Going Through the Emotions

I would be more upset right now that he doesn’t want to see me tonight. However, last night, all I asked from God was that I was in his arms one more time, that I got one more kiss, that he knew I loved him. And I got my wish, God answered my prayer, And now I need to move on; I need to grieve, not ever knowing what’s going on in his life again, or being able to celebrate his wins, or lift him when he falls. It’s just funny because I’ve been essentially doing that the past year, but now that it feels real, now that I may actually never talk/see him again. I’m in Pain, I’m in Pain, and now I have to feel this Pain, and I hate it; I hate every second of it. But the thing is, I’ll be okay because this is temporary; it will go away; it will one day just be a distant memory. One day, I’ll look back and think of happy thoughts. I hope he’s doing well. But for now, I am sad; for now, I feel my Pain, and I grieve for what was and what could have been. For now, I enjoy this Pain, as this Pain meant he meant something to me; that Pain is awful, but at the same time, it’s beautiful because it just shows that there are things that mean so much to us in this world that we feel Deep sorrow in the loss of them. It was just four silly little months, but I’ll never forget about him. I’ll never forget our first kiss on top of the car, or him being so awkward and shy the first time he met me. I’ll never forget making out and talking with him for hours on our first date, and the happiness I felt when I was with him, in his arms, and how safe I felt when he was around. It’s my fault, though, but I don’t regret being selfish and choosing me, and I don’t regret the decisions I made after I broke it off. The only thing I do regret is how I hurt him, and how he didn’t know how much I actually liked and cared for him, which for that I put the blame on me, for that I am responsible, for that I don’t blame him for hating me; I would hate me. So now I say goodbye, and I move on, for now, and forever, I close this chapter, and I grieve. I grieve until it doesn’t hurt anymore; I grieve until he is a distant memory, and I will grieve and grieve until I can feel happiness again. As life moves on and time heals all wounds, I will be fine again, but I’ll also be in Pain again, over something new, over someone new; but for now, I grieve and heal for as this is only temporary, and everything will be just fine.

Dear Bunny….

I'm the only one who knows the whole truth, the whole story. I'm the only one who actually knows you, knows your patterns. I know you. So, no, I don't have any sympathy when I feel completely dismissed. You only cared when you thought your secrets were going to get out, when you feared that the things you're trying so hard to hide would be revealed. You only cared when your image was at risk. Stranded in a foreign country—that's how it felt. Lost, upset, annoyed, angry; I am angry. I am angry because you claimed you liked it, that night it happened, claiming sobriety. Until it was revealed, until the Little Man decided to have a big mouth and reveal who you really are.

"Little Man"—that's what we’ll call him. Offensive? Maybe. True? Yeah, definitely. So, Little Man he is, and you, well, you are “Bunny.” Bunny, a girl, pretty and smart, but attention-seeking and a liar. The night of, we were all drinking alcohol in our systems, affecting our judgment. Decisions were made, and they weren't the best. However, the claims you're making now are unfair and unjust. It's not my intention to invalidate your experience or emotions, but I lack the sympathy to be there for you in this situation. You told me you liked it. The night of—do you remember that? Do you remember telling me how “he wasn't very big, but he knew what to do with it” with a happy and proud tone in your voice? I remember it clearly, despite the alcohol in my system. I remember because I agreed with you. I thought Little Man, despite being oh so little, was attractive.

Little Man—a flirt with a big ego. Presumptively a fuckboy, from what I was told and from my interactions with him—a man definitely not worth settling down with anytime soon. A man who tried to get with me less than 24 hours after you guys had sex. He’s disrespectful and lacks honor and intelligence, but I was still flattered. I liked the sexual tension when he and I were going back and forth. I would have done something with him if it wasn't for you and Blue Eyes. I was trying to show respect to you before the accusations, before you felt differently about the situation. You had told me about “how you hope your friends would respect you enough not to get with the people you've been with.” So, I showed my respect to you because I loved you, because I cared about you, because you were my friend.

