Words For The Days You Let Yourself Down

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Hey, that moment when you realize that you've broken your own heart, it's visceral. I know it, I was there last night. It was reminiscent of a handful of nights over the last few years when I've pitched a tent on the same dirt. 

The way the silence mocks you until the sound of your breath hiccuping takes over for it, all while your tears fall in droplets that you can feel contribute to the growth of puddles on your shirt, or on the blanket, or on the tiles of the bathroom floor. 

Letting others down is hard, but letting yourself down is a special kind of torture. It's slow in happening, but once it's arrived it's hitting a wall, head-on, when you were expecting a clear road all along. 

I don't know how to avoid hitting the wall. I think there may be times when breaking your own heart comes with the package of growing older and wiser. This specific kind of heartbreak knows no age limits. It's as present at 10 when you wait too long to ask your crush out to dance as it is at 24 when you wait too long to sign the lease on a dream that's all yours. 

The one thing they may have in common though, despite age differences, is the predilection to hesitate when it comes to giving ourselves what we want. 

I know it's what I struggle with, deeply. To give into myself requires a combination of factors that I've yet to figure out. Instead I harp on hours of thought and pro and con lists and the budgeting of every penny — all letters and numbers that will eventually always add up to talking myself out of whatever it is I wanted. 

To give into myself requires a specific strain of bravery that I don't yet have. Instead I have words that I use to try to coax the bravery out with. 

I start small. And when I cry and forget that starting small works, I wake Tyler up and cry some more and then he magically knows to remind me. 

I reach out. Because when you've hit a wall and you're sitting on the floor wondering if you're ever going to get up again, it's nice to have someone voluntarily sit next to you because they do remember how to use their legs to get back up, even when you can't recall how to use your own. 

I feel. I feel bad. I feel so bad that I write it down and I remind myself that feeling this bad cannot exist without a purpose and a positive consequence attached to it. 

I let breaking my heart hurt for a while because to ignore it would mean finding my feet in the mud more often than I would like. There's nothing about letting yourself down that feels triumphant, but when you've gone through seasons of not feeling anything, it's a reminder that to live by your wants, you sometimes have to be reminded why wanting is so prized in the first place.