Garbage Girl
Aug 8, 2017 · 5 min read

8/8/17

Is there anything bleaker than the Miami bumble scene? Doubtful. My bumble dealbreakers are as follows: mirror selfies, the job titles- Personal Trainer, Entrepreneur, Self Employed, CEO, DJ, pictures with a fish, one or more shirtless photos throwing up some sort of hand signal. And all those red flags are the only flags present on the field here.

Why am I even on bumble? Good question. My ex, who I guess I’m still in love with, is in her hometown Nantucket with another woman, aka her new gf, aka the girl I always suspected her to be in love with while we were still together. So. I need to propel myself forward in any way shape or form. And hopefully I find a fuck buddy.

I found out 2 days ago and immediately burst into tears, which I didn’t know was even possible for me anymore. And all the distance, and progress I had illusioned myself into believe I had made was just that- an illusion. It felt like the breakup all over again but worse. I then got angry, and when I get angry I have one sided conversations where I think of a million things to say to her. To yell at her, to tell her she’s a bad person, a lying sack of shit, that I wish I never met her. So on, so forth. But it wouldn’t matter. Nothing I say would make her unlove that girl and relove me. So. Then I just was sad.

I ran in the heat of the day, in Miami, in August. Barely a mile, before coming to an abrupt stop, fearing I would pass out right there- right on the Rickenbacker in front of most of Miami traffic. I walked down to the beach, took off my socks and shoes and walked into the murky bay. The water provided little relief, warm like a bath- shallow and rocky. It felt like a pool of my own sweat. I trudged out and sat on the beach and let all the salty drips fall down my face, not being able to differentiate the tears, from the sweat, from the sea water.

I’m in the kitchen, chopping shallots and the mushrooms we bought from the farmer’s market because my sister has read somewhere mushrooms cure cancer. When we first discussed mom’s cancer, Caroline has insisted we go the holistic route. I told her she could pump mom with as many herbs and spices as a Christmas ham but we were not forgoing western medicine.

I’m crying steadily even though shallots don’t cause that. I think, briefly, about using the giant chopping knife to off myself there and then. And then I think about my ex being comforted by my suicide by her knew gf. So I don’t. I just cry more.

Yesterday I sort of just accepted it. Because that’s all I can do. I took my mom to multiple doctors appointments and tried not to become angry and agitated but I just felt so heavy. Things were going relatively fine until we arrive to the second dr. appointment and mom has one eye shut in dramatic fashion, complaining about how she’s seeing double, how she’s seeing blurry, how she can’t see. Well. Which one is it. And where was thing issue 30 minutes ago.

My mother is a dramatic woman, and won’t let an opportunity like this slip through her fingers. I have to remind myself that the situation she is in is in fact a scary one. And she is actually scared. But it is hard to undo years of downplaying any of Marie’s qualm- chalking it up to another opportunity for her to win a proverbial Oscar.

At the 3rd appointment, I tell her I’ll be in right behind her. I thought I needed to cry, or at least scream in the car. But once she leaves, I don’t really have the urge for an outpouring so I decide not to force it. I just feel heavy and sad, but it hasn’t come to a head. Or doesn’t need to. I walk up to the office, but decide to opt out of going back with my mom once her name is called. I read a People about Princess Diana, and about how Prince Charles was openly dating Camilla while they were married, and she was his first choice. It really bummed me out.

I read my book, which I borrowed from my sister, who borrowed it from my Aunt Julie. Who recently went through a divorce. Sharing a book with someone is an intimate affair. She had passages highlighted, but only ever in the sections from the perspective of a 53 year old woman whose husband just left her. It’s funny –not- because the man left the character for a woman named. That is the aforementioned homewrecker of my tale as well. So. It’s slightly triggering.

Though I find it serendipitous (not the right word) that the passaged my aunt highlighted, are the same I would have. That on some level, in varying degrees of course we are going through the same thing. That heart break and ache affects all ages and reduces us to the same type of shattered. My aunt, who has children, and a house, and marriage that are being sorted through hers, still has the same basic broken heart as me. A heaviness that she too carries around, sometimes it comes to head and maybe sobs over shallots in the kitchen. But other times she may just sit in the car a few extra minutes. Waiting for tears that don’t come. And she just has to get out, walk around with the weight and no satisfaction of release.

I go for another run, this time to Caroline’s house. I am more successful but still can’t run the whole way. They say pain is supposed to fuel you but it does shit for my stamina. Only for my motivation. I get there and jump directly into her pool. I feel weird around my sister whenever I am vulnerable because that is not our usual dynamic.

We sit awhile. Talk awhile. I drink some wine. I cry a bit. We Are The Champions by Queen comes on and she pulls me up by my arms and makes me dance around and sing- her, me, and her depressed dog Flora. Sometimes, I really fucking love my sister.

Garbage Girl

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Live from the land of garbage