I loved a boy, and I was so sick of him. I despised how every piece of my heart belonged to him, how easily manipulated I was, how quickly he had controlled me. In the cooking class we shared, he once told me he liked my mini parfait because I had garnished it with Oreo crumbles. That very same day, I made 30 more servings and ate it all, just as any other lovesick person would do, in the hopes he would like me back. For two and a half years, I did the most nonsensical and irrational things because of the way his nose scrunched up endearingly when he laughed.
Eventually, it was time to stop being hung up on this uncertainty and find out if my love was reciprocated or rejected. It's well known that nothing lasts forever, and I thought my misery would disappear soon at that time, but I was horribly mistaken.
For five months, I suffered from stress cardiomythopathy, better known as "broken heart syndrome." A good majority of my time was spent in my bed where I was either sobbing, suffocating myself with a pillow temporarily, or trying to hide away from the world. I began to loathe myself even more, and refused to look at my reflection or my body because clearly, something in me was so flawed I couldn't even get a pity date. I thought my heart was deformed after all the chest pains I felt, and no one would ever love me, which made me even more depressed.
When my heart suffered, so did my life. My diet started consisting of Hot Cheetos and cheap chardonnay swiped from my mom's wine cellar. I watched the junk food soak up alcohol and sink to the bottom of a flimsy plastic champagne flute before eating it. It was all I deserved to consume before purging. Why would I need food when I was shorter and chubbier than my best friend, who started dating him?
I got to know my toilet and bathroom tiles very well. Every crevice, every texture. I experienced the cool sensations of porcelain and marble whenever the puke coming up my raw throat was accompanied by a liquid that ran cold in my veins. I destroyed any hope of being able to belt out sad hooks again.
As I lost weight, my writing changed. It was simple, typical, and unoriginal. My diction was horrible, my creativity was long gone, and I couldn't express anything clearly. I grew frustrated with my inability to perform like I was once able to.
Healing was difficult, to say the least. I was too lethargic and feeble to even get out of bed, so how was I supposed to repair the mistreated body I had destroyed irreversibly? I relapsed several times during recovery, and got high or regurgitated. It was more demanding than getting over my heartbreak, but I became healthier than I ever was before.
Looking back on those three years, I realize how self-destructive I was and how detrimental my coping methods were. I had no one to turn to, but if I had someone there with me, my life could have improved then and now. My writing is still watered-down and unimpressive, but it's getting better, like my heart and mind.
Nothing lasts forever.