My estrogen levels are rising and I have a funny feeling I’m about to ovulate. My sugar cravings and appetite spiked and I haven’t been sleeping as well as I would like to be. I’m also in the midst of romantic heartbreak, which is a funny thing to feel when your fertility is at its peak. Biologically I am in my spring, the birds and the bees season. Realistically speaking, my life is in winter. A sexual graveyard.
I’m in the process of planning a trip and I sat at the coffee shop today and reluctantly flipped through the guidebook to organize where I would like to go. It’s strange how tasteless life becomes in the midst of heartache. The opportunity to languish in playfulness on my birthday suddenly becomes a chore that I’m struggling to complete. I’m anxious and disconnected, my head is elsewhere, processing hurt.
Sometimes I feel chaotic enough to throw myself into a frenzy of half baked romances that burn out. I stare at men giving heavy asshole energy, wondering if we can share our emptiness. Most of the time though, I stop myself from tumbling down romantic rabbit holes, and instead go home and sulk. Or walk around Williamsburg.
This evening, somewhere between the roasted carrots and chicken, it dawned on me that I wasn’t working through a romantic rejection, but rather the triggered pain from a much greater crisis: my parents’ rejection of me. I went to a tarot party last night and confessed that I was ashamed I felt so much hurt. “No, feel your pain” was the resounding response. I’m working on it. It did make for a weird day, but a silver lining finally emerged.
a soft death 