🥀
The night ended with me crying in a pretty dress, slumped over on the sidewalk like a prostitute her first day on the job. But instead of being handed a nice big sweaty wad of money, I was being handed complete indifference.
My writing teacher invited me to a film competition where various actors, writers and producers attended. The seats were jam-packed that night, and my teacher welcomed my boyfriend and me (we’ll call him Ben) to the after party at a bar downtown. Although I don’t drink anymore, I wanted the opportunity to be around people who were in an industry I’d wanted to be a part of for a long time.
My mini dress was blue and backless. It hugged my body like a glove, ending a few inches above my knees. To add a little edge to the ensemble, I paired it with black combat boots and big, luminous curls. Ben was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, engaging in as much conversation with as many people as he possibly could.
There was a very beautiful woman at the bar with long, black hair and a killer black dress to match. I recognized her as the star in one of the films and quickly pointed her out to Ben. She looked stunning. Ben thought so too. He couldn’t stop staring at her.
Ben has always had issues with having a wandering eye, among other habits that created stress for me in our relationship. I’m secure enough with myself to understand attractive people bring attention. That’s just how the world works.
Ben never really had a lot of romantic/sexual opportunity with the ladies, so when he’d see even a mildly attractive woman, he’d act as if he’d never seen a woman before in his life. He’d gawk at them, save pictures of them in his phone, scroll online and look at them. If you’re a woman dealing with men, this is probably a common experience for you.
Big turn off, right?
This evening was no different. He was staring at her so much so, even my writing teacher began to notice. There was frequent eye contact between my teacher and I, almost as if he was asking, do you see this? I started wishing I’d never gone, which made me angry because this was supposed to be a wholesome experience for me. I’d been wanting to be involved in film for a long time, but inviting Ben along ended up making me feel robbed of the moment. He acted like he was inviting me into his personal event.
I didn’t say anything about it. Just observed. I’m pretty good at keeping my composure, especially in social situations. After Ben had a few drinks, I decided it was time for us to leave. His gawking and people pleasing, in my eyes, was just getting worse.
I politely requested we leave and he agreed. I walked out the front door while he paid the tab, and I waited for him. Ten minutes went by.
The doors fling open and out walks Ben. He doesn’t notice me. Instead, he draws his attention toward a group of men sitting outside on the patio. He begins introducing himself to everyone, shaking hands and becoming very animated in conversation. It’s fascinating to watch, really. He morphs into the personality of whomever he’s speaking to in the moment. Like a mirror. He copies their mannerisms, facial expressions—even their accents. To this day, I don’t know if he subconsciously does this or makes the conscious effort. I’ve always been aware of these characteristics, but watching from a distance gave me a lot of clarity.
Twenty minutes go by.
He doesn’t check on me.
Doesn’t text me.
And still doesn’t notice I’m standing right there. At this point, I just want to see how long it takes him. I feel like I need to let him move freely without controlling what he does so I can see who he truly is as a partner.
Thirty minutes go by.
I’m sitting on the sidewalk now, slumped over with my back leaning against a telephone pole.
“Hey, honey. Are you okay?” I look up. An old couple is standing over me, a look of concern on their faces.
My eyes well with tears. I don’t even mean to. I want to lie. I want to say everything is fine. That I’m just waiting for someone. That I just need to sit down for a second. I can’t. It takes a stranger to notice I’m breaking. It takes a complete stranger to notice me within seconds and ask if I’m alright.
Someone acknowledged my existence. Someone cares.
I’m honest with the woman. Not in my wildest imagination do I expect her to find Ben and call him an asshole to his face. That scratches a special kind of itch for me. Ben isn’t so amused.
He tries to play it off, creates some story about him thinking I was in the bathroom the entire time.
For thirty minutes? You don’t think to check on your girlfriend in a bar after not seeing her for thirty minutes?
We walk to my car. The silence is deafening. I’m neither unkind nor attentive. I am beelining to my vehicle so I can go home and get some sleep. He tries to argue with me a few times, of course. He’d been drinking, and if you know what it’s like to argue with a drunk person while you’re sober, you know it’s wise to fight the urge.
The whole car ride home is quiet.
I think, this can’t be it. This can’t be as good as it gets.
We get to my apartment and he gives me the silent treatment. There’s no apology, no concern for my well-being. Just silence. He proceeds to go to sleep in my bed after watching half of a movie on my couch. At 4 a.m., he wakes me up to let me know he had a nightmare about me cheating on him with Brad Pitt (I wish I were joking).
