Heartaches, Band Aids and Centerstage

It’s been nearly a month after we broke up. I’m still a mess inside and out. I have bloodshot eyes every morning and sleeping is a challenge as he’d always haunt me in my dreams. I was trying to forget, trying to regain myself of my loss. But all these gimmicks I have with friends and all the hook-ups made with almost-strangers don’t really help heal the pain that’s stuck in between blood clots of my wounded heart.

                I was warned long ago that breakups are life-enders. When I lost Darrel a week after Valentine’s Day, for once, I wanted to believe it.

I don’t remember well of what happened but I do remember him saying that we were better of just friends. And that ended it all. That ended us. That ended me.

                “Coleen! Your aunt wants to talk to you!” mom yelled from downstairs.

It was a Monday morning, and the start of the first week of summer. “I’m coming!” I said, rushing to wherever the phone was. I didn’t want to talk to her but I ran out of excuses to say. Depression had gotten me locked up in my room for days and I haven’t spoken to any family member of what I was going through. I had a feeling that if I do, I’d never hear the end of all the insults and mean remarks they’ve been dying to let out their systems when Darrel and I were still together. I admit Darrel wasn’t the perfect boyfriend but despite all his flaws and immaturity, I still pretty much loved him.

“Hey!” I said to the phone finally, all cheerful but not really. I didn’t want to sound problematic when talking to my aunt. Living in the States and having to work 16 hours a day as a nurse were already too much torture. Acting all melancholic with her would probably just cause double damage.

                “How’s summer?” she asked.

                “Boring.” I stated. And sad, I wanted to add.

                “Why don’t you go enroll somewhere, like a summer workshop of some sort, so you can waste time doing something you’re actually going to learn something from?”

                “Well, I have been thinking of joining one of SayAwit’s musical theater classes but..”

                “But.. Don’t tell me. You don’t have money?”

                “Well, yes. And I don’t want to ask any from you ‘cause you’re already paying for so much so..”

                “Honey, when you act like this, I get sad. If you really want this I’d be happy to give you the money! I know it’s been your dream since you were little to star in a musical play. This may be your chance of fulfilling it.”

                And I couldn’t argue with the truth.

                Next thing I knew, I was holding on to my summer workshop schedule that clearly stated that I shall be starting my musical theater class on the fourth of April.

                “Joy!” the date on the schedule just made me not want to attend anymore. I don’t have any problems with April. It’s the number four that annoys me. “I hate this number!” I thought out loud.

***

                For three more weeks of sleeping on a wet pillow and waking up with blurry vision, I remained patient, and not to mention, non-confrontational as I wait for classes to finally start. I still couldn’t bear the fact that no one was going to call me to say ‘good morning!’ or ‘I love you, baby girl!’ At this point, I still had to keep reminding myself that it was over. Not wanting to open up to anyone, I knew I had to flush these frustrations out my system with the help of none other than myself. And every time I’d go out of my sanctuary I’d have to force myself to have a cheerful disposition even though I was quietly dying inside. So to me, joining a summer workshop was more of an excuse of finding a way to distract myself than actually wanting to learn something. But come April fourth, I felt a bit of excitement as my dad took my friend and me to our very first day at SayAwit Academy. I didn’t know what to expect so I was really happy that I get to come with my best friend/neighbor, Elise, thinking that I have someone whom I can get lost with on my journey of finding myself again.