Your heart is a muscle.
Muscles can't break. They develop thousands of minuscule tears which heal stronger.
It's amazing really, how muscles do this. In a few days, or weeks, you go from having a constant, gnawing pain, like your insides have turned to broken glass, to being really, miraculously, fine. And you don't even notice. You just realise one day that the pain isn't there anymore. Everything feels easier, and you don't quite know when it happened. Those minuscule tears have knitted together, into something which is still you, but less fragile.
There are probably hundreds of things which help this process along, but for me they can be condensed into three:
Beyonce, my friends and running. Sometimes two or three at the same time.
Firstly, running.
Sadness isn't fast. If you try hard enough, you can always outrun it. Run as hard as you can right to the top of Pendennis Point. All the way up the twisting, winding hill, past the docks and the OAPs eating ice cream and the kids at Ships and Castles. Push until your thighs are burning and you can't breath. Until your eyes are watering and you can't see straight. Until even the tips of your fingers are screaming out for oxygen. Keep pushing as the ground levels out. Then, as it starts to slope down towards the seafront, push harder. Lengthen your strides down the hill. Past the car park, past the benches, with the sea to one side and the wind blowing straight in your face, barging through tourists and teenagers until you feel like you're flying. All the way down to Gyllyngvase Beach. Then you can stop. Then you can hurl.
It's impossible to feel sad when you're flying.
If running doesn't help (and it will, if you do it properly), there is always Beyonce. Do you think Beyonce ever let herself wallow? Think she ever felt sad for more than five minutes about some stupid, mean, stupid guy? HELL NO! Of course she didn't! What she did do is write a shitload of songs about how stupid he was, so that you don't have to. After she'd finished putting everything he owned in a box to the left, obv. So listen to the songs. Eat a WHOLE TUB of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Then drink wine. Beyonce didn't get that booty by feeling so miserable she forgot to eat. She got it by being an Independent Woman. The shoes on her feet? She bought 'em. The clothes she's wearing? She bought 'em. She depends on she. Etc. Be Beyonce. And if you don't quite feel Beyonce-ish, fake it until you do. That stupid guy ain't ready for yo jelly. Erm... You get the point.
Beyonce style booty shaking brings me nicely onto my last cure. Friends <3.
My friends drink wine. They take me partying. They feed me pizza. They also make me laugh, even when I'm sad. Like, properly, snorting, shaking, blue drink coming out of my nose type laughing. Whilst crying. And drinking more wine. There is no better cure for anything in the world than being in a cheesy nightclub, drinking cheap, vodka-based beverages and dancing like a maniac with my best friends. Preferably to Single Ladies. Over the last six weeks I have whinged, cried, complained and yelled. I've probably driven everyone crazy going on about the same shit over and over again. I've also seen more of my friends than I had over the rest of the past year. And even though at times I've felt sad, mostly I've just felt insanely lucky to have such a brilliant group of Runner Birds and bestest, best friends. Not forgetting my long-suffering and eternally tolerant Mum and Dad, who I have caused an unfair amount of worry for over the past few months.
Your heart is a muscle. And you can only know how strong a muscle is if you push it to its limits. Mine is made stronger by a brilliant support network and the ability to submerge myself in something that I love so much.
And by Beyonce. Thanks, Bey.
PS
Remember that stupid long race I am doing? Well it's this Sunday. And this blog was really supposed to be about that... I kind of got distracted.
Follow this link to sponsor me <3: http://fnd.us/c/2qqa1/sh/23hoN6
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