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luna_manarI often read WebMD articles to laugh at them, or otherwise get pissed off. They oversimplify, overhype, and stereotype like crazy under the guise of speaking in layman.
But I did find this interesting. It made me think about the way I deal with relationships that fall apart.
Honestly, I don't think I handle it the same way a lot of people do. I don't discard everything that makes me think of the person or try to separate myself from the loss. I do stop speaking to them, and I do stay away from them for a very long time (three years is a pretty good estimate, I think). But as far as "what happened to make it fall apart," I keep the memoirs. I take a hard look at them. I hold onto the hot steel of my sadness, and I let it burn me until I figure out how to process the pain.
When I'm sad about a permanent loss of something very important to me, my inclination isn't to try and fix it, and I don't want to just look away from it until I forget it, or try to pretend it really wasn't that important (the "he wasn't good for you, anyway" excuse). No, no, no. It was important. It was good. The fact it turned out bad doesn't mean that it was never good. I want to process it and accept it as a beautiful and natural tragedy of life. And in doing so, I conquer it; I make it a part of my identity, a part of my face, like a scar. Additionally, the acid-burn of thinking about the loss does a lot to neutralize withdrawl. It's like punching a wall until your hands bleed so you don't have to feel a migraine. The active anger, mental screaming, open-bleeding hurt actually releases chemicals that defeat the insidious addiction-heartache.
If it's an addiction, I break it by teaching my brain not to interpret the loss as a negation of What Was. Part of what makes close relationships feel so good is that you can think back on them and give yourself another shot of the drug, simply because the memory is that positive. Because I keep the memories, because I don't forget, because I think of them as stronger than the pain that came with them, I can still get that shot of the love-drug when I think of them. It's okay that it burned to the ground; it's another part of my life, and my life is a very interesting one.
If I don't spend a few weeks surrounding myself with the loss, the fact I'm not dealing with it upfront will initiate the withdrawal symptoms. It will hound me until I snap. I can't do that. The idea is insulting to my sense of integrity, my strength as a person. That's part of why the moth is such an important symbol for me; I wrap myself in my life, loss and all, and I let it transform me into something even more beautiful. If I left anything out, I'd never be able to grow.
That's waxing a little bit philosophical, though. The point is, I'm not sure distancing oneself from the object of rejection is necessarily the best course for everyone. Some people don't like to just burn pictures and forget it ever happened. In a way, it feels like admitting defeat. I'm not saying that's the way it is for everyone; but that's the way it is for me.
No one can deny me the good times. I'll take them with the sorrow. They're mine.
But I did find this interesting. It made me think about the way I deal with relationships that fall apart.
Honestly, I don't think I handle it the same way a lot of people do. I don't discard everything that makes me think of the person or try to separate myself from the loss. I do stop speaking to them, and I do stay away from them for a very long time (three years is a pretty good estimate, I think). But as far as "what happened to make it fall apart," I keep the memoirs. I take a hard look at them. I hold onto the hot steel of my sadness, and I let it burn me until I figure out how to process the pain.
When I'm sad about a permanent loss of something very important to me, my inclination isn't to try and fix it, and I don't want to just look away from it until I forget it, or try to pretend it really wasn't that important (the "he wasn't good for you, anyway" excuse). No, no, no. It was important. It was good. The fact it turned out bad doesn't mean that it was never good. I want to process it and accept it as a beautiful and natural tragedy of life. And in doing so, I conquer it; I make it a part of my identity, a part of my face, like a scar. Additionally, the acid-burn of thinking about the loss does a lot to neutralize withdrawl. It's like punching a wall until your hands bleed so you don't have to feel a migraine. The active anger, mental screaming, open-bleeding hurt actually releases chemicals that defeat the insidious addiction-heartache.
If it's an addiction, I break it by teaching my brain not to interpret the loss as a negation of What Was. Part of what makes close relationships feel so good is that you can think back on them and give yourself another shot of the drug, simply because the memory is that positive. Because I keep the memories, because I don't forget, because I think of them as stronger than the pain that came with them, I can still get that shot of the love-drug when I think of them. It's okay that it burned to the ground; it's another part of my life, and my life is a very interesting one.
If I don't spend a few weeks surrounding myself with the loss, the fact I'm not dealing with it upfront will initiate the withdrawal symptoms. It will hound me until I snap. I can't do that. The idea is insulting to my sense of integrity, my strength as a person. That's part of why the moth is such an important symbol for me; I wrap myself in my life, loss and all, and I let it transform me into something even more beautiful. If I left anything out, I'd never be able to grow.
That's waxing a little bit philosophical, though. The point is, I'm not sure distancing oneself from the object of rejection is necessarily the best course for everyone. Some people don't like to just burn pictures and forget it ever happened. In a way, it feels like admitting defeat. I'm not saying that's the way it is for everyone; but that's the way it is for me.
No one can deny me the good times. I'll take them with the sorrow. They're mine.
