Love & Beauty Unconference: Countdown to Love Day #21 Inside A Broken Heart | Jasmine Powers | Marketing Fangirl | Sales and Marketing Consultant in New Orleans, LA Love & Beauty Unconference: Countdown to Love Day #21 Inside A Broken Heart | Jasmine Powers | Marketing Fangirl | Sales and Marketing Consultant in New Orleans, LA

The hardest thing to do is to accept that he does not love you. You play it over and over. The sad love songs are on repeat. Your Facebook status updates and tweets clearly show you’re losing it. You delete, block, or otherwise attempt to expel him from your proverbial system and like the rancid upchuck that burns your throat, he still remains there.

You had nothing in the first place. “How can I lose the love I never had?” Mary asks wisely. You existed in two different relationships, if it could be called a relationship at all. The two of you didn’t know each other. Yet, you still mourn what could’ve been, what you fantasized and wanted it to be.

Your girls, man friends, and total strangers try to pull you out of this downward spiral because you obviously can’t figure it out on your own. You call everybody on the planet trying to validate your concerns or at least to get them to emotionally hold you up for just another second more.

Obsessive isn’t the word for it. Butt crazy is. You’ve been without a man for so long. You ball up and cry at night from the loneliness. “What is wrong with me?” You look for answers. Maybe it’s because I’m tall, dark, fat, smile too big, love too hard….All the things that you come up with are only the things you hate about yourself. They’re not real reasons.

Love just hasn’t happened for you yet. You just haven’t met the right person yet. Yet, yet, yet. Well meaning friends spew out advice and admonition from their favorite empowerment influencers, mother wit, or their own philosophy book. You ask still, “When will I arrive? When will be the time that I’m ready? Whole? Better? Worthy of love?” They don’t have the answer. It could only be that the time hasn’t yet come.

The last dude you entertained wasn’t any better than the one before, or the one before, or the one before that guy. The names all add up and the common denominator is you. You keep being attracted to and attracting the wrong person. You pray to God, “Can you choose for me because my selection criteria is WACK?” At this point any man will do. Any piece of a man will do. Oh, just to be rescued from this loneliness. The cycle continues.

So you stop, and say to yourself, “Self, let’s just decide that being single is the thing to do. Block any advances to your heart. Bury yourself in your work. Stay in the friend zone with every man you meet.” Sounds good. Feels even better…Until you secretly start adoring the friend that doesn’t love you back and you suffer in silence playing the role of BFF while he pines after another woman.

Your journal is full of poems and suicide notes and prayers and fantasies of what you think would make you whole. Truth is, you just aren’t whole. The man would never complete you. You have to complete you. Heal the busted, draining wound of your soul. Jill understands. So does Keyshia. Heck Bonnie REALLY understands.
You start to think about it and you can bet your bottom dollar that he and him are NOT thinking this hard about love or about you. That only hurts worst. Why couldn’t you just matter to him? Dang, why didn’t you marry your high school sweetheart? Oh yeah, that’s right, you were still in high school and not ready to make lifelong decisions. Why didn’t you marry the schizophrenic dude who actually really loved you? Oh yeah, that’s right, he was schizophrenic, didn’t take his medicine, and scared you up to high heaven. Why don’t you date that lonely guy who’s been calling you here and there? Oh yeah, because he’s only calling here and there and doesn’t know where he stands.

You’re looking and looking and can’t find any answers. All you’re clear of is that you really liked this last guy and you fell for who you THOUGHT he was. You beat yourself up because you can’t get that falsity out of your scull. Maybe taking a hammer to it would help. Maybe not.

He’s a loser, but you like that PIECE of him, that minuscule, atomic sized piece of him that liked art, poetry, music, afrocentricity, your nappy hair, your brown skin, and everything else about you that he could take and use. At least he saw something in you. That’s what you wish a “good” brother would see. What irritates you more is he technically was that “good” brother. Caramel colored, coffee with a little cream, educated, influential, speaks good English, can hold a conversation-wait, he only sent you text messages. Scratch the last part.

R. Kelly’s “I Wish” takes on a new meaning. “My condolences” to the hopes that dude fit into your cypher. Kill the hope that he’d be the MC and you’d sing the hook. “You’re all I need” is a lie because he can’t help you to get by, or get BUY. Broke (expletive, expletive).

You’re mad that you’ve written five essays and poems this week because you realized that you’ve got GOT. You had to delete a prolific realization because the anger and language was so vivid and foul that you’d become world famous for being the best author of some GOOD stuff though you’re known for being religious and faithful and you don’t want to sully your reputation on some therapeutic self expression. Instead you write other things proving you have solid grasp of the English language outside of foul words and that you’re still upset, bitter and lonely.

You think to yourself, maybe you should call one of those black-men-bashing-For-Colored-Girls-watching-I-love-a-white-man-because-they-are-better-and-they-have-good-credit ranting sista friends. You think, “Nah, I’ll pass. I don’t hate black men, nor do I hate white ones. Right now, I hate all men. No wait. I don’t want to sign up for the L-word fan club either. *Sighs*. I hate people. Yeah, that’s it, I’ll leave everyone alone, gather my thoughts and break down my life and the world into bite-sized pieces that I can swallow because I can’t grasp what is becoming of me and my life any other way.” There. You put down your pen.

The thoughts continue. They loop like a roller coaster at Six Flags. You’re getting nowhere. Where’s the Prozac, Zanax, Ativan, whisky, codeine? Oh yes, Amy Winehouse died because of this. Scratch that. Stuck again.

All this over a man? Or is it, all this over having low self-esteem? What is ALL THIS? *Silence*.

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