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November 15, 2004 I know that you probably get a thousand letters a day on this subject, but I was just wondering if you have any advice for someone with a broken heart? A couple of months ago, my boyfriend and I broke up, and it’s been killing me. I had never been in love until now, and I just don’t know how to get over this. Everyone says that time will help, but it’s been a while and here I am still crying. I’m scared to ever risk again. I’m scared of the uncertainty that tomorrow brings. I’m so scared that things may never be the same for me. I have tried and tried to give this to God, and He’s helping me tremendously, but I just cannot shake this; the tears come hourly. Please, any advice would help! Broken in Brooklyn
Dear Broken, I broke my leg many years ago, on a hike with my dear Harry. I’d probably still be lying up there next to the tree root that tripped me without help from Harry, but we finally made it to the car and then on to the hospital where my broken leg was set. I left the hospital wearing a full-leg cast and trying to walk with crutches. Then the complaining started. Mine, of course. The cast was heavy, itchy, and uncomfortable. My injured leg ached. Bathing was a chore. I couldn’t maneuver very easily with the crutches and they hurt my hands and underarms. Scrubbing the kitchen floor was impossible! So, for the first several days, I grumbled and complained, mostly to Harry, but also to anyone else who’d listen. Even my sweet Mama, who came over to cook our dinner for the first several nights, had to listen to my whining. I’m certain it wasn’t very much fun to be around me. On the fifth afternoon, my exhausted husband sat down across from me in the front room, and, pulling the chair right up close to mine, he looked me in the eye and said, “Gabby, enough is enough.” “Enough what is enough?” I said, although I had an idea what he was referring to. “I understand that your broken leg is painful and…” “Oh, it is!” I interrupted. “It throbs and…” “Gabby,” he interrupted me right back. “I know. I’ve heard you.” “Oh,” I said. “I also realize that getting around is difficult and it’s been almost impossible for you to take care of the things you usually do so easily.” I nodded, but kept my mouth shut (which was very hard for me!). “I’ve come up with a plan,” my dear Harry said, taking my hand and absently kissing it. “Okay,” I said, giving him my other hand, too. “Every evening after I get home from work, and after dinner, the two of us are going to have Complaint Hour. I’ll sit right down here next to you from 7 until 8 o’clock and listen to all your complaints. You may say whatever you want to me. Tell me about the pain, tell me about the frustration with getting around, and how it itches under the cast. Tell me about how your arms hurt from the crutches. Whine, complain, and grumble to your heart’s content. But when the grandfather clock chimes 8 o’clock, the Complaint Hour is over. The end. No more!” “Not for the rest of the day?” “Or the next day, either. Just from 7 to 8 p.m.” “What about complaining to my Mama when she’s here helping me?” Harry sighed. “Gabby, darling, your sweet Mama has been so kind to help us during this time. Instead of hindering her, you should be figuring out ways to assist her while she helps you. There’s no reason why you couldn’t do some things sitting down.” “But, my leg aches when I sit too long and my back…” “Complaint Hour doesn’t start until 7,” he said with a smile, getting a return one back from me. Miss Brooklyn, I know your heart is as broken as my leg was. And brokenness comes with a lot of pain and suffering. But Harry’s Complaint Hour really worked for us, and I think something similar would work for you. Why don’t you choose a time in your day that you can wallow in your sadness? Cry and complain and acknowledge your fears and anger. Write in a journal, pouring out your feelings. Pound your pillow. Stomp around your room. Feel every feeling fully. Then, when the time is up, dry your eyes, put away your journal, wash your face, and go back to your life. And, throughout the day, when the sadness comes, tell yourself, “I’ll think about that during my sad time but, right now, I have other things to do.” My dear Harry’s wise strategy was surprisingly effective for me (and quite a relief for my sweet Mama and Harry, too!). And you know what was interesting? Giving myself permission to complain during that one hour took away much of my need to grumble. I have a feeling that giving yourself permission to really experience your sad feelings during your set time will lessen some of your pain, too. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2004, ninetyandnine.com ---------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
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