breaking even

where exactly did The Script go? and can someone tell them we need them back (please)?

One of the wisest things a man has ever said is:

“When a heart breaks, no it don’t break even”

- Danny O’Donoghue, The Script (2008)

I’ve been subconsciously humming this for the last few hours as I write this, and I don’t know what it is about this one line that particularly resonates; perhaps it’s because it’s catchy or because I like the way Danny (the lead singer) sings it throughout the song. I’d like to think that, even in my subconscious, I’m more emotionally intellectual than I give myself credit for, so I ponder on the thought that, yes, a heart breaking is the oddest thing — in fact, perhaps one of the furthest things from even.

Danny when he finished writing Breakeven.

One of the definitions of the word ‘even’ is:

equal in number, amount, or value.

From this, I feel like we could say this could also link or equate to fairness, which gets us to justice. Oftentimes, love - heartbreak - is anything but fair, and that’s an awful shame. Heartbreak can hardly be quantified but what is universally understood of the emotion (or sensation) is that it can hold the greatest value in our lives, it can take up a large amount of our days and livelihood, but despite how evenness is defined, it may never, ever be quite as equal in number as we’d have hoped. Like how the late (great) Amy Winehouse sang that “love is a losing game”, somehow we’ve normalised how it can be anything but equal — but shouldn’t it be? Actually, when Adele released her most recent album, she sang in Love is a Game:

“No amount of love / Can keep me satisfied…”

Isn’t that crazy? That love can often feel like this insurmountable, unfathomable feeling and experience, but it will always feel a little bit, well, odd(?) Like, it can never level, you just ride the wave of whatever motion you’re in, swaying with the surging of whatever direction the rollercoaster decides to take you in. Heartbreak can feel like that ‘rhythm’, or rather the irregularity of it. It can also feel like reaching the ride’s end, having waited so long to get on and firmed the adrenaline, only to be left wanting more and feeling…unsatisfied. So, perhaps Adele was right. But as with all games, they can be great fun — unless you’re a sore loser, in which case, Good Luck Charlie.

Carrie was definitely onto something.

I think of how my chest lunges forward to the point of throwing up, only for nothing to come out of my mouth but rather tears slowly trickling from my eyes. Headaches, hiccups and heart palpitations as the manifestations of my internal confusion finally line up with my body. My skin weirdly itches, like it’s yearning for a finger to be traced from shoulder to elbow, palm to finger. How despite waking up and being met with a bright, joyful, morning sun, it feels more like being at the dentist and having to endure the harsh lighting of the overhead light without their protective shades. In short, everything is (becomes) both painful and uncomfortable — a truly odd experience.

Some things in life will never be fair. Something like love will hardly ever feel ‘even’. How many seasons did we have to watch the women of Sex and the City suffer through relationships, interactions and experiences we knew they were too good for? As a viewer, that feels unfair. As the actress, I imagine there were times on set when they were twitching to roll their eyes but had to remain in character. The whole experience feels unfair for all involved, and yet, ‘we move’ because we love it. By no means am I saying we love heartbreak, but we’d be fooling ourselves if we didn’t admit to ‘loving’ some parts of it in the lead-up to the finale?

Also, currently in desperate need of a cocktail after writing this xxx

As I wrap this up, I’m back looking over the lyrics of Breakeven and basking in the songwriting NUMBER Mr Daniel John Mark Luke O’Donoghue (screaming that his Irish parents thought to give him the middle names of the first three books of the New Testament) did on this song. In it, he longingly sings:

“Oh, you got his heart and my heart and none of the pain
You took your suitcase, I took the blame
Now I'm tryna make sense of what little remains, oh…”

And you can imagine how tightly he’s holding onto the ends of every line, vocally, of course. But it’s that last line that rings true, and it’s what I’ve found has many of us holding onto things, people and situations that we’ve already been given the permission and freedom to let go of — trying to “make sense of what little remains.” But why wrestle with ‘little’ when we can wait in hopeful anticipation and welcome in the potential abundance on its way? Hmm, should probably take my own advice.

Though the pursuit may always (should) be fairness and, therefore, justice, there’s a wonderfully uncanny lesson to be learnt in the beauty of oddness — a place I often find myself wanting to remain in when I reckon with what the world deems as ‘even’.

I don’t know what the point of this is. I know that my best writing comes impulsively, like a freestyle, and often from a place of release, which, when it comes to anything creative, is the best place to be. That’s how I’m channelling the heartbreak when it chooses to reappear. I don’t block it out or store it up; I just hold it temporarily like a hand heat pad and then put it in my pocket for a short while - not long enough to burn my bum through my jeans, but almost - and then release it when the heat has transpired. The result is honesty but also less mental strain, and sometimes, with heartbreak, that’s the best silver lining in a heightened plea for some peace.

How blessed am I?