Dear Cris

Dear Cris,

It's over, my love. Once again you have, somehow, manage to carry around your broken pieces into another year. By sheer stubbornness, you have managed to stick it to 2017 and continue living like the highly-functional hot mess that you are. So here we are, cheers to you:

For the many times you figured out how to keep breathing when you thought you couldn't anymore.
For every night when your tears were drowned by the stillness of exhausted sleep.
For the strength it took to get out of bed when it felt pointless and hopeless.
For the determination to scream back at the anxiety crawling from the back of your mind.
For the unanswered prayers that kept you praying unceasingly.
For the utter satisfaction of a broken body after a workout.
For tending to the gushing wounds of a broken heart with a broken heart.
For having to unlearn how to love someone despite yourself.
For looking at yourself in the mirror and smiling despite the scars.
For shouting at the crucifix knowing that you're being heard.
For crying and crying and crying and crying.
For tuning out the voices demanding you to be what you're not.
For choosing to live when all seems dead around you.
For laughing so hard to forget and never forgetting to laugh.
For having a beautifully broken soul that throbs with longing and love.
For being a bloody badass in general.
For flicking off the world when it flicks you off first.
For loving me intensely to make up for everyone who doesn't.
For being the most unapologetic, ridiculous, over-the-top of Cristinas that you can be.


Here's to you, Cris. Keep your eyes open to see beauty. Keep your hands open to receive grace. Keep your heart willing to hope that between all of the lashes there will be balm. Keep on keeping on.

With all my love,

Cris

Gratitude

Oh, hi there. Fancy meeting you here! So, Thanksgiving was yesterday and I have been thinking about writing something along the lines of being thankful. This week, however, I started reading Dorothy Cummings’ brilliant book, The Closet Is All Mine. In it, she talks about being single and how we really should embrace it. You know, standard thing I would read. In one chapter, however, she talks about man-hating and how irrational that is.  Then she goes on to talk about the great men in her life. So I though, you know what? I want to express my gratitude to the men in my life that have made up for the countless ones that were horrible (exes and nice guys included). Moreover, as I was writing these snippets, I realized that the presence in my life of these men are what makes me embrace my “pickiness”.

The reason why I am picky:

When Hurricane Rita hit Houston, thousands of people found themselves stranded in the congested freeways trying to run away. That night as the hurricane made landfall on the coast, my dad took our family van and drove to I-45, which is about 10 minutes away from my parents’ home. He parked the van on the side of the road and walked up to people waiting for the storm inside their vehicles, asking them if they would want to leave their cars behind and go to a shelter. For several hours, he took many people to our parish for shelter.

***

My grandparents were married for over fifty years. In the last years of her life, my grandmother suffered from different ailments and was, with reason, cranky at times. My grandfather retired and learned how to cook, clean, and to help her around the house. A Mexican man bred in the old-school gender binary, he never once hesitated to take on the role of homemaker. Moreover, he constantly teased grandma and tried to make her laugh, even when this would back fire and make her even crankier. He was with her every day of the 60-day hospital stay before she passed.

***

My brother has a way of lighting up a room whenever he walks in. People are drawn to him for conversation, advice, or simply a good laugh. It wasn’t always like that. There was a time of his life when darkness clouded his mind. But when he found himself semi-buried in the thick mud of his sin and depression, he took God’s hand and let himself be pulled out of that. God blessed him with a keen sense of kindness and compassion for those who suffer. He sometimes goes door to door on the streets of Detroit asking people if they have a need for prayer or conversation.

***

My friend Raja lost his mother last year, unexpectedly. The first time we spoke about this tragic event, I realized the profound emotional wound that his mother’s passing had had on him. It was as if the beautiful light of his soul had been blown out. I realized how deep and enormous his love for his mother was. He was incredibly distraught and he didn’t attempt to hide it. But it didn’t stop there. His fervent adoration for his mother became his sole motor. From the pain of this loss he drew strength to carry on. He couldn’t disappoint her. He couldn’t give up. Everything he did had to be done to honor her memory.

