I’ve written before about how I am not good about being sad. I’ve also vlogged about it. Talked about it. Meditated on it. Made a pie in the shape of a sad face. But I was still SUCKING at being sad.
But then Sunday happened.
What made me blah? In a nutshell, a horrible, no-good, very bad, date. It shook my belief in the idea that someone is actually out there for me. I mean, if THAT GUY is what I am working with? Kill me. And then I might have decided it would be a good idea to email an ex (not THE ex, but the one whom I call Spencer. The one who got out of an even longer relationship when I did last year) and ask him for reassurance. Which worked at first, but quickly turned into a crying fest on my part when he answered questions like “Are you still seeing that girl” honestly and affirmatively. FUCK.
Usually, after a Sunday like I had, I would have planned my whole week full of social engagements and jaunts into the city; to avoid, to distract, to get over.
But instead, I decided to just be sad. I didn’t talk to anyone. I curled up on the couch and watched two amazing movies. I wallowed. I drank tea. I didn’t try to make myself feel better. I didn’t watch funny movies to laugh– I watched what my netflix has labeled “Sentimental Independent Movies”… and I might have cried some more. And I was okay with it. For one of the first times in my life. I was totally content being not-happy.
And today I feel a little better. And that’s all I need; a little hope.
And maybe, just maybe, her heart needed to be broken.
broken and shattered and stomped into pieces.
then she could finally look down at the pieces,
and study each once and spend some time
getting to know
the person she’d become.
and when she finally had all the pieces back together again,
a little crooked, a little jumbled
but sealed firmly with love
she’d realize she was more beautiful than ever.
because this time,
she would love herself.