At the door of my life
Out of time and there’s nowhere to run

One of the things I learned in one of my classes this semester is one developmental theorist would say we are hardwired to create intimate relationships between ages 20 – 40. It literally can cause us physical pain not to meet this developmental milestone. So we create an app for this and a website for that. Desperately searching for the chance of connection in some way. To be known and seen and loved in spite of and because of. Love is the great war of our lives.

Yet to risk for love comes with the risk for rejection. And the risk of rejection might actually reveal we are the frauds we’re all afraid we are that we’re frantically covering with Instagram posts and Snapchat filters and Twitter hashtags. But I’ve been reminding myself when another is chosen it says nothing about my value.

Do I sound like a broken record yet?

Because I can’t seem to grasp this truth.

When someone else is chosen, for love or a job or a friendship or a spot, it says nothing about the inherent value of who I am.

But I, I take the collection of moments. The time he didn’t call for a second date, the girl who could be my twin if I lost 100lbs and was photoshopped just a bit, the candidate who cultivated a specific skill set I never got the hang of, the girls who go on get-aways together, or the woman he married after we dated. The collection of these add up to an answer of my worth. Like taking apples + french fries + puppies + the ocean = purple. Now I’ve never been good at math but even I know there is faulty thinking in that equation.

My head can rationalize. My head will tell me green apples must be added to red apples to get an actual amount of apples. My head will walk through the logic that these circumstances say nothing about who I am. It will say the truth and it will rationalize the story and it will compare and contrast and analyze until there is nothing left to examine. It will keep me from losing my mind and doing something crazy.

My heart will run wild. It will run down the road to when I’m 80 years old. It will say “never” and “always” and “forever.” My heart will stay dramatic and unpredictable and free. My heart will compare and contrast and find all the ways I lack. My heart will plead and beg and try to manipulate my head into the crazy.

I’ve got a hammer
And a heart of glass
I got to know right now
Which walls to smash

The war of my life becomes negotiating the thoughts and the feelings. I must decide every day my worth does not change if someone, anyone, chooses me that day. Because, the choice of someone else over me is rejection. Just like an atom is rejected by a space already being occupied by another atom. But rejection does not equal who we are. Rejection is not the sum of our equation. Rejection is not the last chapter in our novel.

I’m in the war of my life
I’m at the core of my life
Got no choice but to fight ’til it’s done 

And every damn day we must choose the narrative rejection does not tell us who we are.

Choose on, dear friend, choose on tender heart, choose on warrior.

Got no choice but to fight ’til it’s done
So fight on  (I won’t give up)
Fight on

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