***

I grew up living next door to my mom’s sister and her family. Since my immediate family was not inclined to sport-playing, watching, or anything remotely having to do with sports, I often found myself next door at my tia’s house. Her husband, my Tio Roge, taught me many things about soccer and would even take me to watch our favorite team play at the stadium, or to his own soccer matches. He never once questioned my desire to play, watch and learn, or told me that it “wasn’t for girls”, or discouraged me in any way, even when other people in the family raised their eyebrows in disapproval.

***

When I was in Poland in 2016, I made the terrible mistake of having a horribly heavy backpack on our unfortunate 20-mile walk. About six or seven miles in, I knew I wasn’t going to make it because my feet were completely blistered from the previous days and my bag was easily thirty pounds or extra weight. One of the guys in our pilgrimage group, Daniel, could see the pain in my face, and, without asking me, took my backpack away from me and threw it over his back-- for the next 12 miles or so. This person wasn’t really my friend. He was just an acquaintance I had met during the pilgrimage. Once we got to the site where we were resting for the night, he fell to his knees with exhaustion and I embraced him as we both cried for a long time, overwhelmed with emotions.

***

When my friend Michael confessed to me that he liked my friend Elisabeth, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if she liked him back, or if he would be able to ask her out, or how anything would work out (they were both introverts and quite shy people in general). Somehow, he managed to do it. Three years later, they are married. Michael is not precisely the most openly effusive of people. But when he is around her, ah... When he talks about her, his face lights up. When he looks at her, everyone else disappears. He is warm, sweet, proud. Watching how he loves her is endearing. Seeing them together is like basking in the glory of the sun shining when it’s cold outside.




These are a few of the men in my life. They are kind and brave to love. They make this world better in their own small way. I love these men, and will continue to hope that, if God's will for me is marriage, I may find someone with a heart shaped similarly to theirs. 

Home

I am not a native Houstonian. I have never told anyone I'm a Texan. I do not even consider myself an American. It is a strange thing, being an immigrant. Some of us cling desperately to our heritage, while others truly leave it behind to embrace the new culture and idiosyncrasy of their new home.

I have been living in Texas for fifteen years. Half of my life. But in my heart of hearts I've always been Mexican only. Only.

Moreover, in the 15 years that I have been in this part of the world, I've always found myself wishing to be elsewhere.

"Too hot"
"Humid and gross"
"People drive like idiots"
"Stupid traffic"
"So much prejudice"
"Ignorant people"
"Nothing much to do"
"Beach is ugly"
"TOO HOT!"
"Government sucks"
"No one helps the little man"
"What is this weather, though?"

I even confess to having felt uncomfortable about people coming to Houston to visit me because I've always felt there isn't much to see here.

Do you hate me yet? Bear with me...

A week ago, as we were being told that a terrible storm was coming our way, I remained skeptical and watched. It has been an almost week-long nightmare. Friday we were at a deserted school putting books higher up and disconnecting computers. I decided to stay at my place instead of driving to my parents' for fear of getting stuck on the freeway.  I watched from my balcony as the skies darkened and the flood gates opened. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Fifty inches of rain. Trillions of gallons of waters washing the city away. My parents being trapped in their neighborhood. Friends all around me getting rescued by boats, leaving their homes in the middle of the night, losing everything.

Death and destruction everywhere.

I watched the news in disbelief, with a knot in my throat and my heart sunken. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I've spent the majority of the past week in a state of shock, in full survival mode. My apartment didn't flood, but I still have flashlights laying around the house. My camping backpack is still fully loaded as if I was getting ready to escape at any moment. I even went looking for a kayak/canoe yesterday when I finally made it into a Sam's Club.

