Ectopia Cordis

Loving someone is like living with your heart on the outside of your body. Whether you realize it or not, they carry a part of your heart with them wherever they go, because you’ve given them your love. You’ve entrusted them with this foundational part of yourself – but the thing about love is, it’s not always a conscious decision. A fiercely independent woman like myself might claim that I depend on no one, even if that someone is the love of my life. I feel the truth, however, whenever my heartstrings are pulled taught, whenever my love moves a little too far away. Whether or not I choose to do so, I give part of my heart away when I love someone.

Love is a risk.

Love is extreme vulnerability.

They call it “ectopia cortis” when a baby is born with their heart partially or completely outside of their body. Most of these cases die before they’re born or shortly thereafter. In a medical sense, the prognosis for this condition is poor.

Emotionally, it can’t be much better, right? And yet, people live with heartbreak every day. I guess, with any risk, I have to ask myself: is it worth it? Is love worth the risk of losing part of your heart? Will the missing piece grow back like a lizard’s tail or a deer’s antlers? Or will I live with a void in my chest, a hole that stings every time the wind blows through it?

The truth is, love is a severe risk. It isn’t for the ‘faint of heart’ (excuse the pun). And yet, is it worth it?

Hell yes, it is.

♥

Twirling

Relationships are a long-feared territory for me.

My weak attempts at commitment over the years have either fallen apart quickly or left me with fragmented emotions that I refused to acknowledge.

This new frontier in my now-semi-stable life is daunting. In relationships, even casual acquaintances, my thoughts are flooded with insecurities, second-guesses of my words or actions, desperation to know what the other people may think or feel about me. I cling too hard to some and then push them away in fear that I may be burdening them. Though I’ve managed to remain sober for some time, to rebuild many areas of my life, this realm of reality remains completely befuddling.

The hardest parts come when I attempt minor romantic relationships. Dating, for me, is like walking across a shaky catwalk with no railings. I’m reaching out for any form of stability, my arms waving wildly in the air, my heart pounding in my ears. The confusing part about dating is that I start dates feeling seemingly confident. I even relax a little at first and try to have fun… that is until I’m asked to speak about myself, to share details about who I am, what I want.  Honestly, the answers to these questions are still elusive, even to me.

And when my mind comes up blank in response to the questions, I feel guilt for bringing someone who is willing to give, to confide, to be vulnerable… on a date with me, a girl with no clue what she’s even doing sitting in that restaurant.

I know that I feel lonely. I know that I crave security, dependency, companionship.

I know that I want to try.

So lately, I’ve been taking one step forward in this dance called dating.

I accept an offer for dinner, I dress up, I smile and crack jokes. I even receive a good night kiss…

…and then, when I’m left alone again, I freeze.

My thoughts start to spin. My fears kick in about whether I feel the way I’m supposed to feel, whether I’ve been genuine, whether this person will hurt me just like those in my past. I start asking myself those same questions of who I am, whether I can be vulnerable, and what it is that f*cking want?

Then, after a moment’s pause in the dance, I make my trademark move: I twirl.

My foot angles sideways, my other foot plants itself beside the other, my body spins so I’m facing away and I distance myself yet again.

Once again, I stop the dance before it begins.

I reach out, then step away.

Twirling. I can’t think of a better metaphor for how I feel in relationships these days. I start to move, to participate in a dance with another person. I feel willing to give someone a chance, and then…just as they get close enough to touch, I spin away from them. I twirl in space, so they can’t hold me still.

I know this must get easier one day. One day, there’ll be some person who makes it easy to stay still, to keep my eyes on theirs, to let them hold me in their arms. Sometimes, I even think I’ve found it. But maybe like everything else in recovery, it will just take time.

After all, I’ve been dancing alone for a very long time. Adding a partner requires learning a new dance.