I woke up late in the morning with a pounding headache and a deep sense of impending regret. A hollow emptiness originating in my stomach pervaded my whole body, making it feel lifeless. My eyes were still half closed as I recounted the number of glasses of wine I had had the night prior. I could recall only two, but my memory was foggy. I slowly lifted myself out of bed and lumbered towards the bathroom. A pair of red, puffy eyes stared back at me through the bathroom mirror. They were bloodshot and swollen from hours of crying the night before. I was experiencing a hangover from a substance that was far more toxic than alcohol — my own emotions.

I needed to nurse my emotional hangover like any other hangover — by doubling down on aspirin, a cold shower, and a giant pot of coffee. My new husband had already left for work hours ago, and I was glad that he was not here to witness my current state of dishevelment. I waited in a daze of half-existence as the drip coffee collected in its pot. It felt like I had put him through so much already, but last night really took the cake. After a minor disagreement, I had decided to lock myself in our bathroom while crying and hyperventilating on the floor. My poor husband stood anxiously outside for a long time, banging on the bathroom door to let him in and help me.

Experts say that crying is good for you. Apparently, it releases pent-up energy and stress hormones, and it encourages self-soothing by activating the parasympathetic nervous system. In my experience, however, I would have to wholeheartedly disagree that crying is a good thing. For me, a crying episode entails being pummeled by a tidal wave of uncontrollable and unrelenting emotions. I am tossed and turned in the thick, frothy ocean of emotion, holding my breath underwater the entire time. When I am finally released, I am drenched to the bone, heavily bruised, and gasping for air. Sometimes it takes me days to recover and feel like myself again.

Last night, I lay on the cold bathroom tiles crying for what felt like an eternity. I tried to drown out my alternating sobs and gasps by pressing my face into a soft bath towel, to no avail. On the floor through the room’s darkness, I could see through my teary eyes a slit of light creeping through the bottom of the door. My go-to sad girl song started playing in the background of my mind. “Hello darkness my old friend…” narrated the scene like some poorly scripted movie.

Between heaving sobs, the still rational portion of my mind gently asked, “How many painful memories are still sequestered in your heart, Alexis?” I tried to regulate my breathing by focusing on the coldness of the tiles. It seemed like there was a giant lockbox of grief and pain rotting away in the dungeon of my heart. Thick iron bars kept the memories inside a dark, damp cell where sunlight had no chance of penetrating. Over the years, mold had grown thick on the cell walls, and rats had begun to cluster in the cold corners. What had begun as a protective mechanism had ossified into something dark and impenetrable. I had become a prisoner of my own memories.

I sipped my morning coffee while chewing woodenly on a dry piece of toast. It registered to me that many moons ago, I was lying on a different bathroom floor, in a different state, crying over a different argument, with a very different partner. It had been the tipping point that pushed our tenuous relationship into cataclysmic free fall. After a nasty break-up, I then spent years cleaning up the fallout from the unraveling of our intertwined lives.

But despite the similar conditions, the outcome of my current situation was fortunately the opposite. When the tidal wave of sadness finally subsided, I opened the bathroom door and slipped through the dark into bed next to my husband. He put his arms around my body, held me tightly, and quickly drifted back to sleep. I could feel the rhythmic beating of his heart pressed against the back of my rib cage. While held within the unconditional love and acceptance of my beloved, I could finally exhale.

I think it is finally time to release myself from that dirty dungeon. To cast off the heart shackles that have imprisoned me for years. I need to inhabit the sunlit parts of the castle again and assume the throne, which has been my rightful place all along. Now is the time to embrace the royalty of my heart again. To not be the prisoner, but to be the princess.

But first, another cup of coffee.

love, Lexy