I wasn't hurt when he chose you. I wasn't hurt at all. He's not a prize; he's a Little Man. There was no need for competition, and I loved you. But then there was Blue Eyes, a kind man, one I have no ill thoughts of, and I hope you never will either, just because of his association with Little Man. See, what you didn't see the night of the incident, because you were off with Little Man, doing what you do best—hop. Blue Eyes took care of me and my alcohol-induced self, got me water and food, let me sleep on his shoulder during the night's end when all I wanted to do was go home. But you weren't back yet. You were off with Little Man. It was supposed to be you with me; you weren't supposed to leave my side. For my safety and yours. Did you even notice when I chased after you, after the man so incredibly drunk shoved you? Did you notice how I didn't want you out of my sight? I didn't want you separated from me. I wanted you safe. You're a pretty girl, and it was midnight on a Saturday night. Nothing good can come from that. You weren't supposed to leave my side either—to keep me safe, out of harm's way, to prevent anything bad from happening to me, to make sure the situation from the Fourth of July wasn't repeated. It was supposed to be you. I was in a foreign country, after all—a foreign country I was visiting with the sole purpose of seeing you.

Lucky for you, oh how lucky for you, that Blue Eyes was a good guy who kept me from harm. Lucky for you, the only sober person in the group stayed with me for most of the night. Lucky for you, I ended up being okay. But if something had happened to me, I would have never forgiven you. If something had happened to me like what happened on the Fourth of July, I would have committed war crimes. That would have been the third time this year, and the second time that month, so you're lucky for that. But I should never have been in that position in the first place. You and I both should have been safe, out of harm's way, but you left me. You left me to go have sex with Little Man.

Here’s where we disconnect: I don't think you understand why I lack sympathy for your situation, why I will never be a person of comfort for you regarding this topic. Because you will never understand the gravity and the effect of the events on the Fourth of July. No one will. So that's not completely your fault. I change the topic every time it comes up; it's too painful to relive. But that night, the Fourth of July, when I was violated in my own room, when I became another statistic—the night I was raped.

Diablo, that's what we will call him—the man who committed the horrific act, the man I wish would one day rot in hell for what he did to me, the man who made me hate my thighs, making me extremely uncomfortable in my own skin, the man that took something from me that I will never be able to explain. Diablo, because the night it happened, the one memory I replay over and over again, of him inside of me, on top of me, staring at me with eyes of extreme power—power he was taking from me every time I looked at him. Power that I couldn't fight off, as the lights in my room were red. Diablo, the man from hell.

Now let me explain why my sympathy is so limited, and why the only thing I can offer you is my respect for your feelings. Because the night of the incident, the night you went off without me, the night you stranded me in a foreign country for nothing but pure selfish reasons, the night you left me to go have sex with Little Man—you were intoxicated, so was Little Man. We all had alcohol in our systems. Something dangerous in nature, something you should have learned to control by now, as most of the first times you've had sex with men, you were intoxicated. Those FaceTime calls—did you forget? The ones where you would tell me your stories with these men you were sleeping with—they had always involved alcohol. But you never claimed they raped you then; you never claimed to have been assaulted. From my theory, it's because no one ever found out about them. It's because it was a kept secret that you were sleeping with half of the soldiers on the base.

When it happened to me, though, both times, I was sober. I can recall the entire experience. I can say for certain that I didn't consent. I never talked about the experiences in a good way. I have always felt violated and disturbed, ruining my self-image, increasing my fear of men, scaring me from intimacy at times. Now, I won't sit here and claim that it prevented me from having sex ever again. I won't sit here and say it ruined me to the point of no return, the first time it happened. The first time, I pushed it down, I ignored the feelings of despair, I spent the day after it happened bawling my eyes out, then minimized the situation and went on with my life. It wasn't until the Fourth of July that the effects of both incidents took place. I can recognize that, I can acknowledge my actions; it's the mature and fair thing to do. What makes me upset about your situation, Bunny, is that you won't.

Bunny, the night after it happened, you went and had sex with another guy. You let another man inside of you, when I couldn't even bear the thought. The first time I had sex with a man after the Fourth of July, I had a panic attack. I couldn't bear the thought of another man inside of me, and it's still something I struggle with. The only person I was completely comfortable having sex with after Diablo stripped me of something that I'll never be able to get back was Blue Eyes. But you weren't claiming to have been raped then, so maybe it was lapses in judgment, maybe you hadn't convinced yourself yet of what happened. So, I ignored it until a week later when you had sex with a new man, the best friend of the guy you had sex with a week prior.

