6:03 p.m. A half-drunk bottle of wine sits in front of me. An empty wine glass sits next to it. I gave up using a glass an hour ago. The drink slightly stings my throat as I swallow. It’s taken half the bottle, but I finally have a buzz. Hell, at this point, I’m tempted to get the vodka and get blackout drunk. I need a break from feeling for a while. I need a break from the pain. I read the message over and over again until it burns in my brain. I can’t seem to delete it.
4:33 p.m. Honestly, the only reason why I continued to talk to you was because you were easy and I took advantage, I’m sorry. My heart sinks. I’m trying to process what it is saying, but I can’t wrap my head around it. My hopes and dreams destroyed in one short text message. Hot tears mix with mascara and leave black streaks down my face. I am twenty-three years old and crying on my couch over another boy.
We met in a Target. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but this? This was close. I truly believed I met my soulmate. Soon I was receiving good morning beautiful texts, and everything seemed right in the world again. I had fought back against depression. I finally liked myself, and maybe he was my reward for getting there.
7:13 p.m. The blaring of the tv jerks me out of my thoughts. The news reminds me that there are people out there with worse situations. I don’t care. I’m tempted to send another message, to beg him to take me back. I want to pretend that it was all a big joke, that I’m not really angry and we can stay just friends. Exactly what he wants. He wants the perks of being in a relationship without having to actually be in a relationship. I desperately need the commitment. I need the happily ever after ending that Disney movies promised me. Instead of sending that message, I take another sip of my drink. It burns. Tears well up behind my eyes, half from the alcohol and half from my emotions. This is not a new feeling, but it hurts just the same. My dog walks up to me and lays her head in my lap, and the tears fall down my face. She licks my cheek, something I normally find gross, but now I find comforting.
7:46 p.m. I decide I need more wine. I go to the kitchen and pour myself another glass. The sweet alcohol pushes me over the edge and I type that message.
7:55 p.m. I have been putting up with your shit for a fucking year now. Why can’t you just be with me? Why won’t you give me a chance? What is so wrong with me? I hit send and immediately regret it.
8:20 p.m. The wine hits my stomach hard. I feel the acid rise up in my throat. I sprint to the bathroom and my stomach empties itself. I completely lose my energy. Beads of sweats form on my forehead, I curl up on the floor, and lay my cheek against the cool tile. I just want to stay here forever, where I don’t have to deal with the world. I feel like a teenaged girl going through her first heartbreak again. What I don’t feel like is a woman who has been through all of this before. This isn’t my first heartbreak, but it sure as hell feels like it is.
9:00 p.m. I manage to pull myself up off the floor. My hands are shaking and my throat burns. I cool my face down with water and look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. It’s a caricature of a person, it can’t be my own reflection. My dark brown hair is stringy and greasy. My makeup, still caked on from the night before, has black streaks running through it. My hazel eyes are red and irritated from crying and rubbing mascara into them. I am a sight for sore eyes, and I am glad I live alone.
I can’t help but feel sorry for myself. I love a boy. He doesn’t love me back. It feels like the end of the world. I feel much too old to be falling apart like this, but it doesn’t ease my pain. I flop back down on my couch, and turn on the tv to drown out my thoughts. Some sitcom about people my age living in New York City is on. I pay attention for about five seconds before my mind is racing again.
9:15 p.m. I pull out a journal. I haven’t written in a diary since I was thirteen, but I need it now. I need to remind myself that I do have some good qualities. So I make a list:
- Intelligent
- Passionate
- Loyal
- Hard-Working
Four. I only manage to think of four qualities. So, I give into the urge to check my phone. I have to see if he has changed his mind; if he will give me the commitment I can’t stop thinking about. I pull up the sent message and it says: read 9:05 p.m. It’s over. I know he saw it, and now I know I am the only one feeling this way. In my heart I know it’s over, but I don’t want it to be. I want to send another message saying I’m sorry and I was just kidding about the commitment stuff. We don’t need to be boyfriend and girlfriend. We can continue to be best friends and friends with benefits. I’ll put more volume in my hair like he wants, and I’ll never ask him to be my boyfriend again. I know he’ll say yes to my proposition, but I also know that’s not what I really want.
10:07 p.m. Instead, I make an ice cream sundae. I disregard any healthy habits I have and just pile it on. Rocky road ice cream, chocolate syrup, half a can of whipped cream, and exactly seven cherries. It’s about a million calories and I love it. It helps soothe my throat and distracts me from my feelings. Soon, however, I am back where I started.
I don’t believe in regret. I believe that every mistake we make teaches us a lesson. Right now, though, I am regretting every moment I spent with him. I hate every moment he told me I was beautiful. Thinking about every time he held me in his arms and kissed my forehead no longer makes me smile. I have forgotten every sweet nothing he ever whispered in my ear. I hate every piece of criticism that I ever heard from him. Your hair is too flat, you need some volume girl! You need to pick a more difficult major. You need to do your makeup different and dress sexier. Why do you want such a big tattoo? Not very feminine. I regret those moments where I felt loved and cherished. I wish I had never fallen for him, and I wish I was strong enough to push him away now.
11:55 p.m. I need a change.
12:00 a.m. The stillness of the night gives me the peace to take this risk. It’s spontaneous, brash, and my mom will hate it. I have to do it. I have to get rid of the security blanket I’ve had my entire life. I have to step out of my comfort zone, do something a little crazy, and take back my identity.