Clearly, he’s still drunk.
My head is planted on my pillow and I’m one more cheating dream away from absolutely losing my shit on this man. His hands start rummaging through the overnight bag he’s packed, making as much noise as three cats trapped in a garbage bag. He stomps around my room, accusing me of abandoning him. There are more declarations of fury, telling me the dream means I’m going to leave him for someone else.
The irony.
At this moment, I’m certain he’s having a panic attack. He takes his little suitcase. Upon trying to drag it out of my room, he “accidentally” breaks my vanity. I shut my bedroom door and try to sleep.
The morning comes, and there’s a bowl of my favorite breakfast sitting on the counter with a sorry note.
He also apologized verbally. I forgave him. I really did. Maybe out of exhaustion, maybe out of sincerity. But I never forgave myself. Not really. Not with everything I allowed myself to put up with. How much understanding and empathy must you have for someone before it becomes stupidity? This wasn’t a singular event, and not even close to the worst thing that happened between us.
Every day was a fight. Between his addictions, negative coping mechanisms and inability to be authentic, I felt like I was drowning. Mind you, I come with a lot of baggage myself. Between abandonment wounds, my physical insecurities and my deep-seated need for constant validation from my partner, we were both two arguments away from psychosis. I was my own kind of wreck, but together, we were poison.
By the end of the relationship, I had a nervous breakdown. My period was coming every other week, I had a horrendous cystic acne flare-up and my hair was falling out so badly, it clogged my drain twice a week. In my last article, I mentioned this specifically and promised I’d tell you what my last straw was—
We were on the phone one afternoon, arguing over politics. He’s conservative and I’m liberal. Ben is easily provoked and offended by statistics and facts that don’t align with his own bias. When I stated said facts, he called me a “stupid fucking cunt” and hung up on me. I had just had it. It was like someone came and swung a massive axe through my heartstrings and severed them from him right then and there.
Finally, I felt nothing.
And based on what I had been feeling, nothing was the best feeling in the world.
Months went by. He wanted another chance. But it was just gone. The love. The romance. The respect.
Gone.
It wasn’t going to work.
After a couple months, I decided to join a dating app. I don’t believe in dating apps. It’s like window shopping human beings. Like a skin factory. And most men there are just looking to fuck you. Half of the bisexual women just want a third for themselves and their husbands.
I’ll fucking pass.
But here I was looking for a unicorn in a mosh pit.
There weren’t many options if I’m being honest. I’m no 10/10, but by looking at some of these profiles, I realized I was selling myself short by even being there. It doesn’t make me better than anyone else. However, I do think most people on dating apps don’t have their priorities in order. I was no exception.
I met a few. Some were okay. Some were horrid. Most of them just wanted to fuck me and I could smell it from a mile away. They always have the same communication style, the same manipulative tactics. It’s easy to spot when you’re 40 and have had more relationships than you’re willing to admit.
Swipe left, left, left, left, left, left.
And I swear, it would take me about 70 male profiles until I found one that I felt I could deal with. Look, I know what I like. I know what I want. And I’m very, very particular.
Then he showed up on the app.
We’ll call him Nick.
Swipe right.
There wasn’t much thought that went into him at first. He was nice, handsome. Seemed interested. It didn’t take long for him to ask for my number either. I figure if you have to wait over a day to want my phone number, you probably don’t like me that much.
Not him though. He was quick. And he was fucking adamant.
He wanted to talk to me every day. We talked about my poetry and his art. We talked about our pain from the past, our last relationships and shared small stories about our childhoods.
The one caveat—he was in his 20s.
What did I have to lose? The older ones didn’t work out, the younger ones didn’t work out and neither did the men in my age range. It doesn’t even matter, does it?
I’d never dated someone this young. For obvious reasons. After the hellhole I’d just escaped from, I was willing to give a chance to anyone that felt completely opposite of what I’d just experienced. I expressed my concern about his age. He was reassuring and insisted that whatever he could do to make me feel comfortable, he was there for it.
He was interested. He was respectful. And he was persistent. I fucking love a persistent man/woman. Like, yes. Show me that you want me. Show me how devastating it is that I consume your thoughts every single day. Text me every morning, afternoon and night.
And he did.
