Time Wounds All Heels

The problem with being heartbroken is that we rarely get to go somewhere to lick our wounds. It's hard to heal because we have to string ourselves along through the day-to-day, pretending that we're fine. I day-dream about boarding a plane for Italy, where I'd live the life of an itinerant poet/photographer/paramour. In this fantasy, lithe, sleek men with names like Marcello and Marco woo me with flowers, expensive leather shoes, and carafes of sparkling Italian wine. That would heal my pain. But I digress....

Which is better for piecing yourself back together: loud, rangy, big paroxyms of angry grief, or the quiet, well-behaved compact existence that doesn't require more than an extended tissue to dry your tears or a pat on the shoulder?
"Time heals all wounds."
Poorly timed outbursts of uncontolled emotion scare people. Brave faces and stiff upper lips scare me. How do I reconcile my need to explode upon today's page with a hestitation to misbehave?
"Time wounds all heels."

I'll have to leave that conundrum dangling in mid-air; my kids are hungry, and it's time to fix supper.