Wasting Mascara on Another Breakup

I am bitter toward those who can easily withstand storms like a tree firmly rooted in the earth. My fingers spread into the earth, trying to grab ahold of anything to keep a tight hold on, and each time it takes more effort to cling on until I simply don’t want to exert myself any longer.

I have always thought I had to prove myself worthy of being in someone’s life—that I would and could stick anything out until the bitter end. I can still do it. I can sacrifice my dreams over and over again to please someone for a brief moment. Then that smile and burst of love would quickly slip through the control and careful placement of my fingers, and my value was placed solely on my next sacrifice.

“To love is to value”

I traced the words, invisibly, in my head over and over again, marking them in blues, melting them in golds, and then seeing them written in the sand only to get swept away in the salty breeze.

I knew this was coming. I told myself this wasn’t worth holding onto anymore. There were no more roots to reach for.

This failure of a relationship was just going to just be another bold tally mark under my list of ignored and slash or blocked numbers.

What do you want from this?

What do you expect from me?

How do you feel about me?

They are the questions that haunt me from the advent. It doesn’t matter who I am with.

However, he and I were already past these questions, and the answers only led to more questions that I was too exhausted to ask.

I chose to control the wildfire of the upcoming break up situation. I paced around all day, reapplying mascara over and over to my eyelashes—it held a certain calming sensation for me.

If I have on non-waterproof mascara I can’t cry. To leave like the hot bitch I am, I would maintain the integrity of the black goo that clung to my lashes. I will not let that expensive formula I so proudly purchased at Sephora feel the betrayal of any liquids wiping them away until I got home and away from my soon-to-be ex’s view.

With a pit in my stomach, I put the tube of mascara down and I drove to his place.

I wanted to look rejection in the face and let him know that it was not okay to have led me on.

I did exactly the opposite.

“You know it’s not anything you did. I just don’t know what I want,” He clamored.

“It’s okay, just save the bullshit that you don’t know what you want when I know what you want. Stop pretending you don’t know what that is. It’s just not me.”

I could hear the bitterness dripping in my voice—already irrationally jealous of the next girl he would be with. My face stayed the same as I stared at his mouth as he gave me every reason not to hate him for treating me like dirt the past few weeks. My face held a trademark stone demeanor that I had cultivated throughout the years: furrowed eyebrows, lips pursed, and eyes steely. He looked hurt that I was staring at him this way and not in the doting state I had been for months.

“I’m not doing this to just date other girls…I really just don’t know what I want. I’m so sorry it has to be this way.” His voice cracked, but it wasn’t something to read into. I knew he was probably teary eyed before I even entered the room. He wasn’t the type to hurt anyone. It was nice and all to be cried over, but if he didn’t want to be with me it really didn’t mean anything. I kept my mind focused on the mantra:

It doesn’t mean anything. There’s no future here.

I repeated it to myself over and over as he stayed silent, the crack in his voice obviously giving away that he was letting those tears come. His curly brunette hair was all I saw as his head sunk down lower. I knew it killed him inside to hurt me. However, it wasn’t because it was me, it was because I was a person. This did little in the way of serving my ego and only annoyed me. I didn’t even like people, but I found myself loving and caring for him. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of frustration.

“I know you care about people, but I’m not just people. I’m more than people—I should mean more than people to you.”

My repeated mantra of not caring betrayed me as hot tears flashed to my eyes. And I could no longer say what I wanted to. I couldn’t control the flow. I began to panic as I saw the black streaks of mascara on the backs of my hands as I tried to wipe everything away. Heaving sobs escaped me, causing him to look at me with red eyes completely wide: he didn’t think he would see me like this. I could tell by the panicked look on his face. I couldn’t help it though. He grabbed me and held me to his chest. My face buried, I could smell that his shirt hadn’t been washed recently, but the feeling of being held was too good and my nose and cheek pressed up against his tshirt was where I wanted to stay. The sobs came strangled, unwilling to fully just come in a steady stream from my body, so they came in fast movements—like a string attached to my shoulders kept randomly being jerked forward by some sick freak puppeteer that never tried to get a real job. I felt dumb.

I knew I wasn’t crying for him. I knew he thought I was, but I hated that.

I really didn’t want him to think I was, but the sobs I was letting go didn’t allow me to even truly breathe normally, let alone tell him that I wasn’t crying about his stupid tear-stained face.

It was about the failure. The rejection I faced again—even though I was the one to officially break us up. Once I realized there was only a matter of time before he totally cut the fishing line on me and let me go to the other fish in the sea, I wanted to be the first one to end it even though he had already said it in his actions the past few weeks. I couldn’t allow any more disappointment-filled weeks to plague my mind.

I had already faced these moments too much. It always ended with us having left with “mutual respect.” No hard feelings. We would “still remain friends.” A stray tear here or there from me at the moment of break up.

The ugly sobs that were coming betrayed me, though. I thought that he was too nice to do this to me. To not try to win me back further kicked my ego into the corner and the resounding, “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he kept repeating was the further stomp of his shoe pressing me into the dust.

I never have wanted someone to hurt me so badly that life stops in its tracks. I don’t want to romanticize those that have hurt me.

I chose to leave. I didn’t need to know anything else. I just needed to know that he didn’t want me anymore. I pushed myself away from his chest where he was holding me as I cried. I didn’t want to say anything as I left. I wanted him to know how much he actually betrayed me after I was vulnerable with him, but he choked out a, “Wait…stop, don’t just go like this!” that made me smile inwardly as it simultaneously broke my heart.

I knew in a day or two he wouldn’t care how it ended, as long as it was over and he could move on. The thought hit me with a fresh wave of premature jealousy.

“If you ever do want me just let me know.”

It was the weakest sentence I have ever said in my life—in tone, in pitch, in content. Absolutely pitiful. The words disgusted me as they left my mouth, simply because I knew they were the absolute truth for me.

As my mouth revealed my heart, I got up as he let go of my hand and let it drop to my side as mascara dripped down my face and off of my jawline. I could taste the salt lingering on my lips as I left the room.