Warning: graphic, NSFW, train wreckage.

To my baby daddy: You advised me to write a blog to “balance out my brain,” and not in a nice way, but thank you, I shall.

Also, keep in mind that I abide by the great Ernest Hemingway’s first rule of writing and this is: “there is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.”

So, I’m allowed to be monumentally imperfect.

This is also for perhaps, the millennial mother who spent their early twenties lost as fuck and decided to desperately get their shit together before turning into a senile spinster. Career driven, but lost. Obsessive-loving mother, (fur and plant mommas welcomed as well) but terrified. Centered, cool, calm but will end up in jail if someone oversteps (literally.) Chakras almost aligned. Overwhelmingly amorous, but uncertain. Sometimes a little too generous, sometimes a standoffish asshole. This is for you. This is for you, & I’m going to exploit myself for our sanity because I know what it feels like to be a Coca Cola can and be shaken and then finally opened. (That’s how my therapist describes me. Verbatim. Hand gestures and all.)

This blog is also for anyone who’s been through countless relationships, each one thinking he was “THE ONE,” but each with the same “plot twist”- he wasn’t. I call myself the Ariana Grande Peasant because I’m not nearly as glamorous or wealthy, but I let down the spectators, that is, my family through numerous new boyfriend introductions. It would’ve been the Taylor Swift Peasant but we’ve been having our differences lately.

Ultimately, this is to mend traumas, and in hopes to reach out to anyone who relates and can find their silver lining through my destruction. There will be a lot of unstructured ranting but I promise to try to end it with a: “so the moral of the story is…”

Unashamed, but slightly paranoid that this raw textual documentation might fall on the eyes of my hatersss/nemesis. (If you have none, you’re a bold face lie. Even Jennifer Anniston has enemies and she deserves unimaginable justice; YOU KNOW). Regardless, I’m still going to jot down my reality.

So onward, I’ll start with what is present…although I began writing this on February 12th…anyway you know what it is.

(ALSO to set the mood, play “Girl” by the Beatles which is currently on repeat for myself.)

I guess this is about my ongoing breakup with, we will call him: Nick.

After a year of dating we decided to move in together. Up until this point I had NEVER lived with a boyfriend. The last time I lived with a male, I was 7, and that was the year my dad moved out.

Nick’s smile is contagious. He’s passionate about the things he loves. I admire his knowledge for things I’ll never understand like cars, a map, weed, IKEA instructions, and PubG. He never questioned the unnecessary things I did like yelling out, “TOWANDA,” while making a left turn on a street. (Fried Green Tomatoes reference.) He always had candles lit in our kitchen and living room every single day. He never judged me for overeating carbs, in fact he encouraged it. He encouraged me to get as thick as I wanted. (NOT GOOD, but so good.) He drove me to most places because of my driving anxiety. He had my back when someone let me down or angered me, especially if it was the father of my child. He cursed them into oblivion (behind their backs, obviously) while I ranted and cried. He had my back. Our adventures were endless, but that goodness boomeranged with toxicity. It was never just good. It was scary dangerous, underwhelming, and endlessly disappointing. Details will drip here and there in future blogs.

The breakup wasn’t due to unfaithfulness. But it came down to two choices: Nick or my daughter Kamille.

Kamille never witnessed a fight between her father and I. Every disagreement he and I had was kept discreet, and we always resolved things behind closed doors. Even during our multiple custody battles, going in and out of court, she had no idea that we were dragging each other through the mud, both of us hoping we would get full custody. Kamille has no idea we’ve ever been to court for her. She’s been kept in a bundle of love and safekeeping from all of that. Currently we are at 50/50 custody, no thanks to California’s leniency towards fathers. I mean he’s GREAT, loving, and responsible, but definitely a helicopter dad. Like, BREATH.

