Blood on the Tracks of My Tears on My Pillow

by Chris Adams
illustration by Mark Reusch

What exactly are these things called “broken hearts” anyway? I mean, the expression obviously has no literal, physical validation. There are plenty of heartbroken people out there – too many – and yet their blood keeps on pumping, they keep on breathing, and, despite all their protestations to the contrary, life continues to inhabit them. So what, then, occurs inside of us when our hearts get broken? Is it something that can be quantitatively measured? Does an actual biological event occur? Some chemical reaction? An anatomical equation? I have no idea, and, ya know, now that I think about it, I guess it doesn’t really matter. You don’t need a doctor to validate that you’ve got one, like it’s a case of strep throat or something -“take two of these and call me in the morning.” You just know, from the sensation alone, which is like nothing else in the world. It feels as if the universe took a deep, final breath, shuddered, and collapsed around you, leaving nothing but an infinite black hole in the center of your being. It’s like God swelled up inside you, beamed his Almighty brightest for one indescribably gorgeous second, and just curled up and died in your stomach. End of story. Kaput. Finis. Nada. The unrelenting agony and oceanic sorrow and suffering are so immeasurable, so vast, so crushing and all-consuming that I’d need to be a far better writer to even come close to describing it. It is the single most wrenching, traumatic, awful feeling I can imagine anyone ever experiencing in their lives. The other day I was talking to a friend of mine who used to have a junk problem, and he said that a broken heart is the only thing he knows of that’s worse than withdrawal from smack. He’d highly recommend avoiding it at all costs.

Unfortunately, as you may have guessed by now, I didn’t. I’ve spent the better part of the past six weeks trying to come to terms with a torrent of tempestuous emotions and unanswered questions so violent and insistent that there have been moments where I thought I was literally gonna die, thinking that there was no way that humans were made to withstand this kind of agony. I’ve cursed God for torturing me, and then five minutes later found myself praying to Him, or It, or Whatever, for mercy. And I’m a guy who hasn’t set foot in a church in about a dozen years, and has frequently backed up the argument that organized religion is just another opiate for the idiot masses, just Sunday morning cartoons for uptight puritans. I’ve lost about a dozen pounds, and I’m averaging maybe four hours of sleep a night, tops, with the aid of valerian root. The effects of these conditions, coupled with my already translucent glow-in-the-dark skin and widow’s peak, make me look like a vampire who hasn’t sucked a fair maiden in a few hundred millennia (double-entendre most definitely intended). I’m sucking down an inexcusably nasty two packs of Camel Lights a day, as opposed to my usual merely filthy one. For a coupla days after the shit hit the fan, breakfast came out of a bottle or off of a mirror. (I’ve thankfully nipped those possibly life-threatening habits in the bud, thanks to common sense and some good friends.) I write tear-stained eighteen-page letters of pseudo-poetic gushing gibberish that will never be posted. I spend half my time fervently scanning religious texts, self-help books, and modern psychological tomes – searching for anything that might provide some solace, some relief, some answers – anything to help me endure the unendurable. (Two of these books have actually proved pretty handy – if you find yourself in the same sorry-ass predicament I’m in, I’d recommend Coming Apart by Daphne Rose Kingma, and The Path To Love by Deepak Chopra, which is the kind of quasi-religious opus you could base your life on – in fact, I just might, as soon as I can get up the cash for the flowing white robes and prayer beads.) But, by and large, there’s precious little comfort in these. Nothing, no amount of reading, no amount of religion or perspective will change the fact that SHE’S NOT HERE. No amount of verbiage and rationale can stop the searing white-hot poker of memory. One minute, I’ll be fine, just a guy lying in bed at night, smoking a cigarette, reading some novel, and I’ll casually look over my shoulder to offer some comment about my book to her… and I’m talking to empty space. The mind is slow, ya know – it takes a while to catch up. “But she was ALWAYS there, Chris, whatthefuckisgoingon??!??!? There’s the cheap paperback thriller she was reading, there’s the little indent on `her side’ of the bed where she used to curl up and sleep, there’s some of her lingerie on the bureau, there’s one of her rings on the night table – what do you mean she’s not here? What do you mean she’s not coming back? Does not compute…” My loft used to be our home, where we lived, where the majority of this three-plus-year affair took place. Now it’s just a ghost town, a haunted house, a constant reminder of what I had and what I’ve lost. It’s an abandoned movie set – the filming’s over, the crew and the other actors have long since split, and I sit here like a jerk, like a bad Bogart pining over Bacall, unshaven, chain-smoking, playing the film of our relationship on endless loop, hoping the celluloid will eventually burn and I’ll learn to forget, I’ll get beyond the pain. But the film keeps on playing, over and over and over – three years worth of footage, and not a frame of it on the cutting-room floor. And each frame is a fresh wound that hasta be dealt with, sooner or later. And what’s worse, getting out of the house doesn’t help. I’ll walk through the city on a Saturday, trynna clear my head, get some fresh air, get some perspective, only to find that she’s strewn her phantoms all around town. “Here’s the cafe where we sat and had coffee in the rain, this is where she bought me that maroon bathrobe, this is where I used to get her perfume, there’s that wall where we tried to tear off the poster (didn’t work), I remember when we kissed on this bridge…” It’s impossible, man. What the hell am I supposed to do, just move? Leave the city entirely? Burn the fucking thing down, like some lovesick Nero? It’s maddening, it’s insane. I tried having friends over a few weeks ago and everything was going fine, people were sitting around, drinking beer and wine, laughing and chatting. I’m doing my best to be the charming host, and something forces me to recall the last party I had – she came slinking over wearing that backless light green dress that I loved, slid into my lap as I sat on the couch making conversation, and casually pecked my cheek – and suddenly I’m a mess, man. I’ve got a dozen people over trynna socialize and have a good time, then there I am, a grown man, twenty-nine years old, sitting in the middle of the room racked with sobs, blubbering like a fucking baby. Absolutely pathetic, an embarrassment to all concerned. Not exactly Cary Grant, ya know? (Needless to say, the party went pretty much downhill from there – my poor guests bailed pretty hastily, and I sat up writing bullshit poetry until the sting of tears and sun proved too much for my eyes.)

