Jesus, I trust in you. I can’t seem to find the faith to always, but today, I trust you. As I should every day.
“Pain may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5
If I could, I would:
Walk to up him, wearing my best dress, white sparkly sandals, long dark brown hair curled to perfection, messy, just like my personality. He would look perfect, as usual. His perfect length black hair styled to look messy, and he wouldn’t shave the last two days, simply because he knows the torture I endure at seeing him unshaven, a perfect five o’clock shadow on his face. From under his perfect-fitting t-shirt and jeans, his tan skin would peek from under his man-hairy arms. The sight of him alone will bring memories. Memories of what it was like to hug him, and the sandpaper feel of the scruffiness of his face when he kissed me. Butterflies will instantly fly around, deep in my diaphragm, cutting off my air supply and making my knees weak. But not the good butterflies. The ugly, black moths that choke, and take your breath away. Yes, the memories would come back, not excluding the bad ones. The horrible things he said to me, the awful way he would sometimes treat me, our post-breakup friendship gone bad.
“My SIM card?” The words would finally come out of my strangled throat, in my usual, sweet, high pitched voice. Firm, authoritative, yet not losing any sweetness. He would be confused as to if I was angry, or if I was being normal. It’ll kill me.
“I forgot.” He would say arrogantly, nonchalantly, as if it is the last thing on his mind. I’m sure it is the last thing on his mind. He makes his point whenever he sees me, that he has moved on. Constantly texting that curly haired white whore at his school. He really did like her, and he never missed a chance to throw that at me. Something about him drove me crazy. That it was EVERY girl. Every single girl. He couldn’t stick to one. When it was me, I was always wondering how many girls he had on the side. Reasurring words that I was special, and he was in love did meant nothing a year later after he told me I, in fact, didn’t mean half as much to him as I thought I did. After a year of dating, then a year of fighting, here we were. I cut him out of my life. My deepest desire is for us to reconcile. For him to realize what he lost, and that we could be perfect, again. But that is as likely as turtles beating a cheetah at a 400m track race.
So at that point, I would throw caution to the wind, forget that I don’t curse, or insult, or get angry. The catharsis would fill my heart and feed the angry wolf beneath the surface:
“Screw you, you peice of shit. You are not a man. I get it, you don’t care anymore. You haven’t for a long time. Yeah, I screwed up with you, but you, again, are not a man. What kind of man preys on a woman’s insecurities? You knew I had an eating disorder, you knew what you did to me. Yet, instead of being there for me, like the “best friend” you were supposed to be, you worsened it. You made me feel even worse about myself than I already did. I kept asking what was wrong with me, but the problem is not with me. There is a problem with YOU. A normal human does not destroy another human being. So keep the fucking SIM card, and I hope you rot in hell. I will never forgive you for who you are. You will never find anyone like me, ever again. I let you walk all over me, and that was my mistake. But no more. Fuck you, fuck your little bitches, Julie and Tatyana, and I hope you make mistakes, I hope you fuck things over, and then go die in a hole. And then I hope you need me for something, so I can deny and reject you, just like you hurt me.”
My voice would crack, and I would be crying halfway through. And then later, I would cry. And the situation would be impossible to get over. The fight between calling him to apologize and let him hate me would be more than I could handle. I don’t know how I would go on. But I would.
In reality, I would bite back the hurt threatening to swallow me whole, and say, “You need to stop forgetting.” In the most serious voice I can muster. Then turn away sharply and walk away, as his phone vibrates and he smiles as he sees the name “Julie Huffman” light up his screen. His new girl. He is happy. I am not. But I will be one day.
And the reality hits me: Nothing I can say or do can change the fact that he doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore, and I’m still left hurt. So I don’t know what to do to move on from this. To just, let go. Cause all I want to do is just let go.
Shoot. Its only May and this is the 3rd or 4th wedding. The first I attended was one I was part of, in February. naturally, I caught the stomach flu and had my ex’s brother take me home. Today, I am in the mood for everything but a wedding. And let me tell you how it’ll go:
All the Romanians will dress in their very best: women either in flowy, pastel colored dresses, or tight black ones, and all the men in their very best suit with a colorful shirt or tie. Starting a whole 30 minutes behind schedule, the men will sit on one side of the church, the women on the other. The band is playing, meaning I will be sitting up on the podium for all to see. Finally, it will be time to start. The music will start playing, and the small flower girl will start to walk in. If we’re lucky, she’ll do something adorable like start crying, or get super shy and turn back. Then the bridesmaids will walk in. Unlike the wedding I participated in, these bridesmaids will look good. The bride has taste (again, unlike the wedding I participated in earlier this year. We looked like moldy bananas -.- ).
Then, the doors will close, and the music will change to a disgustingly sweet love song, and the bride and groom will walk in together, hopelessly in love. The ladies will admire her surely expensive dress, and talk about the decorations. The men will check to see which bridesmaid is hottest. Then finally, the band will play and the 2 hour long service will start. The bride’s best girlfriends will get up and start crying and sing a song for her, bringing the bride to tears. Blessings all around for the “newest family,” and then, by the time we are all starving, it will be time to go.
While all this is happening, I will be holding back tears. Not of joy. But rather, of bitterness, and resentment as I remember my latest breakup, and how at my deepest core, I too would eventually like to fall in love and get married. But I realize, school comes first. And the hundreds of comments from the older ladies I will hear today, as to why I am not yet married will sting. Maybe it is because I wasted two years of my life in love with someone who broke my heart, when I should have been searching for someone else. After all, I am in my prime: my best physical shape, my best intellectual and financial shape, highest level of maturity. The only thing that was lacking was my heart. And I can forsee this wedding for what it will be: a reminder that I am 20, and still alone.
This is the expectation for today.