This has been 48 hours of hell, easy.

I'm not even sure if I'm over the shock yet.

Thursday evening, on the way to pick out the tuxedos for the wedding, Fiance dumps me.

I would like to phrase it differently, but this was not a mutual understanding, this was someone who I love and trust basically ripping my heart out.

In two hours I went from planning a wedding (the invitations arrived Thursday in the mail) to handing him my engagement ring (so he could return it and keep the cash).

Now what? I'm still in shock, I think. The loss hasn't totally hit me. There are five beautiful little girls that I love and can never speak to again, not to mention my sister-in-laws to be who are incredible women that I was looking forward to being with.

And then the fact that I have two little caterpillars that can't wait to move into their new house; with their new dog, their new bedroom, and their new stepdad - what do I say to them? How do I tell them that seven weeks before the wedding he's backed out - because their mum wasn't enough?

Logically, people keep saying that it's better it happened now, rather than later. And I understand that, but it doesn't make the hurt go away. My feelings don't change overnight. I'm angry at him, but I love him with all my heart, and that will take time to go away.

Some people hurt you with slashing wounds; leaving gaping, bleeding slices in your heart. You clean them out, thoroughly, even if it hurts. You stitch it up nice and pretty, and let it mend. Put a bandage on it, maybe a little antibacterial cream – anything to help make it better.

Other people strike you hard - a solid hit - with a blunt object. Your heart bruises, but there’s nothing visible to the naked eye. You’ve got a black and green heart, instead of a healthy red one.

You can’t make bruises better, you have to ride them out. Leave them alone to heal.
And when people come along after all it takes is the lightest tap to send waves of pain through me.

They don’t know they are doing anything wrong. To a healthy heart a light tap, or even a solid whack, would only leave a bit of a niggling sense of pain.

Certainly not the waves of nausea that flood through me when my heart gets a rough thump. So I force myself to laugh.

As if humor can prevent me from vomiting on their pretty little shoes.