I Cried During a Katy Perry Song
March 16, 2011 § 1 Comment
For the longest time, I didn’t know how to begin this post because either way it’s written, it’s embarrassing. I think it’s best to start in the middle, at what was supposed to be the breaking point of this “relationship”—my breaking point. But the dust hasn’t exactly settled on this little misadventure. This post really is just about a single moment in time, filled with anger and unanswered questions. There is still much to be said.
After two nights of no contact from my then boyfriend, I decided to take my mind off things and hang out with a friend. I stuffed myself with so many M&Ms and Hershey’s nuggets on the couch at my friend’s apartment while trying, TRYING to focus on Zombieland and not my negligent boyfriend. After a nice night ending with him telling me that I made him happy, he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone for two days to call me. My friend reassured me that he was probably going through something and needed some space.
“You’re probably right.” I told her. I struggled to ignore the worry I was feeling that night. When someone I care about doesn’t respond to me after many, many attempts. I automatically assume that they died or were critically injured. Seriously. I have no idea why my mind goes directly to death, perhaps due to adolescent trauma—I really don’t know. But something must be hindering their ability to contact me, right? I mean, they must’ve slammed ALL of their fingers in a car door and had to be rushed to the emergency room to treat their swollen, mangled fingers back to functionality. Yep, I’m sure that’s what happened. The next afternoon, I texted again.
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Hold up, excuse me? Oh, you just gon’ act like—I was so angry.
“Um, why you haven’t responded to any of my calls?”
Now, I’m a sentimental type of woman. I still have letters and little notes from old boyfriends saved in a dusty PUMA shoebox at home. So, it was especially hurtful to receive the next text message from him, telling me in seven simple words: “I don’t think I should date anymore.” It also came two hours later. He couldn’t even take the time to tell me face to face.
What did I do wrong? I thought I was amazing. I thought I made him happy. I kept repeating this to myself, pathetically staring up at the ceiling in my stuffy bedroom while listening to Rihanna radio on Pandora. It felt like rock bottom. Until the next moment happened.
“Do you ever feel…like a plastic bag…drifting through the wind wanting to start again?”
And just like that, my face squished in preparation of the ugly cry and the tears came running out.
Yes, Katy! I feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind and everything else you said right now oh God. You know my life!
Nope, now it’s definitely rock bottom. I’m glad no one was around to see that horrendous spectacle. I am ashamed. Ashamed because I should have known better a million times. Ashamed because I took the energy to even allow myself to shed real tears of sadness for someone who showed me very little concern. Ashamed because this wasn’t even close to being the end of us.