I fucked up, you guys.
I broke the cardinal rule of womanhood, and I let my crazy flag fly. Ugh, I feel like I need witness protection right now.
Remember that date I wrote about that was so amazing with that guy I was sure is my soulmate? Remember how just the other day I wrote about my friend’s death and how I don’t care about holding anything in, even if it makes me look some type of way? Yeeeeeah…
Last night, I felt like someone else took over my body (more so my fingers) and proceeded to text that guy this long thing about Instagram shit that I’ve seen and shit he did that pisses me off and everything he did wrong and how he’s so fucked up, so on and so forth…
For a split second, I felt good. I was like FUCK YEAH. FUCK YOU BITCH. I DON’T GIVE A FUCK. And then I saw the bubbles, and my heart sank. Then I read what he wrote–I wanted to throw up.
“You’re taking this too far. Almost like a stalker. I wish you the best. Please don’t contact me again.”
In my defense, I didn’t have to “stalk” to see the things I saw. Social media does all the dirty work for you these days, so it was just a click on the “following” tab and boom–exhibit A. In his defense, we’re not together. We weren’t even talking. So how is any of it my business?
And look at me, still making excuses for him. GET IT TOGETHER, BRUNA. Anyway…
He continued by saying that he treated me like a complete gentleman (which, he did, minus his departure tactics) and, “I’ve moved on and you should too. You’ll find the perfect man for YOU. This is the FINAL goodbye.”
Geez. I could’ve done without the shouty capitals, but OK. Between that and the block I got on social media, I was feeling pretty low, as you can imagine.
I couldn’t sleep all night. I felt like throwing up. But while searching for whatever shred of dignity I had left, I realized something–I did this on purpose. Maybe subconsciously, but I knew what I was doing. I’m not an idiot. Just the other day I told myself, “I need him to tell me goodbye so I can really let go. Otherwise I’ll never let go.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Surprisingly, I didn’t cry. Well, until I showered this morning. I don’t know what it is about the shower, but it just feels safe to cry in there. Maybe because the water disguises your tears? Maybe because that’s what they always do in the movies? I don’t know.
But for the most part, no crying. Just that hollow feeling in my chest which made yoga that much harder. I hate that feeling. But then, I did more thinking–as I do.
In the massive text message I sent, he only picked out the one line that made me look bad, and didn’t acknowledge anything else that I wrote reflecting his poor behavior. And really, that’s the only part that makes me feel shitty. I don’t want to be known as “crazy stalker Bruna.” That’s not me. That’s not who I am. And that’s what bothers me, not everything else I said, because everything else was the truth.
I don’t regret telling him that my emotions hold value, too, or that I need to stop tip-toeing around his feelings so I don’t come off a certain way or sound a certain way or whatthefuckever. I don’t regret saying that I was sorry I’m not just a piece of ass he can have fun with, that we had a genuine connection or that he wasn’t man enough to accept it.
I am who I am. And guess what? Part of that is crazy. And guess what else? Another part of that is calling you out on that bullshit.
Listen guys, I hate to break it to you, but all women have crazy in them. Some of us are better at hiding it than others, but some of you really bring that side of us out into the open. And that’s no good.
I don’t want to be crazy Bruna. I don’t want a guy that makes me feel like I need to be crazy Bruna.
I could’ve just let go the second this all went downhill months ago, but I have a hard time doing that. I always have. At least I didn’t waste years of my life expecting for this to turn around and play out like the fantasy in my head (like I have before). And if I had to sacrifice my pride and self-esteem to do it, then so be it.
Everything is either a blessing or a lesson. So this is what I’ve learned: I can fall in love with someone. I can have a surreal connection with someone, and that connection alone doesn’t mean they’re the one. Actions hold more value than words (which is hard for me to accept because I’m a writer). I am worth loving. I am slightly crazy. I am a privilege.
I needed this. I needed to find a way to let go so I can stop having tunnel vision and stop putting a hold on my heart for someone who never intended to come back and claim it.
I will love again, and this time, he will love me back. I won’t have to lurk on his shit. I won’t have to feel crazy. I won’t have to fight to prove that I’m worth it.
And that journey begins now.