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It’s the ping of their text.

Jolting me out of my sleep, it triggers me to use the bathroom as I feel the blood almost hit my thighs. This is an alarm itself. As I give birth to the clot that welcomes my unwanted menstruation, I think so clearly, “Can someone ever love me like this?”

I stare at the mirror. Then, I stare at myself. In this moment, I do not care for my body or mind. There is a cage surrounding both, and a glass floor that could shatter with a single drop of blood. The pain and agony of the clot linger in my vagina as I wash my hands…this is exactly what is occurring. It’s not my “pelvic area” being inflamed; it’s not simply just cramps; it is a pain seeking respite in the walls of my aching vagina. And I hate my vagina right now, for more reasons than one.

My hands soak with water as I reach for the towel, eyes heavy in the dim light of the lamp on the bathroom counter. The overhead light is broken. That’s about $300 to fix, not including a new light fixture. Too much money…too much effort. I turn off the lamp.

My bed calls again. My phone lights up once more with a delayed message from them.

They sleep in my mind, and I imagine a life with them already.

I’m too hot, I’m too cold, it’s too painful, etc., etc. The covers won’t do…they hold my feet hostage, and my thighs push the heat straight to my core. I am still in pain, but I forget it.

Excitement runs its hefty little feet through my muscles as they tighten, and I aimlessly try to seek a comfortable position to read the messages. It is my poetry. I already feel too safe. Not again.

We talk until midnight. There’s a light flirtation lingering between each heart reaction bordering the chain of texts and endless threads of conversations. We have so much in common, and it’s nice. They respond just in the right amount of time for me to formulate my next idea, and I do the same. This is our golden hour, and I want to sit in it forever. Because, like all things, this might end someday.

I pray it doesn’t end. Please don’t.

It’s too good to be true. How could it not end somehow? They might grow tired of me like the others. They might see me for who I am: a needy, talkative, lacking person who is desperate for love.

At least right now, I am desperate for their love.

“They just tick all my boxes, per se,” I explain to my best friend. She is happy for me and optimistic, unusually so.

“Just enjoy this part…this is the good part,” she comforts me.

If this is the good part, when does the bad happen? Can I prepare for it now?

No. All I can do now is bask in the blue light screen in front of my face, discussing all our date ideas and romantic gestures that may or may not occur. And I’m happy but so, so sad at the same time. It’s bittersweet in its unpredictable nature. The newness of it all excites and aches my core, pleading for it to stay as long as it possibly can. These feelings seep from me, and it’s all I can do to not lie there in ecstasy. Do they know they are perfect? This is all I ever wanted.

But my mind clearly states “no” as I turn over, leaving their text hanging for tomorrow morning.

My vagina aches as I lie there. I can feel the blood hitting my pad over and over and over and over again; with each toss and turn, it floods through me. I can’t get a grip on what it means to feel happy when all I can resort to is the safety of torture, a self-pleasure of sorts to some. Though my walls cry for relief, and it just so happens to look appealing, as this is all I’ve ever felt. There is no preparation, nothing to make it stop when it has begun, and no peace in the potential for happiness. There is no peace in the potential for happiness.

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CAN’T IT ALL JUST STOP FOR A MOMENT. NO QUESTION ABOUT IT. IT’S NOT A QUESTION. IT IS A STATEMENT: CAN’T IT ALL JUST STOP.

Finally, my aching falls asleep, and I too carry it with me as my mind goes blank into subconscious dreaming of a past life.

When I wake, I feel the sun seep through the shade as it illuminates my space. Their message follows the light.

“I’m excited to see you!” I read.

Was this all a dream?

much love,
-emorie

But this time, oh fuck me.

I didn’t know she was married…to a MAN?

Okay. Okay. Chill, Emorie. Like, okay.

She told me she was poly. That’s cool, no biggie. I’m open. Literally didn’t mind at the time. Now looking back, I fucking minded my dude.

“Hi!” She gave me a Subaru hug.

(The fuck is that?)

It’s the crochet cactus, pine tree car freshener, fairy light decor, another crochet item on the dash, crochet seat covers [need I say more about crochet?] Subaru owning pansexual in the small mountain town that leans in ever so gently into a warm, too loving embrace as the incense was floating through her hair.

Yeah, I can’t make this up. I’m not that creative.