My frustration grew as you continued to talk about the sex you might have with these men—the ones all chasing after you because you’re someone easy. They don't have to deal with any consequences after the fact. They get to use you, and then they get to ignore and block you after they leave—they're only there for a short amount of time anyways. It's sad, really, Bunny. I hope you’ll understand that one day. I hope one day you finally stop letting them treat you like that. Eventually, you will, and when you do, please don't tell me. I don't want to know. I don't want anything to do with you anymore. It's tragic, honestly. I trusted you, considered you one of my best friends, but the treatment and complete disrespect from my trip to Korea ruined that. Unfortunately, I still care for you; my heart is big, so I wish you the best. But it's best for my sanity that we don't speak again, because all you do is remind me of Diablo. You remind me of one of the worst nights of my life—all because you left my side, because you were selfish, because you had to go and claim rape, making the entire trip to Korea about it when all I wanted to do was forget.

For that, I hate you, but I also still respect you. I hope you did whatever you felt you needed to. Again, I couldn't be bothered to show you sympathy, but I can show my respect. Maybe it's the remnants of our friendship, or maybe it's just that I still care enough not to wish you harm, despite everything. I hope you learn from this situation. I hope you mature and understand the gravity of your actions. I hope you eventually stop letting men take advantage of you. But when that does happen, I don’t want to know—just remember that.

This is my final goodbye, Bunny. I wish you nothing but growth and realization. And for me, I wish peace, a chance to move on without the weight of your decisions and their impact on me. I’m letting go of the anger, letting go of the hurt, because holding onto it only keeps me chained to that room, to Diablo, to the red lights and the powerlessness. I deserve better. I deserve to be free of this, and so I will be. Goodbye, Bunny. Take care of yourself, and please, don’t look back.

​​The Loss of Almost: Coping with What Never Was

It was January 5th when the fight happened. Little did I know it would be the fight that ended everything—the past year and a half of friendship, mixed with a little bit of hooking up… or a lot of hooking up. And then, just like that, it was over.

It probably should have ended sooner. Maybe when I tried to block him the first time. But then I contracted an STD, and suddenly, I was back in contact with him. It was supposed to be a simple heads-up, a quick message to be responsible. But somehow, that turned into me breaking no contact entirely.

He didn’t understand why I was angry. He didn’t understand why I blocked him in the first place. But tell me, isn’t it a pretty normal reaction to cut someone off after admitting your feelings for them—only for them to turn around and tell you about all the other girls they were sleeping with at the same time? At least, anger seemed like a pretty valid response to me.

I had just confessed my feelings to this guy I’d been sleeping with regularly, and in return, he gave me an in-depth rundown of the other girls he was fucking. That should have been the end. And I knew it.

At least, that time, I had the power.

But this time, he took it. He blocked me. He deleted me. He got to be in control—when he was the one who caused the fight in the first place.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

What even is a situationship?

A situationship is that awkward “what are we?” limbo—not quite dating, but not just friends either. It’s confusing, messy, and honestly, the worst.

We started hooking up after my breakup in 2023. He liked me, and I knew it. But somewhere along the way, those feelings faded—or maybe they were never that real to begin with. He told me later he was trying not to “think with his dick” when he liked me in the beginning. I still don’t fully understand what he meant by that in our specific context. He was never great at communicating. I probably should have considered that more before developing feelings for him.

Because words are my superpower.

The way I understand the world is through language. My art is in the words I put on a page. I’ve never been great at anything else—except writing. I can’t draw. I can’t sing. Reading music feels tedious and dull. Painting doesn’t interest me. And while I’m decent at crocheting and cross-stitching, those things never felt like true expressions of who I am.

But words? That’s where I come alive.

We were polar opposites in that way. I write; he builds. I construct with words; he constructs with his hands.

The first time I admitted my feelings for him, he didn’t get it. It went over his head when I tried to explain how complicated it felt to be his friend while knowing he was with other girls. We came to an unspoken agreement to just… not talk about it. Not because he cared about me, but because he didn’t want to deal with my jealousy.

He was protecting himself.

Because if he truly cared, he wouldn’t have led me on. He would have considered my feelings when he did things. But that’s the difference between a boyfriend and a situationship, isn’t it? A boyfriend cares. A situationship just takes.

