Broken

CheneyUncategorized0 Comments

I haven’t been writing here because I’m going through this thing where I want to say everything, and in the background where you can’t see, I’m writing everything down, but they are mostly ugly things that no one should ever have to see.

I am broken. I’m starting to think that I’ve been broken on the inside for a really long time, only now it’s starting to show. I can’t hide it anymore.


I went to a wedding and lost most of my faith in humanity – in the ability for people to simply be good to each other.

Did you know that there are people in the world who will call you their friends, yet with their next breaths they will spew damaging lies, with intent?

A sequence of events and a veritable flood of vodka led me to the conclusion that the people I care about and who genuinely care about me can be ticked off on the fingers of one hand.

Friends? Right. Fuck you all.


A week ago, Brian left. We said goodbye in the dark on my porch and I started crying and I have barely stopped crying since.

(I’m weeping right now, just thinking about it.)

We held on to each other tight and he kept pushing me away just so he could get me to look him in the eye when he told me nice things like “You are the strongest woman I know,” and “I’ll be back before you know it,” and “Everything is going to be fine.”

I listened to him, I did. But none of those hugs could possibly have been tight enough, because if they were tight enough he wouldn’t be gone now. I would have been able to keep him here.


I just never thought I would be one of those people who can’t stop crying.

Anything will set me off – the dishes in the sink, getting out of bed in the morning, my boss walking into my field of vision, my nail polish chipping, Elise. Elise Elise Elise.

On Saturday I wondered whether I was going to make it – like, was I going to survive? Or was I going to descend into some sort of madness complimented by alcoholism and woe.

I’m not kidding when I say this: I couldn’t. Stop. Crying.

And Elise saw the whole thing, the weekend unravelling.

Shame doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s perfect horror.

I went to bed Saturday night wondering whether I would wake up in the morning and not caring whether I did.


Sunday I swam.

What is it about the water that can LITERALLY wash away sorrows?

I laughed for the first time since Wednesday.

I thought to myself, “It will be okay, as long as I can keep swimming.”


I am broken. And the words have never come as fast or rang out as true.

I might even be better off this way.

Feel like sharing some thoughts?