I fell extremely hard for a guy a bit ago, it was probably the happiest I’ve felt talking to someone since I was a teen. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so comfortable, so myself, and so fulfilled. Then one night after talking about wanting to see each other and him being frustrated with work he just…has never spoken to me again and I eventually learned he blocked me on Instagram.
And honestly, I don’t know how to take any of it. And I can’t shake the feeling that something I did triggered the most jarring ghost ever, but I can’t place what it was. It’s been a very long week or so, endlessly hoping that something would change and he’d magically text me back, that every time a notification buzzed my wrist it’d be him. I still, hopelessly, pathetically, hope he will.
Definitely gonna be feeling like this comic for a while, most likely until after my sister’s wedding next year.
In other news, through all the crying and dog sitting recently, I re-launched my Etsy store and am spending time focusing on digital downloadable content, something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. It’s a great thing to work on during down times and when I get those weird spurts of inspiration and feel the urge to create.
I often start something or even just ideate then realize that someone else has probably made it already and I wouldn’t be adding new content into the world. It’s equally difficult to make art when you feel like no one will see it. And I can never seem to place what that final straw that forces me to publish something is. Motivation? Discipline? Something else entirely? I guess if I knew, I’d use it to my advantage and become a lot more productive than I am. And maybe that’s the magic of it. Realizing that sometimes the things you think aren’t good enough are still okay to get out of your head and into the universe. Even if no one else cares or knows.
As I wrote this I made a big note at the top to stop myself from deleting it when I was done. It’s been really hard to keep going because I can still feel the warm twinge of embarrassment, the feeling of oversharing, and the vulnerability of opening myself to the public eye.
I feel like it’s important, though. To not give in to the urge to hide. To keep fighting to let myself be okay with brutal, confusing heartbreak. Because what else is there? If we’re not out there, making fools of ourselves, opening ourselves to the possibility of loss, then what are we doing? I’m most likely conflating my multi-year run of getting ghosted by progressively better men to the necessity of being open and the chance to be seen. I guess it’s about learning to be comfortable with failure. Or at least, understanding that failure is inevitable and comes when you least expect it. Maybe success can, too.
What’s Next
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