I cried for 9 hours yesterday.
This morning my eyelids resembled brioche hot dog buns. I can’t remember the last time I looked so pathetic. Am I the only person who’s eyes swell to epic proportions after crying? Or better yet, how many women out there have had to get their kids ready for school with a frozen bag of edamame to the face?
Probably a lot, now that I think about it. Fuck. That’s sad.
It was the type of cry that slowly seeps out of your bones. The kind of cry tied to pain thats been woven into the very fabric of your fascia for so long, you forgot what occurred to place it there in the first place. The hours pass but the tears still come and at some point you lose track of what started the them in the first place. But there they are, like the slow drip from a saline bag.
At some point in mid-afternoon, I was simply crying because I felt so pathetic for letting myself cry for so long. Streaks of raw, salt water-stained skin burned as I rubbed another layer of shea butter onto my cheeks and began to gua sha the onset of puffiness from under my eyes.
How can men possibly be so selfish and just carry on with their lives, dick swinging without a care in the world? And here I am someone thats gone through the worst of the worst, reduced to tears over some broken trust? Something that happens every single day between humans. (Also, realizing there’s still so much buried anger and resentment is a real motherfucker just when I thought I was on the brink of being “healed and happy”.)
Maybe I had just been choosing not to look these last few months. Or feel.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
Or in my case, just keep pouring the wine, popping the edible, and bouncing through life with as little friction as possible. I guess life has been such a dumpster fire for so many months that I lost track of how much pain I’m still in. Each day slowly watering down the vibrancy (aka loudness) of life just a tiny bit more.
Just 24 hours earlier I was boasting about having zero baby daddy drama in my life. (I should know better by now than to brag without the rug being immediately swept out from underneath me.)
“I just hope you’re not catfishing me with the whole “no drama” thing. It definitely seems like some drama to me.”
I stare at the text and my heart sinks. Of course. The first male-type I’ve been even remotely attracted to and excited about since the Stone Age and he’s ready to jump ship. Usually I’m the ship jumper, but there’s something about this one that feels different.
I feel the tears start to sting at the edge of my eyelids all over again. Fuck.
This is the third time I’ve had to cancel on him in two weeks. Dating a single mom is a special type of beast. Theres no way this one’s sticking around and there’s no way I’ll be this excited about a man again in at least another two years. I wonder what sort of penance I must be paying in this life when it comes to finding love.
No wonder I can’t get motivated to give a shit about dating. These days I can’t make it to week three without being disappointed or disappointing someone else.
I wonder if Pop Rocks* is still single.
*See previous substack post for reference.
Damn, that sucks. Men suck, I know I'm one of them. Granted Im hot shit and the best thing since Bettie White but I'm garage also. I don't know why or how it works, but better shit is always on the horizon. You just have to find it