12:17 a.m. I decide to cut my hair. My long, beautiful, and dark brown hair that hangs down to my lower back. The hair that I have been growing for a long time. Over the past year I was forbidden to cut it. I was told it’s too feminine and too beautiful to cut. He always told me he wouldn’t be attracted to me with short hair, and that he wouldn’t want to see me anymore without long hair. If I am truly going to let him go, the hair has to go first.
12:32 a.m. I set up shop on the floor of my bedroom. I sit in front of my floor length mirror and make a game plan. It has to go, it all just has to go. The only pair of scissors I have are dull and have seen better days. This haircut is going to look like shit, but I am okay with it.
12:40 a.m. I gather my hair in a low ponytail. I hold it with my left hand, and hold the scissors in my right. I open the scissors and position them right above my hair tie. My heart is beating out of my chest. I take a deep breath, calm my shaking hands, and cut. Snip snip snip. It takes a couple tries, but soon my hair hangs just below my chin. The rest is spread out on the hardwood floor. I panic. What the hell did I just do? I feel naked, but it’s too late. I can’t glue my hair back on.
12:55 a.m. I’m tempted to send a picture to him. I want to show him what he made me do. I fight the urge and instead look at my reflection. I feel like a new person. I cut off the past. I did something for me and me alone. No one is going to like it, but absolutely no one matters. One side is longer than the other and the ends are completely uneven. It’s perfect.
1:00 a.m. I walk out to the kitchen to say goodbye to my hair. In the trash can I find a valentine’s day card I threw away. I pick it up and read it, and he tells me what he loves about me. He loves my passion, loyalty, and intelligence. He loves how beautiful I am. He loves that I am the only one he can be himself around, and I am truly his best friend. It’s his sweet side. The side I loved, but rarely got to experience. I smile briefly before the tears start back up. I collapse on the kitchen floor. Tears fall down my face again, and I have to count my breaths. I wonder if he feels as badly as I do, but I already know the answer
1:16 a.m. I start wondering why I wanted him so badly. He was never truly mine, but I adored him just the same. Why is all my happiness wrapped up in him being my boyfriend? This isn’t the first time. I fall for people hard and wrap all my self-worth into them. I think I can’t be a complete person until he loves me. It’s dangerous thinking. I’m in love with the idea of love. So where is mine?
I’m tired of crying over boys who don’t give me a second thought. I give my all to someone and get nothing in return. I need to stop allowing myself to be used. I deserve so much better than this.
1:22 a.m. I decide that I also deserve a new hair color. It’s a stupid idea, and most of the stores are closed, but I have to do it. I can’t explain why, but I have an overwhelming desire to change my appearance. My friends will hate it, my work will hate it, but I’ll worry about consequences later. Hell, I’ve already chopped it off. I might as well go all the way.
1:45 a.m. I have sobered up, so I get in my car and drive to the only store open this late. Walmart. I find what I’m looking for, a home bleaching kit and electric blue hair dye. I try to pull my hair into a ponytail, but it falls out of my hands and settles around my chin. Right. It’s gone. I know he would hate this, which is why I have to do it.
2:00 a.m. The checkout woman looks at me with pity in her eyes. My eyes give away that I’ve been crying, and my raggedy hair screams drunken bad decision. As she asks me if this is all I need, I consider buying a pack of cigarettes. I haven’t smoked since I was seventeen but it seems comforting right now. I hand over my id, she puts the menthols in my bag, and I’m out the door. I think about everything I’ve done so far, and what I’m about to do, and it brings a smile to my face. I smoke a menthol on my drive back home. I cough my lungs out and realize why I haven’t done this in seven years.
2:27 a.m. I walk through my front door. I pull out the bleaching kit, faintly read the instructions, and decide to just wing it. I mix the solution up and spread it all over my hair. It stings my scalp and takes an hour.
3:27 a.m. My hair is dark blonde now.
3:30 a.m. The instructions for the blue dye tell me to leave it on for thirty minutes. I hesitate. Am I really going to do this? My heart is still thumping hard against my chest and my hands feel clammy. I know this is a huge mistake, so when I spread the dye over my hair; I don’t understand what I just did. The dye turns my neck, forehead, and hands blue. If I can’t get the dye out, maybe I can pass the blue body parts off as bruises. Then no one will notice the crazy hair. I sit down on my couch and accidentally turn the cushion teal. The television is back on and I am still not paying attention.
4:07 a.m. My hair is sky blue. I hate it. It looks ridiculous and I can’t stop crying. I look like a teenage girl who just discovered the emo style. What I don’t look like is an adult. Is Walmart still open? Can I get dark brown dye and pretend this fiasco never happened? No, I made a choice and I have to live with it.
5:07 a.m. I wash my hair three times and get it to fade a bit. It looks okay. It still seems ridiculous, but I’ve stopped crying. Perhaps this is the look of someone who is taking back their life. I know I’ll get a lot of grief about this tomorrow. However, as acceptance sets in, I know this is exactly what I needed. I don’t feel like myself, and that’s fantastic. I’m a new version, but I can’t just look the part. I have to act the part too. No more feeling sorry for myself. No more bullshit.
5:18 a.m. I block his number. It’s the most therapeutic thing to do. I say he’s dead to me. I don’t have any room in my life for someone to treat me like shit. I don’t have to worry about him anymore.
5:34 a.m. I clean up the mess and take myself to bed. I’m all cried out. I’m a new woman. I have shaggy blue hair and I can do anything. I make a promise to myself that when he messages me and tells me he made a huge mistake, I will tell him he did. I will tell him that I have moved on and so should he. I will start over. I will learn who I am and I will comfortable alone. I will love myself.
I will only go back to him two more times.
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