The problem with getting your heart broken is that it’s altogether too common. It’s like telling someone you have an ingrown toenail. “Oh, yeah, that happened to me once,” they say. “Don’t worry, it’ll probably clear up in a few days.” So you shuffle along, trying to hide your limp, because having people tell you that it will stop hurting soon doesn’t take away from the fact that right now each step brings excruciating pain.

This situation is confusing and difficult because it’s not a lover that I’ve lost, it’s a best friend. And I think that is so much worse. It’s one thing when a boyfriend dumps you, gives you some ridiculous excuse for why he doesn’t want to be with you anymore. “I’m sorry, you kiss like a fish and I just can’t handle it. This is over.” That’s easy to understand. The two of you were, for whatever reason, incompatible, and the sun will rise again tomorrow and someday you will have someone new to love. But when a friend breaks up with you, that’s rejection on the deepest level imaginable. You feel like a leper, or like Britney Spears after the head-shaving incident. You feel fundamentally unlovable.

The good news is, when your inner-love-cup runneth empty, the universe immediately dispatches an army of love-bearing friends who do their best to fill you back up again. And, surprisingly, it helps. Tuesday evening was spent in the home of some very kind friends who were charmingly unfazed by my frequent bouts of tears. Noel fed me the most delicious couscous salad the world has ever seen, Lauren gave me a mix of weep-free music (”You’re listening to Brandi Carlile? Oh my god, stop! Stop immediately!”), and Colin just held on to me until my tears ran out. Folks have been checking in, calling and emailing and generally making me feel Not Forgotten. The girls at work are distantly concerned (they don’t know me well enough yet to have a game plan for when they come upon me sobbing in the break room) and even my baristas fuss over me like clucky mother hens. I’ve been praying for peace and I’ve gotten it, albeit with a painfully bruised and swollen chest cavity, but… these things take time. I set little markers so that I have something to look forward to: by next week, I’ll probably have stopped crying every day; by Memorial Day, I’ll be able to wake up in the morning without feeling like I slept with an elephant on my chest; by the 4th of July, I’ll be happy. I think coping well is an art form, and I’m really hoping to be compensated for this in heaven. “Well, my child, I dumped a lot of crap on your head but you sure took it like a champ! We’ve decided to give you the oceanside suite.”

I read this wonderful piece of writing called “Letting the Horses Go.” Towards the ends of the piece it says, “Letting go is letting your love come and go; when it brings visitors, you are gracious enough to feed them. When the visitors wish to leave, you give them something to take with them, brush their coats and hold the door open.” I like to think of my heart in that way, the gracious heart-hostess whose guests leave with full bellies and smiling faces. I’m going to work on that, gnaw on that thought for a bit and see what comes of it. But, to be completely honest with you? I’m pretty tired of watching my visitors go. For once, I’d like to have someone come in and say, “Hello darling, I’m home.”