Also, this kinda already follows the hippie trope/vibe anyways, so yeah, believable, I know. And look, who am I to judge? Her car was cute. She was cute. She was hot. I’m hot. We liked each other. The vibes were there. I like the hippie Subaru crotchet vibes, okay?

So it was cool until she said

“So my husband and I went to this new restaurant……………”

Um, girlie? You mean to say, on the first date as we strolled down Main Street, that you got a husband waiting at home?

“Oh, that’s cool,” I responded with literally everything else she said in one ear and out the other.

“Did I tell you I was married?” Her local accent thick. My accent, a mix of the city from Raleigh, NC and my dad’s Baltimore accent that never truly went away, replied, “no, I don’t think so.”

My voice was different than hers. Why does that matter? Because I realized that we weren’t the same. In more ways than one.

See, we had tons in common. We had inside jokes before the first date - sounds awesome, right? Wrong. Because I thought we paired so nicely that I felt comfortable with her. I could just be myself, to an extent.

Until I heard our voices in almost unison, talking and walking towards the restaurant for dinner, and the sentence she spoke “MY HUSBAND AND I….”

First off, that’s great. No shame for those who are poly and married. That’s cool dude. But like TELL ME BEFORE THE FIRST DATE????

Yeah marriage in itself, just speaking in a legal framework because i realize marriage is more than this, but to the government, it’s just a piece of paper and other financial and assets related things that bind you together.

So I’m walking down the street thinking to myself “it’s just a piece of paper. She may have been nervous to tell me.”

Then I continued thinking as any good ADHD person would….”oh god, it’s a piece of paper. She’s like legally bound to another person. They own a house. They have property and things that married people have. I just live with my parents and I’m depressed and am touch deprived.”

We continued our date, and I pushed this fact to the back of my mind. The date was nearing an end, she walked me to my car, and kissed me…because during dinner, she made a joke about kissing me on the first date like she was planning for it. I didn’t mind the kiss, and after all I was touch deprived and was enjoying it somewhat, until I couldn’t stop thinking “what does her husband look like? What does he do for a living? Does he know that I’m kissing his wife, and is he like actually okay with that, even though they have mutual understanding and are both polyamorous?

I don’t know about you guys, but as a WHOLE ASS LESBIAN, the last thing I wanna think about is a MAN while I’m on a date with a femme person/woman. I’m sorry. It just clouded my brain.

Again, can’t say this enough: if you’re polyamorous, that is a beautiful and wonderful thing for you. At this point last year, i questioned if I was poly, hints me being open to going on a date with a girl who is poly. But like I said, if you’re gonna ask someone on a date, don’t just tell me you have a girlfriend. Tell me you have a girlfriend and a husband. Transparency goes a long way for me.

Honestly, I don’t REALLY care that she had a husband. Would it have changed my mind and would I have canceled the date? Maybe. Is that phobic of me? I honestly don’t know. But as a lesbian, a non binary lesbian with a vagina and uterus, I am always on guard. I hate men, and I don’t care what that makes me. Oh fucking well. Men hate women, didn’t you know? And because of this, yes, I would’ve wanted to know if she was married to a man beforehand.

Something in me needs that information. This is a tiny ass town, and I’m bound to run into the guy. I’d like to have a heads up so I know how to act and react if I ever saw the guy in public. Maybe that’s the neurodivergent in me, needing to be ultra prepared for any situation so there is a level of predictability and safety. Maybe that’s because I have generalized anxiety. Fuck if I truly know, guys. I can’t explain it precisely, but overall, I just need transparency.

And goddamnit if I didn’t see his fuckin ass at the goddamn grocery store.

CUZ HE’S THE MANAGER AT THE LOCAL GROCERY STORE?????

how do I know this.

Saw the girl I dated kiss her husband in the grocery store. Saw his name tag with his name and “manager” underneath. Also saw the matching wedding bands. Also heard them say, “see you at home.” Context clues were used in this situation.

Thank god I had a mask in my pocket. I put that bitch on and walked the other way, far away. Fear crept through me…for what, though? Yeah I hate men, but also this guy is poly himself so it shouldn’t be like that weird. It should just be like “Oh hey, you made out with my wife, right? And, how was that?”