I've always struggled with suffering in this world. All in all, that would probably be the one thing that could turn me into an atheist. People say that God is present in the midst of suffering, but I can honestly say that I've told God "why can you just be present in happiness and stop trying to make us suffer?" Suffering sucks balls. I couldn't help but to ask God, "why?" But then, before he could reply to me why, He revealed himself. He made himself visible and so intimately close to the afflicted that I stopped asking him why and started telling him "yes". Seeing people of all colors, faiths, and ideologies rescuing, feeding, clothing, sheltering, loving others. God's hands and feet. God's very own heart enveloping those in need.  The thought of it makes my very core tremble. Images of the purest, most selfless love flooding our televisions, phones, and computers. Yes, Lord, you are truly here. Yes, Lord, I will serve. Yes, Lord, we shall overcome.

And throughout it all, through the countless hours of live newscasts and endless Facebook posts sharing photos and videos, I realized something. In the midst of the affliction, I found myself a Houstonian. As people around me opened their hearts and poured out love, compassion, loyalty, and kindness, I discovered myself a Texan. Never in my life have I felt more proud to call this piece of the earth my home. Never in my life have I known with such conviction that I belong to this hot, humid, messy, traffic-packed, flawed, seemingly unappealing City of the Beatitudes, deep in the heart of Texas.

Decade, the Third

Today is July 1st. My birthday month has come to an end. Yes, happy birthday to me.

I am now an entire THREE. DECADES. OLD. Yep, it was the big 3-0 for me. What an incredibly daunting yet mind-blowing sensation! People often ask "so, how does it feel?" Well, allow me to try to articulate all the ideas running through my head eloquently.

Our World's Expectations for a Thirty-Year-Old vs. Reality

1. HAVE A CAREER! You go to college, you find what you're good at, and then you make a man out of you by being successful in your field, so that when you go to your high school reunion thingy you can tell people "yeah, I work in finance" or "I work in education" or "I'm a doctor" and then when you are inducted to the hall of fame or given a life-time achievement award, they make a video montage where people say things like, "yes, ever since she was a little kid, she used to say she would be a neurosurgeon". Amazing! People cheer while simultaneously weeping because of your moving story of passion and drive.

Reality: at this point, I am lucky to have a job. You know what happened as I was writing my master degree dissertation? I said, "shit, I should have listened to my parents. Chemistry really was my thing". AFTER SIX BLOODY YEARS OF STUDYING LITERATURE YA'LL. I cannot emphasize this enough, kids: maybe your parents are right. I mean, maybe they are idiots, but if they are like mine, they are definitely right. Always. All the time. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

2.  HAVE ECONOMIC STABILITY! By 30, everyone assumes that you have been working at least the past 5 years, so you should be able to afford expensive vacations, a nice car, pedi/manis, yoga classes, Salatta.

Reality: cheese quesadillas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Look, STUDENT LOANS. Enough said. "But Cris, what about all those trips?" Yes, Carol, it's called Income Tax money and  "credit cards" that you will "eventually" pay off. If I sat here waiting to pay off all my debt, I would literally never do anything. Let's face it, Patrice, this blog ain't gonna pay por nada.

3.

This one is a no-brainer. The world says your twenties are the time when you get hitched. I mean, the prospects from when you're 26 to when you're 29 shrivel twice as fast as your eggs. Who wants to show up to their ten-year high school reunion looking to see if the creepy teen that used to follow you around in high school has turned into a version of Steve Carell? Nope, I didn't do that.

Reality:

"Cris, if you don't meet someone in college, it will be really hard to do it once you're out in the real world."
"Cris, you should join a young adult group where you can find a nice guy!"
"You are too picky!"
"You are too shallow!"
"You need to be more feminine!"
"Guys find you intimidating!"
"You're too much!"
"He will come when you least expect it!"
"He will come when you stop looking!"

