Sad Girl Dinner

Surviving (if that’s what you call it) another night without you.

Was it even love? Or was it limerence? Or maybe even a trauma bond? Does it even matter? All I know is that my brain chemistry is permanently altered and that this pain is unbearable.

Stopped at the store on my way home from work today. I was mad at myself because I bought a $10 wine bottle opener when I could easily get one on Amazon for much cheaper. But I had made up my mind; I had a bottle of wine at home waiting for me. I picked it out last week anticipating that I was going to drink it then, but I scoured my cabinets and could not find the bottle opener I knew I already had. Seriously, where is that thing?

So I made the stop at the store and I spent the stupid money. Everyone always talks about numbing the pain. But I’m not too sure that’s what it is. Maybe it’s actually wanting to push myself into the deep end — swimming in the misery, in the heartache, until my hands and feet are pruned, until the skin is so fragile that I think about how easy it would be for it to slough off and bleed.

I told my coworker that lately I keep stumbling upon music you sent me. And maybe that was the truth the first time, but then I kept playing those songs over and over again, forcing myself to cry. I mean, I have a whole playlist dedicated to this ritual — Right Now I’m a Saddie, Not a Baddie. Even outside that playlist, I can’t share most of my music with others because they call it depressing.

Several times I sat in my car to finish a sad song, or two, or three. I’ve been blasting them loudly and staring blankly out the front windshield, gazing at the sky. Trying to blame my instability on the season change or the full moon. That’s a lie.

Every time I play a song that reminds me of you, I picture you being in the car with me, riding passenger since I was always the one to drive. I imagine us singing the song together, or looking over at you and watching your hand movements capture the essence of the lyrics. I miss that about you.

For someone who seemed to feel everything so deeply, it sure was easy for you to stop feeling deeply about me.

I forced myself to hit pause and get out of the car. Tonight I ate a sad girl dinner comprised of mac and cheese topped with ground beef and melted cheddar. I followed that with some leftover kettle corn popcorn that I let sit out on the counter all night prior. Stale. How appropriate.

I finally decided to take a shower after three days of dry shampoo and just cleaning important areas. I used that stupid $10 bottle opener to open the wine and poured an entire cup, not a glass, maybe 12 to 16 ounces or so. After undressing, I grabbed the cup of wine and brought it with me as I stepped into the shower. I’ll admit I was hoping that the heat would accelerate the buzz, and it did just that. As I gulped down half the cup, my body shivered at the disgusting taste, sending goosebumps down my arms.

Here I am. Naked and lost in thought, scrubbing my body until it feels like I can’t scrub anymore. A literal and metaphorical cleansing. All of my best and worst thoughts come to me here— always the shower. I’ve written about it before. I still ponder why this is, but I know I need to hurry and dry off so I can get these thoughts down before they’ve all evaporated.

I know what comes next. It’s like clockwork. I’ll sit down on the couch and mindlessly scroll, my TikTok algorithm knowing exactly what I’m doing. It feeds me more heartbreak, relationship bullshit. It’s trying to con me into engaging with more and more tarot readings about you. It knows how to get in my head.

So I close the tab. I open up a game I’ve been playing for months now to keep my brain busy. Embarrassingly, I think I’ve spent at least $30 on it this month alone, but at least it distracts me from you.

Thirty minutes into my game and I can feel my face starting to flush, and beads of sweat building behind my knees since I always sit cross-legged. I get up from the couch and head to the bathroom where I grab an aerosol can of Dove dry spray, lavender fresh scent. It’s a soft scent that my senses can actually handle, which is good since the sweat behind my knees is sending me into sensory hell. If my body didn’t hate alcohol, among other things, I know I could easily be an addict. Not just from my trauma, but also from genetics. I thank the universe that isn’t the case, shifting between crossing and uncrossing my legs so they can air out. I think about how you’d relate to this sensory nightmare. I wonder how you work on cars, between sweating in the heat and being drenched in cold slush during the winter. Maybe it’s one of the reasons why we failed (but probably not).