So, Kamille isn’t used to arguments or disagreements. AT ALL. Remember, this was the first time I integrated my daughter and a boyfriend into the same home because this time it was gonna be a for sure thing! (Eye roll). Our arguments would vary from laundry, to allowing the dog on the bed. These arguments escalated to harsh and evil WHISPERS so Kamille wouldn’t hear, but she did. It got to a point where she would come out of her room crying and saying, “you guys are literally arguing over laundry!”

When I say that ripped me apart, I mean that I was torn to bits.

As a child, my sister Anita and I would jump around my mom and dad, begging them not to fight whenever they would argue. That was the LAST thing I ever wanted for my child. I swore to Kamille that it would never happen again, and if it did, I would have to let Nick go.

When I realized that our petty arguments were unresolvable, I had to keep my word. Because the pettiness would transform into what it felt like two seconds away from a massacre and I was not here for it. We TRIED to level with each other. Almost every single day there was something compromised. We wouldn’t argue around Kamille but there was a time where I canceled picking her up from her father’s house because I didn’t want to bring her into the tension of a tiny disagreement that imploded. Canceling on my daughter and not being able to see her made me slightly insane. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

SO…

In my alternate reality, there are only two ways to breakup. The first is an angry, impractical, uncompromising argument where both parties are spewing out each other’s vices and flaws, (which is why it never worked out) then the storm off; never EVER looking back. The next kind of breakup is EXACTLY the same minus the not looking back part. There’s a few sentimental ‘intimate moments,’ all while KNOWING you can never take back the hateful things you said but there’s still some love there. That’s when you know it’s gonna be difficult to release him back into the carnivorous wild.

I know a lot of people who would rather end their relationship with one last “bed” session than nothing at all. Dignity? Forget about it. So, why not? It’s 2 days before Valentine’s Day and I wanted to feel something, anything other than feeling like I failed at another relationship. Since I had to power through the next two weeks with this sobriety streak, not by choice, I got to actually physically and visually intake EVERYTHING. However, in two days, my boyfriend will become my ex-boyfriend per agreement and he on the other hand, was not sober. He’s having his own spiraling into the abyss of madness, so I don’t blame him. Since we both agreed he’d stay in our home until the day after Valentine’s Day (yes there’s a contract-long story,) we exchanged mutual text messages to have a “bed session” when I got home from my AA meeting.

(The sobriety streak, AA meetings and breathalyzers mentioned in this blog will probably be saved for another blog if courage permits.)

So, for my mature readers, the “act” happened. I can be honest about it because I already told Nick how I felt about it. It felt violating, and even though we’ve been together for two years, there’s something off-putting when you’re boning someone who can barely keep their eyes opened. Plus, the alcohol level in his mouth was not only distasteful but probably affected my breathalyzer which I had to use right after our last kiss per court order. Again, for another blog. So yea, it was disappointing. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. I legitimately didn’t even make an ugly cry face which actually induces tears, but yet they came streaming out… stone-faced and all. He passed me a baby wipe. I used it for my face instead of you know what…ANYWAY.

Nick hadn’t moved out yet but the dreaded cycle of breakup grieving commenced. I opened my Safari app and things we’ve googled together pop up on different pages like: How tall is Walter White? Can you reheat fake pee? Rappers who were born rich? How to forge a bank statement? Why is beastiality a thing? How many calories in a pickle? What disease is caused by cannibalism?

You know…stuff like that. Yup, one more day before I wake up alone with one dog, one kitty, and two hamsters. All fur kids given as gifts from Nick and quite frankly, since he’s all out of pet ideas, I guess its time’s up.

Moral of the story: always keep your promise to your child if it has anything to do with protecting her/him from future trauma. Also, wait until you can be evenly intoxicated with your almost ex-boyfriend before finalizing your two-year relationship.

Now that I can take a breath after writing that, Apple music is back on: “Littlest Things” by Lily Allen.

Btw, this is over 1,500 words, which by definition, is considered an essay. Thanks for putting me on Baby Fava. (See text below for reference).