The Broken Hearts Club

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Heart Throbs The Broken Hearts Club reminds you that a broken heart can be a good thing, that hearts are made to be broken, and that picking up and taping up the shattered pieces of your most vulnerable self can make you wiser, kinder, smarter, and have better breath. Well, maybe not that last bit . . . but we strenuously insist that you have to suffer at least one joyous disappointment in order to travel most heartily on that dusty road trip that we're all jostling along on together towards a loving earthly Nirvana. The slap didn't hurt that much. After the first shocking tingle wore away, the pain was simply hot from the knowledge that the blow had come from the same hand that had held mine with such reassuring firmness just that morning; had carefully picked strawberries from the side garden and deftly scooped eggplant from its roasted skin; had screwed up the basketball hoop and comforted my sons and steered the car home in late-night safety; and had caressed and delighted me and was now so swiftly raised to hit once more. It shook; it knocked over a vase; flowers, water, and epithets spilled. It never touched me again. Like my modem, I connected. All the time, sluttishly, and without prejudice. [I would] listen and empathize with people and counsel and relate. And I didn't give a damn. Never have. Not one single person mattered to me. And the giving, the sympathy, was [just] words. I'm a smart girl. I understand the power of actions is like that of politicians. It is a power of manuevers and control. And the power of personality perceived by those actions is like a politician named Superman. So I did it. I was her . . . the perfect girl for what I thought was the right kind of guy. I was never better than them at anything, I was vaguely frightened and needed protection. I giggled at insipid sexual jokes and talked with an air of childish pornography. I fawned over their anti-achievements, including keg stands, beating people up, blowing shit up, and failing school. I was an actress of the highest degree, surrounded by what I saw as fans. I never spent a lonely night and they had nice cars and nice clothes and no bookcases in their houses. I never complained when they didn't call back or [when] I found out about other conquests. I couldn't care less. Then one night . . . oh ! it was over. He saw inside [me] a little, with the help of some chemicals and naturals. He seemed to not need me to simply paint pictures over, a relief in itself. I didn't realize how bored I was until I wasn't. He told me something I'd never thought a man could say to me and still make love to me, "You are smart." All I can say is that things were supernatural and surreal for about a month. I verged on idolatry without knowing it, and that was very destructive. The chemicals were psychedelic, and they shattered reality slowly for the both of us, and what was beautiful became twisted into unimaginable paranoia and screaming pain. I wanted to say love, he wanted to break the frighteningly strong ties that seemed to restrict his freedom. I was changing from someone he never knew I was. But it was good. I discovered my intelligence was not something to be hidden to gain affection, and when he left, I discovered that I was hiding unprecedented strength as well. The outside [world] would say that this is what happens to when a 15-year-old girl falls in love with a college boy. I could write it off as well and say that that is why I was hurt so much, why it changed my life. But I won't. He loved me too, I was a woman before him, and two years later and loves since, I am grateful for our love and our loves breaking. --April Lived, loved, and survived to tell the tale? Well, do. We here at the Broken Hearts Club want to encourage you to tell it like it was. Back to the Table of Contents. Home Surf the Boulevards network to other great alternative content sites.