I pour more wine into my cup. At this point I’m feeling it, and I’m not even sure why I’m pouring it into a cup at all. I almost knocked it over onto my beige couch, and by the time I’m finished, I’m sure the whole bottle will be gone anyway. Still, I pour.

Watching TV will help distract me again. Does anyone else find binge-watching so easy? Are we all just trying to live inside the screen? Anything but here, right? Maybe this is my addiction: binge-watching TV shows. I never understood why people are so judgmental toward addicts, especially fellow nurses. Truly, I don’t think anyone just wakes up one day and decides that substances are fun. If anything, it takes a dark, dark place to take you there. There is no fun, only desperation.

Tonight, when I decide at a time that’s entirely too late to finally head to bed, I’ll lay down in a king-sized one. So great, all this space...

But it’s empty. Just me. Bailey is at my parents’ since it’s a work night. King Princess’s song “Talia” starts playing in my head...

“But four drinks I’m wasted

I can see you dancing, I can lay down next to you

At the foot of my bed

If I drink enough

I can taste your lipstick, I can lay down next to you

But it’s all in my head

If I drink enough I swear that I will wake up next to you”

I know I can’t taste your lipstick, since you don’t wear it, but you get the point. Earlier this year, I bought this king-sized bed, back when I thought we still had a chance. When I thought you’d end up lying next to me again.

My body starts begging me for dopamine, serotonin — whichever one it is; I always forget. So I give it that. But as I come down, it comes crashing down too. I lie there with a giant hole in my chest, starting to sob. No matter how many times I try to fill the hole, and no matter what I try to fill it with, it’s always there. I hate you for that — for awakening a part of me that I didn’t know existed, just to abandon me. Every day I can hear my upstairs neighbor’s footsteps above me. I wonder if she (I think a she?) can hear my sobs afterward. How embarrassing, and pathetic.

I find myself bringing my hand to my chest and applying pressure as I wince. Not from physical pain, but rather emotional. God damn this hole. How can there be this emptiness yet heaviness all at once? I’ve had to teach myself grounding techniques so I don’t spiral out of control. But I still lose it, every time. My sobbing continues for what I guess is only about five to ten minutes, but feels more like an hour.

Tomorrow I have to get up for work. It’s my last day at my current one. A bunch of reps are bringing me treats, celebrating my next move. Growth. Opportunity. And yet every single night, I go to bed feeling this longing for you — for the life I thought I’d be living. Good things happening around me and maybe even to me, but I still feel so... hopeless.

My brain is on a reel, telling me I’ll never feel this way about anyone ever again. That I’ll never find the connection we used to have.

I’m starting to believe it.

The pressure of my hand on my chest isn’t helping. I really tried. Next I reach for my bed sheet, except it’s not a bed sheet. I mean literally, yes, but I use it to cuddle, not cover. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always needed a “blankie” to sleep with. You’re one of the only people who have actively seen me sleep with it. You didn’t understand it at first, but one day you pressed it against your face and embraced it into your arms. Then you understood. I still got some flack for it literally being a baby blanket, so this year I swapped it for a bedsheet instead.

I’ve been growing increasingly self-conscious about my body this year. A lot of changes. Things I’m not happy about. I started hyper-focusing on my face and symmetry, or lack thereof. I read that sleeping on your side can cause facial asymmetry, so now I use my bed sheet to wrap around my head, and I’m training myself to sleep on my back.

How ridiculous is that? That this bedsheet provides me such emotional and physical comfort. If only it were you instead...

Anger is coursing through my veins now. All this shit is happening in my life. Even though you’re the one person I want to share it with, I can’t. I’m mad because I know I would have NEVER fucking done this to you. I want to hate you. I want to hate you so bad. As I’m laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, I purposely try to replay all of the awful things you’ve done and said to me over the years.

Jesus fucking Christ. Five whole years of knowing you, but only two of them spent with you actually loving me.

How absolutely fucked is it that you still have a hold on me after all this time?

They say time heals all wounds. Where do these people get these dumb sayings?

I don’t want the fantasy of love anymore. I just want peace.

But, for now, I’ll keep clutching this bedsheet.