Sometimes I think about my heart. What it does for me, how it sustains my life. What it does to me, what it’s put me through. We’ve been together a while, my heart and I, and that isn’t something to be taken lightly.
Apparently a broken heart can actually, literally, kill you. Grief, as well as stress and anxiety and pain, can cause the brain to release and distribute chemicals that weaken heart tissue and can cause acute heart failure, irregular electrical activity of the heart, and ventricular ruptures. I learned this from the internet.
What I learned from myself, from all of the years that my heart has been beating, is that grief and stress and anxiety do hurt, physically and emotionally. They hurt a lot. But I will never, not ever, die from any of them. This is a promise I am making to my heart right now.
I can feel it in there this very moment, beating in its cute little thumpity way, and I’m filled with love for it. I love my heart, for all that it does, for all that it feels, everything good and everything bad and everything that makes it mine. No matter what anyone, including myself, has ever done or will ever do to it, it will remain itself, and I will remain thankful for it.
Despite all the grief and stress and anxiety and all of the many types of pain it has seen, if you were to look inside my chest you’d see it there, thumping away as always. Plump and round and beating and red and perfectly, wonderfully whole.