Shush please! You are not helpful at all. Unless you are personally acquainted with Chris Evans and can somehow hypnotize him so he will marry me, you are useless to me.
Also

4. BE A MOTHER!

Once you have your career, your money, and your Jim Halpert husband, you are expected to multiply. It is part of the circle of life, young friends. "Oh, you're wrong, Cris, our modern-day gives women more options now". Ha. Ha. Ha. First, try telling that to a Mexican mother. Secondly, untrue.The reality is that in our world, everyone has to criticize the fact that you are not an omnipotent being ala Wonder Woman (the real Gal Gadot) who should have a career, money, an amazing figure, a doting husband, and perfectly behaved children that gently slipped out of your va-jay-jay because you do  underground Pilates or Aquayoga or something. The world is a lot more hypocritical now than it was when it expected women to only be wives and mothers.

Reality: "Well, I suppose you don't really have to get married... just get pregnant. I want grand-babies. Go to confession later."

5.  FOUND YOSELF!

More than anything else, you are supposed to have this unwavering, focused sense of purpose, belonging, and being. You need to have, plainly stated, your shit together. You need to know yourself, know what you want out of your life, have 5, 10, 20-year plans, and work hard to get there. Hell, you are supposed to be thinking of your retirement already. That is insane, and intense.

Reality: Look, I don't even know what I will be doing in six months... let alone five years. Every time I ask myself that I picture a huge cloud of nothing. Fog. I know myself enough to know that I have no clue of what I'm doing, and that I am taking one day at a time because that is all that my mind and soul can give at this moment.

You might be thinking, "yikes, maybe I should send her a bouquet from Edible Arrangements... she really is not great..."

Well, do send it please. I've always wanted one. But listen, I know all of this sounds rather depressing... I mean, on paper, I am one big, hot mess. It seems like I've accomplished little, have worried lots, and have messed up constantly. But, you know what? This might come as a surprised to everyone, but...

BEING THIRTY IS AMAZEBALLS.

First, I am a full-fledged dysfunctional adult! I have crazy flaws, and anxiety, and worries, and what not, yet I manage to do all the things necessary for me to survive AND a bunch more. I have a balcony full of living plants. I book trips by myself and show myself around cities. I tell people what to do nicely enough that they actually listen! I pay a crap load of bills, always on time. I COOK AMAZING FOOD without any sort of training.

Second, I feel SO YOUNG. I feel strangely rejuvenated, especially as people I love get pregnant and have babies. I am a cool aunt! It is so surreal to know people younger than you who are soon-to-be mothers, but I guess the anticipation of a new life forming has the power to infuse energy and life in those who eagerly await to meet this tiny creature face-to-face. I suppose love, in its purest sense, does that.

Third, I know myself pretty good. Good enough to know that, despite my lack of direction, despite my anxiety, despite the obscure matter that envelops my heart at times, I am actually pretty bloody great. Like... genuinely awesome. Or at least I feel that way because I am loved and accepted just the way I am by such a diverse array of people. So many people cannot be wrong, amIrite? Moreover, I am loved infinitely by my dearest friend and Creator.  So BOOM!

Of course life gets really hard (like, all the time) and many times I want to figuratively grab the entire world (particularly the male species) and shake it by the shoulders and say "REALLY? I AM AWESOME, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" And sometimes it can get very discouraging. But if turning 30 has done anything for me, it is to show me how much greatness there has been in the last three decades, rather than depress me about the things that never happened, that broke, that washed away.

PLUS, I AM CONVINCED, ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED THAT THIS IS MY DECADE YA'LL. Shit's gonna get gooooooooooooooooooood. Like, real good (that is assuming, of course, that there will be no World War III. If WWIII happens, then no, I think it will be horrible).

So, for those of you who are afraid of aging--stop being dumb.
For those of you who are skeptical of this broke spinster/plant lady/ deranged teacher-- you'll see.
For those of you still reading this nonsense faithfully--thank you for loving me.

Happy thirtieth, ya'll. Actually, happy thirtieth, Cris, my love. Bring on the taquitos.