“Uhhh…yeah, Chris, great, we all feel really bad for ya… chin up, buddy, all that stuff… so, ummmm… was it worth it? Would ya do it all again, knowing what you know now, feeling how you do?” My answer surprises me: “Yup, definitely – in a second.” Love is the only thing in the world that’s worth a broken heart. (Conveniently, it’s also the only thing that can cause one, as Neil Young has pointed out.) As they say, “…better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” (That’s another thing about this vulnerable condition – every hoary cliché in the book suddenly resounds with a shattering, profound truth. It’s downright embarrassing. And the games it plays with your musical standards – hoo boy. It can come as quite a shock when you’re hearing some slick over-produced soul-boy slinging undeniably sappy schlock on the radio and you find yourself saying “Sing it, man! I’m down with you, boy, I hear ya!” Totally mortifying.) But yeah, I wouldn’t trade what I had with C. for anything in the world – definitely the three best years of my life. Even now, sunk in the sludge of despair, I can look back on the relationship and work up a bittersweet smile at all the little intimacies, all the loving rituals, all the habits that we’d developed while we were together. I’ve been told by people older and wiser than I that the day will come when I can recall these memories and experience no pain at all, just a warm fondness for the time we shared together. ‘Course, that seems impossible to me now, but who the fuck knows? I guess I’ll have to wait and see.

So what should all this mean to you, the in all probability disgusted reader? Fuck me if I know, or care, for that matter. I don’t even know why you’ve bothered to even finish this piece of admittedly indulgent moaning. But it’s the only thing I’ve thought about this month and I had an article due – “write what you know” etc… so there ya go. If you find yourself with a broken heart, there’s probably precious little this article will do for ya, except maybe concur with what you’re feeling, which probably isn’t of too much use. Have I learned anything from my experience? Oh yeah, shitloads – that’s the point of pain. If you don’t take a lesson out of it, it’s all for naught. So, if you’ll allow me the indulgence – and, fifteen hundred words in, I know I’m pushing it – a little advice for those who care to heed it. If you’re in a relationship, you’re in love with your partner, and ya don’t want it to end, remember these key words : compassion, selflessness, gentleness, and genuine kindness. Listen. Hold your tongue. Ego is the opposite of love; there’s no place for it in a romantic relationship. Don’t worry about being “walked all over” – that won’t happen. Love will be on your side, and it’s a helluva lot stronger than fear, suspicion, insecurity, and all the other building blocks of ego. ‘Course, I don’t expect you to listen. You only learn through experience – I was given the same advice hundreds of times, and paid no attention to it. It took C. to prove to me that it was not only real, but necessary – that was her gift to me. A tough lesson, but I’ll sure as hell never make the same mistakes again. Thanks, babe. Thanks, and sorry for everything.

P.S. I gave my generally snotty, abrasive tone a vacation this month – it needed the rest. It’s currently off baby seal clubbing in Alaska. It will return as soon as I finish playing the entire Leonard Cohen and Capitol Years Sinatra catalog exactly one hundred times apiece. In the interim, send any and all hate mail to someone who genuinely gives a fuck (i.e. not me). I thank you.