Day One: Dickmatized & Disillusioned

Who Hurt You? (The Lover Edition)

Let’s talk about them. 

Yes, that one. The lover who left a lip print on your memory and a wound in your trust. The one who taught you how quickly “forever: can expire. Maybe they ghosted. Maybe they gaslit. Maybe they just never met you at the depth you were willing to go. Whatever their final act– your heart remembers. 

This isn’t about stalking their social media (though we know you already did.) This is about taking the story back. Pull it out of the fantasy. Dust off the truth.

Prompt: 

Who was the past lover that cracked your heart wide open – and not in the poetic way?? What did they teach you about love, longing, and losing yourself??

I’m not entirely sure where my Olympic-level shit taste in men came from. You’d think I had deep-seated daddy issues – surprise! Quite the opposite. My father is a literal cinnamon roll of a man – sweet, supportive, and warm in all the right ways – but emotionally?? He’s the human equivalent of a high-grade sativa: uplifting, slightly chaotic, and definitely the source of at least 87% of my mental health struggles– thanks, dad, love the vibes, hate the inherited anxiety spiral. 

The remaining 13%? Courtesy of my mother — although she’d rather fake her own death than admit to passing on anything less than perfection.

Now, despite my parents going strong in their 43rd year of marriage – still flirting like high schoolers who just discovered no one is under the bleachers at their high school dance– I’ve somehow managed to rack up two divorces, five children, a fur baby, and a pile of emotional trauma large enough to open a boutique therapy clinic… or start a mental health journey blog.

So let’s talk about HIM. The one who took my heart, threw it on the grill like a sad little hamburger patty, and forgot it was cooking until the smoke alarm went off. Our relationship wasn’t just built on dirty texts - although steamy. Thigh grazes under the table, or those eye-fucks that could melt steel. Nah, we were more than that – or so I thought.

We shared dreams. Deep, late-night convos about family trauma, unfulfilled ambitions, and the cosmic cruelty of meeting the right person at the absolute worst time. We planned a future – the “someday” house, the “when the kids are grown” life, the lazy Sunday mornings filled with coffee, peace, and sex sessions that last all day long. 

And now? I look back and wonder… was I hallucinating on a love-laced delusion? Did I build an entire life in my head off of beautifully delivered lies and half-erect… promises?

Because, it felt real – at least, on my end. 

You don’t cry over nothing– and I held that man as he wept on multiple occasions over us. Full-on, snot-running, can’t breathe, type of tears. Gotcha by the emotional balls there for a second, didn’t I?

Maybe I scared him. Maybe change made his inner child cry in a corner. Maybe I was just the deep fantasy he loved but never planned to hold onto. Whatever it was – I’ve finally reached the point where I don’t give a single, soggy fuck.

Because here’s the kicker: the man who broke my heart the most wasn’t even one of my ex-husbands, and the second one did a doozy on me. 

Wild, right?

My deepest heartbreak wasn’t even with the men I legally shared health insurance with. And yet, he was the one who taught me what it means to completely lose yourself in someone else – and how fucking hard it is to claw your way back.

But I did. I crawled out of that emotional black hole like a stoned raccoon emerging from a dumpster fire – disoriented, covered in metaphorical glitter, but somehow still standing. And now? I know my worth. 

So if someone says, “You’re too intense,” take it as a compliment. You’re never too much – they’re just emotionally constipated. You’re not asking for much – you’re asking the wrong person. 

I know I am too much – too passionate, too intuitive, too loud with my love, too honest with my pain – but that’s only a problem for someone who’s not enough. Not grounded enough. Not brave enough. Not high enough in their own self-awareness to match my energy without panicking like bad edible hitting mid-brunch. 

So now, when someone tells me I’m “too much,” I don’t shrink. I don’t apologize. I don’t contort myself into a version that fits neatly into someone else’s half-baked idea of love. Because I’m not your average pick-me puff. I’m a limited edition, top-shelf, spiritually enlightening hybrid with notes of chaos, clarity, and deep ancestral healing. I’m the kind of love that makes you question your life choices mid-hit – the kind you remember years later, long after you fumbled it. 

And maybe that’s what that past lover was: someone who took a hit of me, realized how potent I am, and tapped out. But that doesn’t make me less valuable. That makes them underprepared and not worthy of me. 

So here’s to Day One. To grieving what could’ve been. To recognizing what was real – and what was projection in a pretty package. To knowing your own flavor, your own strength, and most importantly, your own worth. 

Never dull your high just to make someone else comfortable. You are never too much– they were simply not enough to handle the trip. 

With love, sass, and just the right amount of emotional damage,

—