Nice Guys, part 1

They. are. the. worst.

Well, first, let me make a distinction. There are, out there, some guys that we can deem as nice, genuinely nice. They are kind, respectful, considerate fellas. But, then we have the trope of the "nice guy": he's sweet, he's there for you, he's respectful, thoughtful, etc, etc etc. EXCEPT... IT IS ALL AN ACT. It's not genuine. It's a way to get what he wants. It's a way to guilt people into doing things for him or to cover up his dirty laundry, so to speak. The landmark trait of these so-called "nice guys" is that they are insincere. They lie. To get what they want. And act all nice about it. F*ckers.

"Wow, Cris, you seem to be very very angry with the world? Where is this all coming from? Just a few months ago you were writing about assholes and now you're out to get the nice ones too?"

"Shut up, skeptical reader who enjoys books about positivity. I am just denouncing the injustices of this world."

How to spot a "nice guy"?

1.  He tells you to consider dating "a nice guy who will treat you right". A.K.A. him, supposedly.
2. After showing his true colors he justifies himself with "I'm a nice guy," as if that was some form of apology.
3. Does nice things for people (girls) expecting something in return.
4. Says things like "if you were my girl, I would treat you so much better."
5. If he is in a relationship, he is "too nice" to tell you.
6. He hides his insecurities and lack of BALLS with niceties.
7. Shows the claws via passive-aggressiveness.

What makes me an authority on this, says you? Oh, if only I wasn't.

Besides the fact that I dated one (it was the absolute worst but if I stopped to tell you about it, I'd end up with an entire book the size of the last Harry Potter one), I have encountered many of these fine specimens in my 20's. But allow me to illustrate my point.

Sometime before my now botched relationship, a coworker caught my eye. He seemed kind, calm, NICE. Like a giant, sluggish panda bear. I didn't make much of it, but as the school year progressed, I found myself being around this guy quite a bit, and finding out that we had quite a bit in common.

After a few months, I was hoping that something would come out of it. He seemed invested, but I thought he was too shy to ask me out. Typical nice guy. So I figured I'd give him a bit of help, and kept dropping hints. The hints didn't work, so I started to shamelessly invite him out to hang out--first with our colleagues, then I just straight up asked if he wanted to go get a drink with me. Bravo, Cris. You strong, independent, hot woman.

"You asked him out!"
"Yes, after about four months of back and forth"
"What did he say?"

 "Oh, I can't. I want to go home and... sleep."


Nice guys: can't be straight with you. Why? Are they legitimately concerned about your emotional welfare? Or is it that in their insecurity they want to keep you at bay, but not too far, just in case?

Guess what, dudes? This jerkface had a girlfriend. The entire time.

In other words,  for six months, we spoke on a regular basis without him ever mentioning his girlfriend. I am sorry, but in my book, one actually has to TRY not to bring a significant other in conversation. Like, you have to make an effort not to talk about her? And why? Why would you not want to bring her up, eh, NICE GUY?

And don't think he actually told me. No. I found out through a very elaborate network of female coworkers interested in my well-being. So, the moment I realized he was taken, I ceased contact and only maintained a professional relationship. You know, because I try not to be an asshole and stuff.

BUT THAT IS NOT ALL, READER. PREPARE YOURSELF.

A few weeks ago, one of my work friends invited a bunch of us to his wife's birthday at a local club. Sure enough, I could not resist an opportunity to publicly humiliate myself with my signature move, "The Sprinkler", so I accepted the invitation. Because it's me we're talking about, of course this man, Mr. Nice-guy-sluggish-panda, was there. With zee gurl.

Don't think for a second that I was worried. The moment I realized this man had hid his girlfriend from me, any admiration that I felt for him dissipated. So I came into the party, nodded politely, and moved on to talk to my friends. Suddenly, I felt a strange presence approaching me.

She is making direct eye-contact with me. She stands in front of me. She gets close to my ear and whispers, "help me make a conga line".

