There are some dark places that you will always return to, like homes that hide in your bones and

I've returned to this blog. I've returned to writing.

Fitting, considering I started this blog to channel a lot of post-breakup energy and get rid of those pent-up negative emotions to find some kind of closure. Fitting because since starting this blog about three years ago, with the intention of writing about breakup with boyfriend, I have gotten back together with said boyfriend and broken up with said boyfriend again.

So the prodigal son is back, and broken.

Except the prodigal son is no longer 16 and full of resentment and rage. There is no excess bitterness to mask my hurt and fuel my glo up. There's just hurt and more hurt. Fuck.

I wish, oh I wish, I could hate him with every ounce of rage in my body. Or, I wish the sky would split open and swallow me. Most, I just wish I could go back and do this over and not fuck it up. Cause, God, I fucked up the best fucking thing I had going for me. I think I deserve a round of applause for this. An ironic round of applause, at least.

Whatever.

It is day six since breakup, I think. I am not sure. Days since have been spent waking up, rolling over, looking miserably at phone, unblocking and reblocking exboyfriend, bawling, trying to sleep, ignoring the knocking at my door (except best friend K who has spare key to my room and knocks twice before letting herself in to sit at the foot of bed and try to offer encouragement and check if I have eaten - most of the time, I don't answer so I don't have to lie), crawling miserably to shower, spending a few hours in the library pretending not to want to die, returning to bed, repeat.

Mornings, by far, are the worst. I dread waking up so much that I've slipped into a place I used to frequent and don't want to visit anymore. I've started to think things like "I just don't want to wake up." Over a breakup? All the healing I've done to be dissolved with a breakup?

How long is this stage supposed to last again? Days? Weeks?

I don't have days, much less weeks. My exams are in less than a month. I need to crawl out of this hole and into the frame of mind to not fuck my exams up royally. If I don't get out of this place with a degree, how will I ever be able to run away from this town where everybody is in everybody's business? I want the degree to fold into a paper plane and soar to the farthest corner of the world I can think of--Australia, New Zealand, India?

God, are you listening? What do I do now? How do I get the closure I want, the closure the need? Is blocking him the answer? How I prevent this hurt from ever happening again? How do I learn from this? Will there be a day when we just aren't in each other's lives?

All these questions and none of the words to pray it out. Only tears. But my mother is convinced that tears are the language of the broken, and God speaks the language of the broken too. Psalms 147:3: "He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." So, God, I give you my wounds. I give you the broken-bottle shards of a love that smashed wide open and spilled out and almost drowned me. I give you the empty parts of me. I give you all the insecurities, and the pain. I give you the wondering and the torment.

At this point, I don't know if I want to give this love thing another try. I don't want to put myself out there for somebody to have enough power over me to hurt me again. Never again will I choose a love that will not last. So help me God, may I never find this kind of love again.

I'm trying to focus on healing. Moving forward. Avoiding reckless behaviour patterns that I am notorious for with my careless ass - things like rebounding, or drunk calls/texts, dabbling with the past, torturing myself. Spending time with my friends and my family. Talking to my mommy. Glo-ing up. Things that will help speed up the healing.

But I'm still only feeling. Feeling pain, feeling hurt, feeling like shit.

And so I will write, write until the feeling passes.
"The worst thing to happen to an artist or a writer is love. It makes you comfortable, hinders your art, slows you down, distracts you. The best thing to happen is pain."
Here we go, again.