Why It Hurt(s)

This post was inspired by Kat George's over at Thought Catalog. I was originally just going to reblog hers, but then there were things I wanted to cross out and brackets I wanted to add and then it seemed like writing my own was just a better idea. 


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Because he said he loved me the night before, like he'd said nearly every night for about two months, and the next morning he said he'd never meant it. Because love should never be a lie. 
Because he was the first man of my "type" to ever have seemed to have wanted me in a substantive manner. Because his desire and "love" for me amplified that which I had for myself--knowing he wanted me around, wanted me to hold a special place in his life reserved for no one else, was such an ego boost. I certainly hadn't held myself in overwhelming disregard before he came into my life, but belonging to him [or giving myself to him, if the ownership implied in "belonging" doesn't sit well with you] made me feel better about myself. Because knowing he never wanted me like he made it seem like he wanted me unleashed every insecurity I'd previously successfully locked away and suddenly they were all feasting on me at once.  
Because I ignored the things I was uncomfortable with/unsure about and had convinced myself that we had found perfection. Because he totally blindsided me that morning; I didn't see it coming at all. Because I had been thoroughly and completely fooled. Duped. Bamboozled. Toyed with. Conned. Because the realest thing I had ever known was never real at all. Because I thought I fell for him, but it turns out I had fallen for an act, and that was personally humiliating. I was so disgusted with myself for having been blind to the truth. I was angry at myself because I thought I should have known better, I should have seen the signs. Because once I wasn't in it anymore, I could see that I had lost myself inside of this, and all along I'd been thinking I was winning. Because hindsight is a bitch with 20-20 vision. Because I'd had endings before, yes, and I'd been lied to before, but never this thoroughly.
Because I thought I was doing pretty well for my first time around the meaningful relationship thing. Because we had serious-relationship-conversations and met each other's parents and celebrated month-aversaries and how could all of that be part of something that wasn't real?
Because I'd gone and let my imagination run away with me. Once we both seemed sure about this, I lifted the restraining order between my head and my heart and let them start talking again, and when they do that I get to making silly plans. Plans like international mail and sexy lingerie and rearranging my clothes to have an extra drawer for him and leaving an extra toothbrush in his room and Thanksgiving with my family and visiting his over our extended Christmas vacation. Because it had felt so much like an idyllic movie romance and I wanted to do everything in my power to keep it that way. Because I was suddenly alone to wallow not only in losing what we had, but also in losing everything I'd imagined we were going to have.
Because if he'd spent so much time and energy projecting emotions he didn't feel for so long, he could have at least had the decency to pretend to be upset as he was telling me all the ways I was wrong and he'd done wrong. Because he just got to walk away apparently unscathed, while I felt like I'd gotten run over by a tractor trailer. Because he'd gone from being the person who could make me feel invincible to the person who left me wide-open and vulnerable in the blink of an eye. Because I will never know what was and what was not a lie. Because he played love and I fell in, even though it was hard and I was scared, thinking it was an exercise in reciprocity, a leap of faith. 
Because I thought we were good for each other; I wanted us to be good for each other. Because he was the first time I had put my love life into my own hands and gone after something I wanted in six years, and look where it got me. Because even if I'm smart enough to not think I can't trust men because of what he did,  I have learned that I perhaps should be less trusting of my damn self. Because this doubt is a stain I can't get out no matter how many times I put myself through the wash.


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Sorry if you're sick of hearing about this. That was even more cathartic than I'd imagined it would be.    
  

I hate when friends tell you to "get over it".

As if it's that simple, just a conscious decision you can make. As if you're not trying. As if all this pain and fear and worry and drama are things you're keeping around because they make you happy. As if your feelings are trivial and insignificant, when in reality you feel like the David to your feelings' Goliath the Hercules to your feelings' that-monster-where-when-he-cuts-off-one-head-three-more-grow-to-replace-it.

See, friend, even if you think I'm being ridiculous, you are still supposed to be there for me. You are still supposed to listen. You are still supposed put some effort into trying to understand how I'm feeling, instead of just discounting it. I am supposed to be able to feel like I matter when I start talking to you about a problem I'm having. My other friend, once she listened, thought I had "reason to be concerned". That little bit of validation and feeling like I'm not going crazy is all I was looking for. I've never done this before, remember? I'm not going to apologize for being scared of being constantly reminded of the hurt I've spent so much time trying to put behind me. I think it is a legitimate fear. I'm not going to apologize for not being Beyonce, who as far as I can tell from her songs about her breakups, has never actually cared about a single man in her life and just keeps them around until they "show their asses" and then tells them to go "to the left, to the left" and then sits around later laughing at their misfortune. I'm not going to apologize for not being jaded just yet. I'm not going to apologize for trying to prepare myself for this--pretending it's going to be rainbows and butterflies is just going to make it worse when it feels like a punch to the stomach. I just...I don't appreciate not being taken seriously.

Most of the time...

I love being a woman. I love that I can be soft while being strong, that caring always wins out over somewhat-overbearing. I love that I can be identified by my laugh, that I'm not afraid to draw attention to my curves or draw paw prints on my breasts. I love that it's okay for me to always want to give/receive hugs, that I can pepper my speech with the words "love", "honey", "dear", and "darling", that I can give myself freely and wholly to as many people as possible without any repercussions. I love the slop of my collarbone and the curl of my hair, and I love how it feels to be the only one who knows I'm wearing sexy underwear. Most of the time, I love being a woman. 

But on days like today, when I wake up needing to take 2 maximum strength Pamprin and 3 Advil, which are currently doing nothing to combat cramps from hell and the fact that every muscle in my body aches as I try to move, and all of the soda at the luncheon is caffeine-free, and I'm hungry but I don't have the energy to even eat a bowl of soup, and I can't trust how I feel because it might just be the hormones feeling, and all I want to do is sleep when all I need to do is work, I must admit, I get angry. I get angry that men don't have to deal with this shit. I get angry that I have to go spend a bunch of money at CVS on pads and tampons and pantyliners and spray. I get angry that my vibrator is going to lay around unused and unusable for the rest of the week. I get angry that the world expects me to keep on keepin on and be so fucking strong when my insides are literally crawling out of me. I get angry that the world doesn't recognize exactly how many sacrifices women make to keep up appearances and keep everything running smoothly. 

I still love being a woman. It's society that makes me angry.