The Ghosted, Ghosting
I was ghosted so much at one point, I started doing it to others. But not at first. No, at first, I was offended. Flabbergasted.
How can you not face me and tell me it’s over? Was the thought percolated in my head over and over months after it happened?
I can’t believe I gave these people so much energy. I even wrote poems about it. Gosh, I’m completely embarrassed.
Nevertheless, after the sting from the offense came the anger, the Alanis Morissette song. This phase went like a hurricane, destroying everything in sight until it ran out of air and energy.
I ran. The road and my Nikes were my therapists. If you watched me enough, you would know I was curvy when I was happy. Skinny when I was sad. But I smile, though. If you had pulled a camera, I would have pushed all the pain aside and shown my teeth.
It was a facade. Angry, strong on the outside. Broken on the inside. Gosh, I ran so fast.
But I could never outrun the pain. I wasn’t that fast.
And after the anger, sadness settled. It settled like the desert rain that turns water into mud that clings to cars. It’s stubborn mud that stays until one takes the time to wash it off. Without time or energy, the stubborn mud stays caked on. My sadness was like caked-on mud.
