Cranky Fat Feminist Speaks

liberal feminist from the south who ran away to college in the mid-west, and quickly retreated back after my four years were up. trying to save the world one picture book at a time; attempting to live healthier to lose weight, but without giving up beer. challenging the idea that “big is beautiful” as well as what I’ve learned and experienced about women, gender, and feminism from my time in college as well as my time in West Africa. pissed about the apathy of the world, ready to create change one mind at a time.

I'd love any comments you'd like to share! And as always, I'd love for you to click on an ad when you're done reading, it's a simple free way for you to give money towards my student loans!

Saturday, November 8, 2014

[cranky] dear ex, I feel like damaged goods

Dear LD,
I'm trying to forget you. I'm trying not to be childish. I'm trying to move forward. To move on.

You told me you loved me, and that I had re-awoken you to the world. You provided the sincerest illusion of true lasting love, friendship, and companionship.

Looking back, I never told you my secrets, and I never fully opened up to you. Perhaps I thought I had years to do that. Perhaps I was afraid that you'd comment using your judgemental tone of voice. That same judgemental and condescending tone of voice you've used every time you've spoken to me since you dumped me.

And yes, you dumped me. It was no mutual split. Your best friend even agrees to that. "Nothing lasts forever so it might as well end now" is the most truthful excuse you've given me since you sent that text message calling it off.

Clearly we cannot be friends. You look down on me and talk down to me. I am unworthy because I work freelance while looking for salaried work. You made pizzas for the man until you were 40 and decided you should grow up. But I'm unworthy.

The last few times we've run into each other you look right through me. I suppose it's better than you trying to give me unwanted life advice. Still, I'm desperate for your friendship. But when I've tried to reach out as a friend, you claim I'm booty calling you. Don't worry, you said you never wanted to sleep with me again. I'm not going to booty call the only man who's ever told me that.

I don't know why it took me three months to finally lose my shit, sobbing in a heap of snot next to my dirty laundry, punching the floor. I finally needed you to be there holding me, only to realize that I was truly completely alone, that you were never going to be standing in my bedroom again. I was a shrieking terrifying mess, finally.

And I hate you for it.

I don't know how to forgive, forget, move on, be friends. Part of my heart is scarred and dead, and you did that. It will be years before I can trust a man and love him, because I know he could be capable of running away tomorrow. If you, of all people, could run away and not look back then anyone could. And I'm not sure my heart can take that again.