like a stamp to a letter

I've tried and tried to respond to Vanessa's post about having her heart broken. Deleted so many emails that I feel as though I must have sent some of them, and so many comments that I am beginning to feel ridiculous. I am ridiculous.

When all I really want to say is me too. Doesn't it hurt. Isn't it the worst feeling in the world. Don't you want to kill the bastard who did that to you, and don't you want to cry whenever you see someone who looks a bit the same, smells a bit the same, walks a bit the same. That bastard who stamped on your heart and wiped it off his foot as though he'd walked in yesterday's dry dog turd. Walked on as though he didn't even notice. That fucking bastard.

And now that I am out of the other side of it? Doesn't it just keep coming back to slap me: sitting crying in the bath if I feel myself going the same way again with someone else, running a country mile to avoid the same characteristics in someone else, over-reacting to friendly behaviour which reminds me just a little too much of his spiteful teasing ways. Still crippled by the fear of getting that badly hurt again.

The iceberg on the carpet is a long haul, Vanessa. I wish I could say otherwise, but I can't.