When eloquence fails, all we can say is "what the actual f*ck is happening right now?" I had never met this woman, had never seen her, and she had no reason to speak to me, as her boyfriend did not introduce us. Why was she singling me out and why was she trying to form a conga line with me?

Wait a minute... no... it couldn't be...no, no, it can't be. Moving on.

Reader, it didn't stop there. Later on that night, after eyeing me for a while, she came back to tell me that she was going to take me out to the dance floor. I was politely declining, but guess what? Her boyfriend, a couple yards behind her, was beckoning me animatedly to go dance with her.

I managed to escape by going to the restroom, only to come back and run to the dance floor with my friends before she found me. But then... she found me. And she started dancing with us. And then my friends left me with her... great friends of mine, eh? Yeah, wonderful people.

So I was left alone dancing with this woman who, as luck would have it, danced worse than me, if that's possible. It was like a twig breaking before me.

Suddenly, a drunkard came to the rescue. A big, beautiful, brown man who was heavily intoxicated came to dance with the two of us, and she didn't seem pleased, so she drew back. Perfect. Suddenly, I was dancing with the drunk alone and having the time of my life. BUT THEN, she came back. She grabbed me by the hand and pull me away from my lovely drunk.

Look ya'll, I am not a mean-spirited person, for the most part. And when I'm being ugly, I try to control myself. But man, this lady was pushing it. First of all, we are not friends,  I don't know your name, and you're making me hella uncomfortable. So I was in the highest level of terror alert.

Train of thought:

1. I do not like you.
2. You give me the creeps.
3. Why are you touching me?
4. No, stop.
5. BITCH BYE.

I pulled away. Rudely. I took my own hand back, turned around, and walked away from her and back to my borrachito.

By now, it was all too clear:

Scenario A: This woman is mentally unstable and has found me enticing for some reason. Perhaps I remind her of her grandmother, or the person she murdered.

Scenario B: This woman was enraptured by my beauty and decided to leave her boyfriend and ask me for my hand in marriage.

Scenario C: Nice guy might not have said anything about having a girlfriend, but he certainly told her all about me. Her familiarity, the fact that she expected and almost demanded to spend time with me indicated that he had probably said something along the lines of "oh, you'll love Cristina, she's wonderful! You guys should try to be friends!"

What kind of crap is that? I asked you out, you refused with a lame excuse, and then you told your girlfriend about me? Why? In hopes of what? Ugh and gross and you are just the worst, nice guy.

A man, a real man, would have discreetly brought his girl up in conversation. A real man would have stayed with his woman that night. A real man would have introduced his girl to me, without committing any indiscretions. Whatever this dude did was shitty.

Anyway, more on this later. For now, all I can say is "STOP BEING LIKE THIS".

Magenta Sneakers

Every year for my birthday, I buy myself a nice present. This has been a tradition since I first started working, a long ten years ago. A karaoke machine. A football jersey. A fancy perfume. Last year was no exception. A few days before my birthday, I went to the best place on earth (JC Penney, obviously), and browsed around for hours until finally finding the perfect gift. When I got home, the first thing I did was to take a photo of my spanking-new, beautiful magenta Nike sneakers to send to him.  

It’s a strange thing, falling in love. Suddenly, all you ever want to do is talk to that person, even about the most mundane, silly things. You want to share your every move with him because—well, you wish you could be with him at all times. All the feelings you didn’t know you had suddenly burst out from your little stony heart, like a supernova exploding into stardust, and you become the most beautiful, iridescent, delightful cliché. It’s true, you know it, and you still don’t care. Because suddenly all things feel like they make sense and all the waiting and the loneliness and the THIRD WHEELING are a distant memory.