And yet, somehow, he still gets to walk away as the good guy in everyone else’s eyes—while I’m the bitch.

If only they knew my side of the story.

The first time we stopped hooking up, he said his feelings had faded. He told me, at some point, he didn’t want to do it anymore… that he just felt like he had to.

What an awful position to put me in.

I felt guilty, like I had done something wrong. I even apologized. He reassured me it was fine, that I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling.

After that, we decided to just be friends.

My life was a mess anyway—I had lost all my friends, been fired from my job, kicked out of my club. My mind was dark. Around that time, I applied to the Disney College Program, got accepted, and moved to Florida. I was gone for five months.

But he and I stayed friends. And when I came back, we picked up where we left off.

Except something about him had changed.

He had started hitting the gym. His muscles got bigger. His confidence grew.

And that’s when my feelings really started.

Was it a little superficial for me to like him more once his arms got bigger? Maybe.

What can I say? I’m a woman who appreciates big biceps.

But it wasn’t just his appearance. It was the way he made me reflect on myself, the way he challenged me. Looking back now, I wonder—was I changing for him or for me? I like to think those changes benefited me, but I’d be lying if I said they didn’t start because of him. It was my way of trying to get him to like me back.

It didn’t work.

It was never going to.

He had made up his mind. We were never going to happen.

And he told me that on January 5th—the day that ended it all.

It all really started again in the summer. I was in Korea, and we were texting, sending video snaps, talking about my trip. At some point, I made a joke about hooking up again. And he went along with it.

The day I came back, he picked me up from the airport.

That night, we had sex.

For the first time since October 2023.

And from there, it became the longest hookup of my life.

For some context, he was only the second guy I had ever slept with. Between the first time we hooked up and now, I had gained more sexual experience, but I had never been with someone long enough to get past the awkward phase.

But with him? We knew each other’s bodies. Sex wasn’t just something we did—it was good.

Really fucking good.

And let me tell you—it’s hard to hate the guy you like when the sex is that good.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it when he crosses my mind.

Which is a lot.

I’m trying not to let him be so much to me. I’m trying to play it cool.

But when a breakup—of a relationship that technically wasn’t even a relationship—sends you into a month-long manic episode…

You start to realize it’s affecting you more than you’d like to admit.

It was January 5th when everything ended, and January 6th when I spiraled into a month-long breakdown. That spiral eventually landed me at the emergency psychiatric facility at 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night because I needed my medication adjusted. I had been undermedicated for a while, but it wasn’t until the end of this… whatever we were, that it really started to show. I guess you could technically say this man sent me to the mental hospital—it sounds like a tragic, almost funny way to put it. But what’s worse is that I let someone I didn’t even date affect me this much. A true tragic ending to an almost-love story.

So, what happened that day, January 5th? How did everything fall apart? Well, imagine this: the guy you’re sleeping with tries to set you up with his coworker—the same man you had sex with less than two weeks ago. Anger, confusion, and annoyance bubbled up instantly. But then, finally, he expressed his true feelings about me, which, as it turns out, were nothing short of awful. I was the rudest person he’d ever met, he “just responds to me,” and he felt bad whenever he was around me. All because I didn’t want to go out with his coworker.

I was shattered. But it wasn’t until the next morning that the full weight of his words hit me. The accusation of being rude stung the most, especially since the last thing I would ever describe myself as is rude. Sure, I can be a bitch sometimes, but I’m never disrespectful. I always show up for the people I care about. I was appalled.

A few weeks later, I reached out, hoping to understand why he’d said such hurtful things. That’s when I realized I was blocked. That alone pushed me into a string of random, impulsive hookups in a single week. That was when I knew something was seriously off—I’d never behaved like that before. So, I sought help. And help is exactly what I got.

Now, I’m still mourning the loss of what wasn’t, but it’s a more manageable process. I’ve found a way to think about him without wanting to throw a rock at his house. I’ve chosen to focus inward and work on my “revenge body.” I don’t wish him harm, though a part of me hopes he gets fat and bald. But nothing too terrible. I’m channeling my energy into things that make me happy—no more random sex, no more empty connections.

This is my chance to take control of my life, to stop giving so much of myself to him. To “almost” and to everything that never was.