I had a severe mental breakdown last Tuesday after learning that my romantic interest—the most fictional, imagined, and fleeting of them all—had started a relationship with a fantastic woman. I found out he had a girlfriend in the middle of a brownie party, dressed in leather and holding a helium balloon. So, I approached him and asked him why the hell he’d ghosted me. He’d started a relationship with the Italian diva after categorically rejecting the idea of us ever having a serious relationship. “I’m not ready for a serious relationship at this point in my life,” he’d repeatedly told me during our dates-not-dates, only to find him again two months later in a seemingly very committed romantic venture with the curly-haired European beauty. I don’t blame him; she’s wonderful, and I wish them the best, sincerely, bitterly, but sincerely.
But beyond the characters in this temporary teenage story in my 35s, I remember realizing that day that I wasn’t going to blame anyone but myself. It was my fault again, for being naive, for being infatuated so fast, for waiting for a man to see me and appreciate me. So, I sank into the depths of guilt and the “why me, God?” Why me? (Insert here tears, mucus, babas, and a scream, with your imagination) The male God looked at me, smirking, and asked, “Do I know you?” But seriously, why can’t any man take me seriously? I asked God why I wasn’t attractive enough for someone to risk everything for me.
Continue reading “Ex-Good Wife Adventures by Laura Montoya”
