Heartbreaker: An Essay

Heart Breaker

by Nikole Early

Every person who has ever been in a relationship has a story of the partner who completely wrecked their life in someway. Sometimes the damage is tangible; a messy divorce with lawyer fees scattered amongst the emotional toll. A ruined credit line. Even, god forbid, an abuser that left you with physical and emotional scars.

Most of the time though, the damage left in the wake is emotional. An injury that is invisible, yet leaves behind scars even after recovery. The kind of scars that even the most skilled plastic surgeons will never come close to covering up. Look close, you'll see the fracture lines all over the body.

Seven years ago I met my soul mate. I had always scoffed at the idea of a soul mate, until I met him. From the very minute I met him, we connected in a way that I had never connected with someone before or since. Within a few weeks of our meeting, we started dating and my entire life was consumed with him. We worked opposite schedules, but every free moment we had we were together. When we were not physically together we were texting or on the phone with one another. I thought we fit together perfectly.

Until we didn't. As soon as we encountered the smallest bit of adversity (which ironically had little to do with our relationship), he ditched me. Complete radio silence from him, aside from a very brief conversation in which he informed me that we had broken up. Not that he was breaking up with me, but that we had mutually come to a descion to break up.

For some reason, I fail to remember that particular conversation.

I knew then that he was a jerk. A loser and a jerk. But that five minute conversation we had destroyed me. My self confidence and self worth was destroyed. I spent months barely functioning and then after months of complete misery I jumped at the chance to give the guy a second chance. Thankfully I came to my senses before too long and I was the one to bail.

I met my husband and I recovered.

But seven years later, I still feel the scars from the injuries that were slashed opened that Sunday night. This past week I found myself back in that panicked state when my husband was an hour late picking me up from work. Like on that fateful night, my calls went to voice mail and my texts were left unanswered. Rationally I knew that I had not been abandoned (my husband had a flat tire and left his cell at home), but those emotional scars used the opportunity to bubble up to the surface and plant that little bubble of dread into my heart, and not for the first time.

And I'm afraid that that will never go away.