It was just another morning of scrolling Instagram, liking pictures of girls holding flowers, delicious food that was infinitely more appealing than the Boots Meal Deal I was about to consume, a holiday picture that made me wanna jump onto Sky Scanner and ‘just whack it on the credit card’ and there it was. One of those memes designed intentionally to be shared on an Instagram story at just gone midnight with the caption THIS.  Y’know the type.  theladymanc specialises in them, lalalaletmeexplain would rip them to shreds, and try as we might not to let them, when they resonate, boy do they resonate.

The indication of these cynical memes?  11 years of relationships, r-bombing, fuckboys, dating, gaslighting, breadcrumbing (could I use anymore millennial dating terms here?) has made a once hopeless romantic, bitter.

It would be a lot easier, of course, to be the kind of person who doesn’t have such an open heart, but even after my earth shattering break up of 2018 that left me unable to enjoy cheese (unheard of), my heart remained as optimistic as it was when I fell in ‘love’ (I use that term loosely) at age 14 with a guy who I thought was my schools version of Kurt Cobain.  He would play Bon Jovi songs to me over MSN messenger and broke my heart spectacularly (and multiple times).  On reflection, he didn’t look anything like Kurt, but despite that first experience of heartbreak, my heart remained just as open through the snogging and fumbling teenage years until I found myself in my first adult relationship at the age of 19.

Although we ticked off the relationship firsts: a holiday, a house, a dog and a dishwasher, it came crashing down at 24.  What next? Countless swipes, enough dick pics to start a porn site, first dates that I’d rather forget, ghostings and those moments of realisation when I decided I was probs happier single, I met someone unexpectedly, IRL.  Soz internet dating statistics.  Of course, it ended 5 years on, and although bruised and battered after a hurricane of a break up that left devastation in its path (as hurricanes do) 6 months later I headed back into the dating world.

Was I guarded or did I run at full speed ahead at the very first sign of intimacy?  Nope.  I dived, I invested and I gave as much of my battered heart as I did when I was 14 to wannabe Cobain, because that’s just me.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, I love big and despite the knock downs, the rejections, the hours spent on the phone to friends, composing long run on messages and swearing that I’d never get my heart broken again by a boy, I’ll always be the girl who’s a romantic cliche, has a soft heart and I’m… well, I’m kinda okay with that (now) because… whats the alternative? 

It would be so much easier, after heartbreak, to let life make you hard.  To allow the sweetness of falling in love again be replaced with bitterness, fear and holding yourself back.  The flaw in holding yourself back?  We’re all here to feel and experience, that’s life and what use is a heart that is closed off to possibility?

Because sure, there’s the possibility of being broken.  Picking up the pieces of your heart after a failed relationship or crush is awful. But I’m talking about the possibility of all of it.  The possibility of finding a connection again with somebody. Looking forward to seeing someone because being around them just makes your day better. Of waking up to good morning messages, making memories, of falling in love.  The possibility of finding love again is surely enough to overshadow possible future hurt?

And is there any wonder why the natural instinct is to slam on the breaks to avoid heartbreak?

Of course we want to protect ourselves, cos it’s a horrible feeling, heart break.  In fact, there’s no pain quite like it – and this coming from a girl who once had a period for 15 days and got hit by a transit van . Not in the same week I might add. There’s an empty, guttural pain that keeps us up at night, makes us feel empty, lost, hopeless, insane, and I’d throw myself in front of a van time and time again to avoid that empty feeling and trying to not cry on public transport over a Taylor Swift song (Last Kiss, FYI).  We wonder whether we’ll get to the point where we don’t expect their name to flash up on our phones and not to attribute sentimentality to every little thing in order to legitimise our sadness.  That pain shouldn’t make us impervious to loving again.  What kind of life would we be living if we closed ourselves off that little bit more each time we come up against a failed relationship or unrequited love?

I once got hit by a transit van and it was infinitely less painful than having my heart broken. 

I think one of the hardest things when it comes to moving on from a past relationship is overcoming baggage and heading into a new one. And I don’t mean the physical baggage: the dogs, Netflix subscription, photographs and birthday cards you feel too sentimental to throwaway.  It’s the emotional baggage.  The memories of sleepless nights, screaming rows, tears, holding out hope that you could both just try “one more time” (and that this might be the time it actually works).  You look back at every red flag you should have seen waving whilst you carried on somewhat blissfully unaware and you wish you’d been the one to leave first because it’s easier to leave than be left behind. Even deeper than that, it’s the anxieties you’ve taken from that relationship and how they’ll affect your next one.  That kinda pain is something that’s hard to shake, so why should you want to potentially repeat it all over again with someone new?

Nobody wants to experience pain, thats a given (unless that your kink, ofc) but when we’re younger are we taught that when we fall down and graze our knees that we should stop playing, stop having that youthful exuberance and excitement for life, sit on the sidelines, scared of scuffing our knees again?  No. Our parents would gather us up in their arms, examine our scuffed knees and teary cheeks.  They’d kiss it better, we’d dust ourselves down and although gingerly at first, we’d continue to play.  Although that sting was still there and would be for a few days, slowly it would heal, but we were never afraid to run and play.

Scuffed knees never stopped us getting up so why should a broken heart stop us from loving again?