Callouses In My Brain

I hate that I give you power. 

I look at photos such as these and I’m captivated at the thought of my sadness making someone uncomfortable.
Often times, that someone is me.
I always ask myself whether or not I made the right decision in leaving my son’s father. My camera roll, my Snapchat memories, are pure liquid gold in regards to validating my pain in these times. Solidifies my confidence in the rightness I had in leaving him.
I can right now picture myself sat at our dinner table. Trying to conceal my face, looking up every so often to see our son we shared snoring away in our bed. Our. Our. Our. Our. That word haunts me.
I can see him quite literally stomping around the kitchen, leaving trails of entitlement behind him laced between the garbage and uncleanliness of his actions. I can stare at the Corona glass bottle cap ominously independent on the tabletop from the last twelve ounces of poison my ex fiancé consumed. I can hear him gulp the first sip of his sixth bottle, smack his lips, and look over at me with resentment in his eyes. Dismissal. Disgust. I can see him fixate on the trails of tears in my eyes, and I can hear the grunt of annoyance before it comes out.
“Y que paso ahorita?!” And what’s wrong now? He means.
My emotions being an inconvenience is something I’ve grown accustomed to so I bow my head and cover my face. I’m looking down at my stained shirt I have a three day wearing streak with stretched over my belly. My belly is big and long, and I have convinced myself I’m not worthy of loving all over again. More tears stream down.
He mumbled something under his breath and scuffed to the living room, the gulping and smacking of his lips still prevalent. I don’t need to hear what he said to know it was disrespectful. Dismissive. Disgusting. Plenty of D words. I could turn this piece into a whole different direction, but I will leave that vulnerability out until I know I’m in a safe space.
On guard is how he made me feel. Unprotected. Ashamed.
So many adjectives creep from the crevices of the wounds I promised I wouldn’t open again. I open them every time I go on a dating app. Every time I muster up the courage to meet someone with so much potential. Every time I accept to meet someone with so much potential that only wants me in one way. And that way interchangeably reminds me of the girl that was with my ex fiancé. My ex fiancé didn’t want my body, so I will let you lust over it. On the other hand, maybe that’s all he wanted me for? A hole. An excuse.
I am reliable. Responsible. Resilient.
I also resist ever being disrespected in the way he disrespected me again.
I recommend you not crossing me. R words vs. D words. I’ll bookmark that.
I’m intrigued by the constant conversation I have with my connections (male friends, potential partners, female friends, acquaintances turning into friends and also strangers). They always bring up not believing in love. They always have a steel-like attitude. A coolness I am very familiar with. I’m thinking of a conversation that I had in particular today. He had an “I’ll burst your bubble” type mindset when speaking to me. I am, also, hurt but very vaguely. I know he means well. Genuinely. But I mean well, too.
I deserve, as much as he does, to understand that love indeed exists. And my trials and tribulations are very important, but they’re never going to negate love. I am stubborn. I will always choose fairytales. I will always choose soulmates and spirituality.
Pain will NEVER be an excuse to not accept love. They go together. Not soundlessly, and sometimes the relationship between pain and love laced with necessity, will not make sense. But your pain and love does not need to make sense to anyone but you.
I may have callouses in my brain. But they are just that. I will continue to strive to connect, to yearn, to prosper with my relationships.
I love love love love love L-O-V-E.
And you will never take that away from me.

[Image description #1: I’m sat on that same kitchen floor I discussed in this piece, crying. I just disciplined my son in my arms, but I did not go about it the right way. I spanked his behind. I know. So disgusting of me. But I needed help. And I asked for it, only for my question to remain unanswered. My son, however upset he was at me for spanking him, still sought comfort in me. For an ouch that I created. The double sided sword of pain and love. My tears, my son’s arm, is a very good example.]
[Image description #2: This made me scream with excitement internally. I love social media solely for watching creators create, and create quotes and images such as these one. It’s hands reaching to a light in the middle, while on the outside it says “if you are not vulnerable, there’s a lot less pain, but a lot less love”. Mic drop. Kiss on both cheeks to this writer and this artist. Enough said for a millennium. Excuse me while I puke my guts out simply for having too much feelings. Come love life with me.]