After talking for a week or so, I started getting anxious. I felt myself stepping out of one room while being lured into another. Whatever this new room looked like, I needed it. But there’s something scary about that too, because in this room I didn’t know my way around yet. The old room was familiar. I knew where the light switch was and which side of the bed I preferred. I was getting ready to explore new territory after being in the same room for years.
One late, melancholic evening, I had an emotional breakdown. Ben crossed my mind. I called him. Of course he answered. Of course. I cried a little. We talked for an hour. Reminiscing about our relationship. As soon as I hung up, I thought…
What the fuck am I doing?
I blocked him on everything. I said, fuck that. Why not give the new guy a chance?
From the moment I let go of Ben, Nick and I became inseparable. We couldn’t stop talking and texting. The communication was so good, it felt like talking to a lover I was forced to separate from in a past life and finally got the chance to catch up with. There was an hour and a half of physical distance between us, so at first, we were forced to use FaceTime and Zoom calls to spend time together. He paid for my nails. He read my writing. Gave feedback in paragraphs. The fall was high and hard and fucking pulverizing.
I found myself missing him. In the little moments where we couldn’t talk, my heart was reaching for him. If there were moments where he’d have to be gone for an hour or so, he’d let me know ahead of time. There was always reassurance, checking in and consideration.
We were both trying to write a book at the time. I made it a point that we’d write together on a Zoom call for at least fifteen minutes. There was encouragement coming from both ends, which only pushed us to do better.
And I need that. I’m ambitious. I have a great routine. I’m health-conscious and determined. He was exactly the same. Even down to the same blood type.
Nick and I decided we wanted to meet. He showed up at my house—not empty-handed. He brought food from my favorite Mexican place and a whopping bouquet of black roses with carnations blended in. Even a little card sticking out at the top with a special note made out to me.
All I could think about was asking Ben for flowers for years. Do you know how many years it took for Ben to finally buy me flowers? The entire relationship.
Nick was amazing.
I couldn’t have picked a better partner for myself if I had the best lineup chosen by Jesus Christ himself.
He was competitive and determined. He was persistent, dominant and vulnerable. There was a built-in bullshit detector he possessed that I particularly appreciated. I have one of those myself, and it was nice having someone who would kindly call me out on my shit.
You know what I loved the most? The little girl in me felt safe enough to come out. I didn’t feel like I needed to constantly be the stoic one, the strong one, the one who holds it all together. It was the first time in years I felt cherished enough to turn my brain off and let someone else do the thinking for once. The softest, most feminine version of myself had taken over every part of me.
It’s fascinating how tender a woman can become when she feels like she’s in the right hands, isn’t it?
Our first night was incredible. There were a lot of delicate moments, staring into each other’s eyes. Like something out of a movie. We watched Harry Potter and couldn’t keep our hands off one another.
We fell fast. Like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. But I didn’t care about hitting the ground, as long as I knew I’d be holding his hand when I did.
Truly, it was a fairytale for me.
We were together for a total of two weeks before everything changed.
One evening, we’re out to dinner at a very beautiful restaurant he made reservations at. I’m wearing a gorgeous low-cut maxi dress and heels, he’s in a button-up and slacks. Before we even receive our food, he gets a ping on his phone. He peeks at it. His dad’s text reads—
Call me.
Ignoring it, he assures me he’ll call his dad later, but I insist. He excuses himself from the table as I sip on my water and text my best friend, anticipating his return (he looks hot as fuck).
When he arrives, there’s an uncomfortable demeanor about him. I ask if everything’s alright and he tries to reassure me that everything’s fine. I study his face.
He’s hiding something.
I can feel it.
Then he blurts out the most ground-shaking piece of information I never expected to hear—
“So, my dad found your old OnlyFans.”
Immediately, I feel ashamed. Not because I’m devastated that I did OnlyFans, but because I hadn’t willingly given him that piece of information. It makes me look like I’m hiding something. That’s not really information you divulge within two weeks of knowing someone, especially when you were only in that line of work for six months. Six months out of forty years? That’s a small slice of pie.
He studies me for a reaction. All I can muster up is, “Oh, no.”
I obviously admitted it. There’s no getting around that. Even if his dad hadn’t found it and he’d asked me outright, I would’ve been honest.
