About Broken Heart Syndrome

Post 101:

            I walk a lot. My perambulations include the to and fro from work, the daily market visit, pretty much everywhere I go. It kind of sucks, because I love to drive.

            Whatever, life’s not fair, and it keeps me from getting too fat.

            Walking today I was sporting the big headphones (I’m that guy) listening to some George Strait. The good stuff, mid-eighties, the real sad business.

            I’m all about the sad business. The old country makes me feel like I’m not alone in the pain—in a weird way, it almost makes me enjoy the sadness.

            I don’t get it. My heart’s been stomped countless times and it always feels the same, like an involuntary amputation. Worse. It’s like sepsis of the soul, infecting my entire essence. Why would anyone revisit this feeling or enjoy any part of it?

            Is this all a bit dramatic? Of course it is, and I’ll give you some reasons why: First of all, I tend toward the drama. There’s so much of it in my head I have to make up stories to help with the spillover. Then there’s that weird thing about pain and how it lets you know you’re still alive, that there’s still a heart to break. Not really sure about that one.

            This is all somewhat opaque. I think my main point is really a question. Are most people like me? When I’m going through heartbreak the last thing I want to hear is a sad song or watch a sad movie. At that point I’m all stocked up on sorrow, thanks. It’s when my heart is stomp-free that I like to revisit the agony. Watch a gutting movie or listen to George Strait or George Jones get after it down in their bones. I’ve written a ton of songs about getting dropped like a bad habit, but it’s usually when I’m well-removed and have some perspective, can give the whole thing a bit of a laugh.

            Not sure. Maybe this is why dudes aren’t supposed to be emotional. We just end up singing over a steel guitar or writing some sonnet about how a cloud reminds us of a make out session we’ll never have again. I’m in the weeds. Better stop before I get too stuck or write a poem.

            Until tomorrow. See you after.