Journal Prompt: The Lover Who Broke You Wide Open (And What You Learned About Love & Loss)
I’m not entirely sure where my Olympic-level shit taste in men came from. You’d think I had deep-seated daddy issues, or raised by a drunk Nicholas Sparks character, but surprise — my dad is a literal cinnamon roll of a man. Sweet, supportive, warm in all the right ways.
Emotionally??
He’s the human equivalent of 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.
And yet, despite their 43-year marriage (still flirting like horny high schoolers hiding under bleachers), I’ve somehow managed to rack up two divorces, five kids, a fur baby, and a pile of trauma large enough to open a boutique therapy clinic… or at least start a blog where I emotionally strip for strangers on the internet.
Therefore - Here. We. Go…
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.
Journal Prompt:
Who was the past lover that cracked your heart wide open—not in the poetic way? What did they teach you about love, longing, and losing yourself?
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 dirty texts - though God bless the steamy ones — thigh grazes under the table, or those eye-fucks that could melt steel. No — I thought we were more than that.
We shared dreams.
Late-night confessions 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 marathons that last all day long.
And now? I look back and wonder… was I hallucinating on a love-laced delusion? Did I build a whole future in my head off beautifully packaged lies and half-erect promises?
Because, it felt real – at least for me.
You don’t cry over nothing. And I held that man through full-body sobs. Ugly, snot-dripping, can’t-breathe kind of tears.
Gotcha’ by your emotional balls there for a minute, didn’t I?
Maybe I scared him.
Maybe change made his inner child running.
Maybe I was just the fantasy he loved but never planned to keep.
Whatever it was – I’ve finally reached the point where I don’t give a single, soggy fuck.
But this? This isn’t about stalking his Instagram at 2 a.m. (though let’s not lie — you already did. And not to mention, this mother fucker isn’t on social media.)
This is about reclaiming the story. Dragging it out of the fantasy. Dusting it off for the truth.
So, who is 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 dirty texts—though God bless the steamy ones— thigh grazes under the table, or those eye-fucks that could melt steel.
No— I thought we were more than that.
We shared dreams. Late-night confessions 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 marathons that last all day long.
And now?
I look back and wonder… was I hallucinating on a love-laced delusion? Did I build a whole future in my head off beautifully packaged lies and half-erect promises?
Because, it felt real – at least for me.
You don’t cry over nothing. And I vividly remember holding that man through full-body sobs. Ugly, snot-dripping, can’t-breathe kind of tears.
Gotcha’ by your emotional balls there for a minute, didn’t I?
Maybe I scared him.Maybe change made his inner child running.
Maybe I was just the fantasy he loved but never planned to keep. Whatever it was – I’ve finally reached the point where I don’t give a single, soggy fuck.
But this? This isn’t about stalking his Instagram at 2 a.m. (though let’s not lie — you already did.) This is about reclaiming the story. Dragging it out of the fantasy. Dusting it off for the truth.
My deepest heartbreak didn’t come from men I legally share health insurance with. Nope. It was the one who showed me how easy it is to lose yourself inside someone else — and how fucking hard it is to claw your way back.
But I did.
I crawled out of that emotional dumpster fire like a stoned raccoon covered in metaphorical glitter. Disoriented, feral, but still standing. And now?
I know my worth.
So when someone says, “You’re too intense,” take it as a compliment. I’m not too much. They’re just emotionally constipated.
I am too much – too passionate, too intuitive, too loud with my love, too raw with my pain. And that’s only a problem for someone who’s not enough.
Not grounded.
Not brave.
Not self-aware enough to match my energy without panicking like a bad edible hitting mid-brunch.
So no, I don’t shrink anymore. 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 some watered-down latte love story. I’m the triple shot espresso that makes you question your life choices. I’m the kind of love that lingers years later, the one that haunts them mid-orgasm with someone else.
Maybe that’s what He realized: I was too potent. And he couldn’t handle this high.
But that doesn’t make me less valuable. That makes them underprepared.
So here’s to our first journal entry.
To grieving what could’ve been. To recognizing what was real vs. what was projection. 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.
Until next time…
