Last week, was fucking rough. And for those of you who frequently read this blog, you know I don't swear...so...as you can guess, shit got really, really real. It involved a whole lot of drinking, very little eating and pent up anger that made a cab driver who had tried to scam me well up in tears...seriously...that happened.
Break-ups are weird in that they deliver a lot of hard truths at once. You should've stuck to your own ideals. You should've slowed things down. You were right to think this. Why did you buckle so quickly? And with that, your friends deliver some of the wisest pieces of advice you've ever heard. Like DJ XO reminding me that they might have their reasons to want things some way, but you need to stand up for yourself and say you have your reasons for wanting it another. Or Hovet telling me her mother's favorite saying, "You don't have to decide now." Or even your own intuition reminding you that you have more control over you than anyone else does.
My parents had planned a trip to come to Chicago last weekend. As it so happened, it ran parallel to a time I wanted to be left to my own (de)vices, but I really probably needed my family around me most. We went to Maifest, which is still one of my favorite Chicago festivals. My roomie and I foxed our faces off on all the handsome men. My dad made sure my beer boot was always filled to the brim. I played a shooting game at the carnival which didn't last nearly long enough. I didn't want to ruin their trip. I had to hold it together, hold it together, hold it together...
And just like the water gun race game, that balloon would eventually have to burst.
When we got home...
In the most epic earthquake of a Mariah Carey meltdown, I shook the shudders with screaming, shouting, yelling, curse words and pointing to things that I have been fantasizing all week about throwing against a wall just to watch it shatter. I. Don't. Act. Like. This. Seeing that my mom was listening to everything made me feel like I could just give this up. Get it all out. Throw it away. And in the middle of all this, she stepped back, squared up, pointed at me, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Ana, don't you EVER take care of a guy again." She said it like I was about to be grounded or hit on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Then it all snapped. My eyes flashed up. It felt like I came to after having blacked out and saw myself again. Oh, shit. Truth.
And that's not even the best thing that happened. As she was leaving, she hugged me and said that she wanted me to send her one positive update a day. I kinda sighed and said "sure, I will"...inner monologue: "Whatever." And then she said it again and I could feel her seriousness take hold of me. These past four days have seemed like weeks as I make sure to crush one small step that I can report back to my mom. You can't walk a mile without conquering an inch first.
Mom, I know you're reading this. Day 4: I'm writing again and this time I really mean it.