Ah, you know I’m pulling your leg, right? Last May was one of the most difficult times in my life. Suddenly all the promises that he had made laid broken before me, and my hope and joy had fled far away. I was trying with all my might to hold together my sandcastle as it was being viciously attacked by an imminent rise of tide, but it was only me holding onto it. I kept telling myself that he couldn’t possibly help me, because he was preoccupied with holding himself together, sorting himself out, finding himself, making sense of the convolution in his soul. I kept telling myself that if I truly loved him I needed to stay put, wait in patience, keep my thundering heart in check, prevent my blood from boiling over, scold my sense of justice for feeling offended about his actions. It wasn’t really him. It was all the ghosts, the skeletons in the closet, the monsters under the bed.

So I took the picture of the sneakers and sent it to him, like a child showing off her new toy on Christmas morning. And just like a child who finds out Santa Claus isn’t real, I sat there in disbelief as I read his response, sat there feeling the blood in my veins turn cold and the shutters of my heart closing up for winter, sat there realizing that it wasn’t about patience, or kindness, or the sheer will to keep us together. I sat there as the fact slapped me across the face:

“Why would you buy those? It’s not like you’re going to use them. Maybe you could treat yourself to some free-weights that you’ll never lift, or perhaps a bicycle you’ll never ride while you’re at it--”
“Sometimes I might go on a walk or a jog--”

“So you’re planning to? You do realize that your legs won’t spontaneously start jogging by themselves one day, right?”

Skepticism. Sarcasm. Ridicule. About a damn pair of shoes. I sat there as I realized that he didn’t love me. That whatever he thought he felt for me was not love. Because how, just how could the man that claimed to want to love me for the rest of my life, to want to make me smile every day, to want to protect me from the universe, to want to make me feel cherished, how could he go out of his way to wound me, about something so simple, when I hadn’t done anything to him, had never tried to humiliate him, embarrass him, or belittle him?

Writing this, a year after it happened, makes me rage. How could I have allowed it? Where was I—the real me—as this man was tearing me apart?  We all like to boast about being strong, independent, resilient. But in what moment should the advice “if you truly love him, accept him as he is and forgive him” not be valid anymore? When is it no longer “no one is perfect” and becomes “he’s no good for you”? For me, it was this. This was the last straw. Suddenly I wasn’t the most beautiful woman on earth. I was just a lazy couch potato, a fatass, a woman with no willpower. That was it. I might be a lazy couch potato. I’m definitely a fatass. But I am definitely not a woman with no willpower. The love I felt for him was fighting to survive, but he made sure to crush it. He drove it to the brink and then pushed it down into the void. And when it was gone, all I had was me and a pair of magenta sneakers.

A year has gone by. My magenta sneakers have walked—even jogged—hundreds of miles. The signs of wear are there: tear, upper left side, right shoe; significant scrap, tip of left shoe; dark mud stains all throughout both shoes. At first, these shoes fit too tight and they gave me the most atrocious heel blister that made me unable to wear closed-toe shoes for two weeks. But that didn't stop me from using them again. Remember what I said about my willpower, reader? He underestimated me because I let him. But, more importantly, I had underestimated myself.

 Loving him, I had borne a false cloak of holiness over my shoulders that said I needed to be patient with him and love him despite himself, and that I was going to love him into sanity, confidence, joy, healing. He knew this, and he used it as an excuse to treat me like shit. Jealousy. Insecurity. Inconsistency. Lies. Manipulation. I was supposed to love him out of all that. No, reader. A pair of magenta sneakers made me realize that I needed to love myself enough to walk away from the man I had seemingly dreamed of my entire life (he did have some good qualities, after all). But what if it meant I was going to be alone? What if it meant that no one else would come along?  

Then I will go into my closet, pull out my tennis shoes, pop them on my feet (without even having to undo the laces), and run, run until the soles are gone and my soul soars up and my heartbeat is so high that my heart bursts because I rather die the most horrific death (working out) than stay with a shell of a man who cannot love and cannot accept love. So every day, I put on my sneakers and get going, chasing after the woman I hope I’ll be once again.