When nostalgia hits me it is never subtle or fleeting. It is overwhelming. All-consuming. Emotionally exhausting. It feels as though the memories are clawing at my insides, dying to be released, knowing the effort is for naught. 30 seconds of a song takes me back to my childhood, the first time I remember rewinding a movie to listen to the music over and over again. Watching the Lion King in my parent’s bedroom in the house I grew up in. A little girl, innocent enough, in love with music, although the depth of that passion was yet to be uncovered.

That little girl is about to have a little boy of her own, and is watching her parent’s marriage crumble. That secret I had is no secret anymore. Every time I see my mom without her ring on a piece of my heart breaks. I worry for my dad. I am constantly in danger of being drowned in an onslaught of emotions held at bay only by many years of experience in compartmentalizing difficult situations. Unfortunately, there are oftentimes cracks in the armor, and those pent-up emotions leak out sideways.

So much for the happiest time of my life.

I understand divorce is not new. I know that my family is not unique. I am not trying to be a drama queen.

But I am broken. Angry. Confused. Distraught. Betrayed. Infuriated. Exhausted. Worried. Fearful. Hesitant. Awkward. Sad. Pissed. Livid. Defeated. Self-righteous. Torn.

Too many feelings to feel.

Nostalgia is dangerous.


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