There was a boy who I thought was the “one.” We met in college – not at some rowdy co-ed party – but at the Catholic Center on campus.
Maybe that was my first mistake. I’d so badly wanted to find the “perfect Catholic guy” that I was blinded by bliss and never saw “IT” coming. IT being the inevitable heartbreak, of course.
I honestly can’t remember how the courtship started. It’s kind of like a dream that starts out all happy and sepia-toned and then quickly takes a turn for the worse and ends up as a jagged jumble in my mind. I recall bits and pieces. He was a musician, and he wooed me with his guitar. That much I definitely remember.
And the end, I remember that, too.
For far too long, I held onto the pain. The hopelessness. The constant, dull aching in the pit of my stomach. The feeling of being physically sick. Anyone who has had a broken heart knows what I’m talking about.
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