Jibaro

I hope that I finally meet the one that gets it 

that I am both a woman in power and a helpless princess.  

It's called range.

This is the conclusion from my last attempt. Buckle up bitches, it's a lot. But alas most posts where I am a real human are:

I don't want a toxic relationship. To be fair, I'm pretty sure like no one does, but like I feel like people hear that, and they think, "Okay, she just wants peace, maturity, healthy communication." No. Okay yes to all of that, but hear me out:

I would like someone who feels like my best friend, but I'm also wildly attracted to. I want someone where we're like, roasting each other one moment and then 10 minutes later we're discussing our childhood trauma in a Target parking lot sharing an ice cream. That's the dream, right? Well fuck you if it isn't, because it's mine.

I'm not sitting here saying I need someone perfect. I don't need someone perfect, I need someone weird, because I'm weird. Do you know how like just how freaking exhausting it is having to pretend to be to be normal around normies? To have to gauge how reeled in I have to remain to be liked? I don't even know any more if I care about being liked, but the plight of the bullied eldest daughter, healing and all that crap.

 I need someone that I can look at, and I could say something absolutely fucking insane and they don't look at me and get concerned, they look at me and they go, "Yeah fair point." See, that my friends is romance. I need the kind of connection where I send a random thought, I can just send you a text and I'm like, "Do fish know they're wet?" And you respond not with "What the actual fuck?" but like with a 6-paragraph thesis as to why they perhaps do. That right there. That's my soul mate. Some people they want butterflies and that's great, that's fair. But I want someone who makes me laugh so hard I forget what I was mad about. The kind that makes your abs hurt and that's worth way more than the abs themselves Maybe not way more, it's definitely comparable and who needs a ripped gym bod anyways. I want a real person.

I wasn't even planning on using my dating profile, I told myself that it was time for a break and some more healing. After what happened in December, life still felt heavy and I wasn't sure that I was really ready to jump in just to get hurt all over again. And yet, on a random Friday lunch break, something told to just take a look at my messages. And there he was, with a profile that told me that he too wasn't ready to jump. A few messages later and a trust fall of an invite, we met at a restaurant that I knew had good food and we could carry on a conversation. Before I knew it, I never wanted to stop talking to him.

The second I said, out loud, to a friend that I liked this one, the world fucking turned on its head.

He liked me, but he hated himself more and there was no competing with that. No matter how gently I held him, he was always reaching for the parts of himself that he wanted to destroy and I mistook that war is something that I could win, while simultaneously believing that I have healed so much that it was most definitely not what I was trying to do. I thought that if I loved him loud enough, if I kissed every scar as if it was sacred, if I slipped between him and his ghosts with my bare hands and a hopeful heart that eventually he would choose life, and in choosing life, he would choose me. And a person drowning in their own reflection cannot see the hands reaching for them from shore. So, he existed the way he knew how; in fragments and apologies and promises spoken with sincerity and brokenness all in the same mouth. He would hold me like I was something precious and then disappear inside of himself. I spent so long trying to understand how somebody could make me feel so adored and abandoned in the same breath. In the quiet moments when the world loosened its grip, he would look at me with this kind of tenderness that makes poets out of ordinary women. But excitement for another's existence cannot outvote self-destruction and that is the grief that comes with being with someone who cannot stand the sound of their own name. Because they will offer you flowers while setting fire to the garden. They will swear that they never meant to hurt you, and they will mean every word and somehow sincerity will not stop you from bleeding.

I decided that I'm done feeling anemic. Before I moved, I sent him my new address. This means that he has always known exactly where, and when, and how to find me, yet we seem to keep dancing around each other when it comes to meeting up to give each other our stuff back. He has a pie plate and my great-grandmother's pie server. When he messaged me to end things, I refused to be hooked into the "why don't you love me" bullshit that a lesser, unhealed version of myself would have been all too happy to wallow in. Fuck you, I'm worthy. I have been the entire time. And I'm all done being punished for liking you.

Sometimes wishing someone would come back is also to realize that it would require a multi-leveled attempt at repair, beginning with a sincere apology, in the form of a blueberry muffin from the only bakery that I like them from, and other parts that I truly believe that they simply do not hold the capacity for. Seriously, do not, I repeat, I will eat an ocean with a fork level, do not, hurt me. Do not present yourself to me as a 3D-printed version of every dandelion and eyelash that I have spent my life wishing for in a person and expect to have a good time when you do. There are parts of me that you will never be allowed access to again. I admit nothing, but if I wanted to give them to you, I would hate you for being like everyone else.

I do recall saying out loud to more than one person that his dick was so beautiful that I wanted to knit it a hat. 

After several attempts to reconnect long enough to hand each other the stuff and walk away, as he was the one to proclaim it's what he wanted, I told him to throw it out and that at some point that I would drop his stuff off if I am ever in his neck of the woods. You read that correctly. It was never about the pie server.  It was control. He knows he could get to me and that he would make me chase him forever because it meant something. I woke up feeling so ready to be done knowing him - although that isn't what it really is. For another time.

This margarita tastes like Dixie, one of his dogs, could be dismembering my cat Eleanor right in front of me and I would have such radical acceptance in the circle of life that it would be completely fine.

I am so sick of being made an idiot of for his sick entertainment that I told a grown-ass man, who should be able to act like it, to throw away the one thing I own that has been used at every family gathering since my earliest memories. It wasn't just a pie server to me. Those memories aren't going to leave me, unfortunately I got more than my green eyes from her. Maybe one good thing about having the abandonment issues that I do is because I've actually been abandoned and the art of letting go has never been a lesson I never wanted to learn, but rather one I had to from the fiery pits of whatever the fuck this is.

However, as self-aware as he claims to be, the narrative, "Hey, I have hurt this person intentionally, and repeatedly, and knowing how important this thing is to her, I should give it back." is magically gone from existence.

And this is where I am at:

Keep it, use it for pie, use it as a murder weapon, jack off to it remembering how great that strawberry rhubarb crumble pie was, shove it up your ass, I now no longer give a single fuck.

Don't get me wrong. There's always that last 30% holding on for dear life. BUT, that dumb fuck who fumbled me can go anywhere that I'm not, forever. Feelings are dumb. Now I want a blueberry muffin.

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**The title comes from an episode of the show "Love, Death, and Robots", the last episode of season 3. If you watch it, and don't understand it, you have never had your heart ripped out and vaporized in front of you by someone you were excited to give it to.