Judge about it if you want. But at my core, all of my anger is simply disgust. Webster defines disgust as “marked aversion aroused by something highly distasteful.” And that is all my anger has ever been and will ever be. Disgust. Because when it comes to the things people have said about me, to me, and the things people have done to me directly and indirectly I am convinced I was Satan’s apprentice in a past life. Truly. That’s the only explanation for the way people have treated me.

And when I was sitting with the emotions of the split how badly I lost myself, how I became someone who would bend over backward to fit his picture of a perfect life I could’ve levitated, I was so angry. With him, with myself, hell, with the entire world. (If I had levitated, I’d like to think it would’ve been Beyoncé “Halo” style, not the creepy horror movie kind, but still.)

So I decided I was going to look internally. But also… I was going to reward myself along the way, because healing is hard work. If you’re going to cry, at least cry in a cute restaurant with a cocktail in hand.

In the midst of bouncing between “maybe I should take him back” and “girl, go look in the mirror, read down your resume of accomplishments, and then slap yourself because you’re about to volunteer as tribute to heartbreak again” I had a come to Jesus moment. Like, really? You want to go back to a man you kept afloat mentally and emotionally, only for him to sweep you off yours and let you fall flat on your ass? That’s your bright idea? Didn’t think so.

So one day, between all the mental board meetings I had with myself, I decided: I need to get out of this damn house.

I ended up taking myself out to the city and had a ball. Between the drinks, the food, and the views, for a couple of hours, life actually made sense. I even found a distraction within the distraction. And honestly, I don’t know if I can even label him as just a distraction, because anger aside, I was genuinely intrigued. And to my surprise, the feeling was mutual.

Now let me say this humbly but not really. I know I’m fine. My looks have never been the issue when it comes to finding a man, or at least finding one to distract me. But I assumed his “type” was more Plain Jane like the everyday girl you see in a grocery store in any of the 50 states. Meanwhile, me? Some days I look like a cat, other days a giraffe, and sometimes straight up insane. And yet there I was, going tit for tat with this man, so entertained that for the first time in a while I forgot to be mad at the world.

But let’s be honest. When the pause button wasn’t pressed, life was back on play, and I was breaking down and pissed off. Because nobody but me had put me in this position. I had gotten so good at silencing my own inner voice that voice that kept telling me “you’re not happy” or “you don’t have to bend to make someone else smile” that when I was finally alone, it screamed at me like a toddler in Target who wants candy.

It got so loud that one day, I randomly yelled back, “I AM FIGURING IT OUT, DAMN IT, GIVE ME A SECOND!” And then immediately started laughing. Because either I had gone fully manic, or I was 100% bipolar.

So I pulled out my journal and wrote a list titled:

5 Things I Absolutely Need in My Lifetime

• Peace
• Love
• Happiness
• Ability to write
• Kids (if not my dream of 3, at least 1 don’t even need to carry them)

I stared at that list in shock. Because what my soul was asking for was not how I had been living. Peace? I was addicted to chaos like it was caffeine. Love? I chased it like a dog after the ice cream truck, always running after the kind that came with conditions, fine print, and hidden fees. Happiness? Please. I hadn’t been happy since my grandma passed 12 years ago, because nobody loved or prayed over me like she did.

And writing? I have journals on journals, half filled Google Docs, and a Notes app so chaotic it looks like it belongs in the FBI. All this emotion, and I can’t even finish a page.

And kids… oh, kids. I want them so bad, but I have done everything in my power not to have them. I track my ovulation like it’s the stock market. My public excuse? This world is too evil to bring children into. The real truth? I’m terrified of ruining them. Some nights, I lie awake wondering if the best way to protect them from my trauma is to never have them at all. Which is tragic, because at the same time, nothing would make me happier than being a mother.

Reading that list felt like watching my entire life play out in front of me. It was too much. And as I always do when it’s too much, I dissociated into another world.

But here’s the plot twist: the more I tried to indulge in shallow conversations and surface-level connections, the more bored I got. I couldn’t even fake it anymore. I watched the “fake version” of me the girl who molded herself into what others wanted catch on fire right in front of me. And here’s the wild part: she burned with the most peaceful look on her face.

It was like watching a scratched DVD. You can clean it, blow on it, wave it in the air, even promise God you’ll go to church on Sunday if it plays but it’s just broken. That version of me was gone. And for once, instead of being afraid, I respected her. She burned so that I could finally be free.

And so, in the middle of rediscovering myself, I officially cut things off with my ex. For real this time. No backpedaling. And though the “new guy” was supposed to be nothing more than an escape, life did what life does, it flipped the script.

I started actually healing. Not slapping on another bandage when the blood seeped through, but really cleaning out the wounds. And somehow, in that process, I found myself drawn to a man who mirrored my old self. And me, being me, felt compelled to try anyway. Even though I knew I was going to war with no chance of winning.

But hey, all is fair in love and war. And nobody does war like me. Especially when I’m aware of my truth and living in it. For a moment, I felt invincible. Until I learned the hard truth:

You don’t negotiate with terrorists.