All things considered, he was very understanding. He didn’t treat me any differently. We went to our hotel room, loved on each other and cuddled for a while. Then he took me to Food Lion, where we both picked out some red Gatorade and strawberry shortcake-flavored Goldfish. We went to the comic book store and checked out all the magazines, cards and the other nerdy shit I didn’t understand. But I was excited because he loved it and I wanted to understand every fucking thing that was important to him.
There was a moment in the parking lot where I got excited about how pretty the night sky looked.
“We can stop here and watch it for a while,” he said as he leaned with his back against the car.
I look back on that moment now, wishing I’d taken more time letting him hold me while we watched the sky bleed crushed velvet. I wish I’d kissed him longer. I wish I’d buried my face in that little space between his neck and his ear and made a home there.
We spent what I didn’t know would be our last night together.
The next morning, we took a shower together and got ready for him to drive me home. There was a voice in the pit of my stomach telling me the relationship was over. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was just a feeling. The panic set in and as soon as we pulled up to my house, I got out of the car without hesitation. My mind was telling me to detach, to remove myself as quickly as possible—mind, body and soul.
He walked me to my door and kissed me goodbye. As soon as I got in the house, tears welled in my eyes.
He’d always call me on his car rides. He didn’t this time. I texted him, and of course, he tried to reassure me like he always did. But that night, his father wanted to talk to him and we both knew that conversation had my name written all over it.
We texted through the evening. He said he’d be talking to his dad and he’d call me after.
That call never came.
Around 9:30 p.m., I received a text that he needed to take a step back from the relationship.
Heartbroken doesn’t do my feelings justice. I felt annihilated.
I have a heavy past. I mean, a really heavy past. Most of the things I’ve done have been through survival. Your growth gets stunted when you’re living in that mindset, because you don’t have the chance to flourish—only withstand whatever’s being put on your path in that moment. Many of my decisions have been made out of pure panic. Between my history of being a sex worker, a dancer and a live streamer (this one fully clothed), his family didn’t think I was a good fit for him.
I completely understood. It didn’t mean it hurt any less.
He was getting ready to go into a very politically charged career and they thought I’d ruin his chances. His entire future was ahead of him, while my past was like a sleep paralysis demon waiting to pull the rug from beneath me at any given moment. It did, I guess.
There’s nothing about my past I can change and to be honest, I don’t think I want to. For some reason, this was my path. The experiences I’ve lived helped me guide many others who needed it. Being severely abused inspired me to use my online tarot channel to become a sponsor for women and children who’d been victims themselves. I’m not proud of every decision I’ve made, but I’m proud of what I’ve made out of them.
In my heart, I tried to dig out the dead bodies to make room for him. But corpses leave ghosts, and there’s no fighting the dead things.
I can’t begin to explain the physical pain that came with losing this person. It felt like it wasn’t the first time I’d lost him either. Like someone I kept meeting in every lifetime, while knowing deep down, this would always be the fate of it.
My insides were gutted. Not because he left, but because I had carved out so much room for him, there was nothing left. My heart felt the heaviest it had been in a long time, yet it was empty. It felt like someone had died, or killed or both at the same time. I’d try to sleep, clinging to my shirt at night like something underneath needed me to hold it. But I couldn’t reach it, and even if I did, my touch was not the one my heart ached for. If my claws had been sharp enough, I probably would’ve raked through my flesh.
Some people aren’t meant to stay, but to show you what’s possible.
I’ve tried to fill the void. I’ve had men flirt with me and I’ve flirted back. It’s fun for a time. But late at night, I’d stare at the ceiling and remember Nick. Because of him, I found myself rejecting more men. Not always because they were horrible, but because both Ben and Nick reminded me what happens when I forget what I deserve, and when I don’t. Nick raised the standard I wasn’t able to raise for myself at the time. And I will always be grateful for that.
Did Nick really love me? Did he mean all those things he said? I don’t know. I don’t think it matters. What matters is what I got out of it. What matters is that it was real to me.
The hollow space between my ribs looks like the aftermath of an apocalypse now, I’m sure. I think I’ll fill it with poetry and new memories and maybe a few new books that I’ll carry with me.
My whole life, I’ve been waiting for someone. Waiting for Ben to come out of the bar. Waiting for Nick to call me. Waiting for someone to tell me why I shouldn’t be ashamed, why I deserve more and what I should be doing about it.
I think about the stranger on the sidewalk, and what I’d say if she found me now. But I don’t think she’d find me at all. Because I won’t be waiting.
And isn’t that the point?