Monogamy has done a number on my mind, and I see that. Why was a fearful? From what I can tell, and again, I hate men, but he seemed genuine enough, and that’s a lot coming from me. So, why did I feel the need to hide my identity with a dog hair filled mask (my fur child has lots of pretty, shed-able hair)?

I think it’s cuz all I could think of was the sex dream from the night before where he walked in on us and got really mad. And it doesn’t help that, yes, I made out with his wife. Guess that’s why I was scared?

Anyways. I see him often. He either doesn’t recognize me, or intentionally ignores me [same dude, same]. Either way, it’s cool. But also, to this day, a year and then some later, I still can’t help but have the first intrusive thought of “I KISSED YOUR WIFE AND YOU GOT MAD AT ME IN A SEX DREAM.”

Guys, make it make sense?

Much love,

-Emorie

It was the beginning of October now. We had resolved nothing yet everything. The text “I hope you’re well, and sorry for not texting back lately,” had been sent months prior. We had ended our intentional separation, just to make way for a bigger one.

In my fashion, both earnest and people pleasing, I replied, “OMG ABSOLUTELY, WHEN AND WHERE??”

We made plans for that weekend to have a cozy craft night in her art room on the second story of her house, overlooking tall trees of amber and hazel. The leaves have always turned sooner up here compared to where I came from. And I turned into someone sooner than I wanted to.

In collaboration, we wanted everything to be perfect for our craft night. To me, it was obviously romantic in what she proposed: ‘Ooh, I’ve got this new candle we could light, and we could have some music on in the background while we paint…I also got some cookies we can bake in the oven and some popcorn for a movie later on.”

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Was this our fantasy of a long-lost high school sleepover dream? As both of us are neurodivergent, we understood the feelings of missing out on those milestones for various social reasons. And now, as adults who have to live with our parent(s) for stability whilst attending college, we wanted to feel a sense of freedom in the bubble we’d create for ourselves.

I want to tell her how I feel. This is the perfect time, I thought to myself that week.

Days leading up to said “craft night,” I started to get that feeling you have when there’s someone who cares about you in life. It was that same sense of safety I had felt that night in her bed, before I made my way to the floor to sleep.

My stomach churned when I thought of the words coming out of my mouth…saying, “Hey, I’m glad our connection is growing…I really like you.” Shivers came through me and pushed nausea down my throat. Why am I so freaked out like this?

I just wanted it to be perfect.

I didn’t want her to leave again.

But I didn’t want to scare her off, either.

I pulled up to her house. Parking on the street was my only option as her mom’s 2024 Cadillac took up the pavement, and I couldn’t block her way to and fro. People drive a little fast through here, but I had to follow the rules. Strike one in my brain. But, then again, I understood and went about my business, walking up to her stairs that nearly trip me every time. I stood there for what felt like a thousand hours, waiting for someone to open the door. She texted me, “I’ll be there in a minute, hold up.”

So, I waited. Patiently, so. My hands shook as I held the heavy overnight bag stuffed with my good pajamas, toothbrush, skincare, the whole shabang. A swift wind flew by, and the door flung open, almost hitting my face.

“I am so sorry,” she said, opening the door just enough, her hand grazing mine as we both attempted to control it from the wind, and we shuffled into the foyer. Everyone was sitting around…and when I mean everyone, I just mean her mom and their roommate.

“Hey guys, long time no see,” I tried to break the ice.

“Hey,” said the roommate.

Her mother was on her phone scrolling. She didn’t look up from it either.

“Hope you’re doing well,” I set my purse on the hanger by the door. The silence was loud.

Before I could think, she turned to me and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but my mom was going to do that craft together. We can work in the dining room,” She made her way there, and her mother followed.

Work. Seems like an appropriate word for this. But, maybe this is a good thing? I pondered.

Have I mentioned that I am autistic and have ADHD? Well, if not, there it is.

Context Time: Sometimes, which is more than I like to admit, I struggle with hand-eye coordination and dexterity, especially with new tasks. It’s weird because I have good coordination to play the guitar and other instruments.

This craft thingie was anything but easy for my brain or my hands to comprehend.

The directions made no sense; the materials were new to me. I hadn’t worked with yarn, needles, and tools like this in forever, and it was overwhelming. To put the frosting on the goddamn cake, I also have BAD social anxiety when I’m trying something new in front of people. To make it even worse, I felt totally and utterly unwelcome in this house. Does her mom realize her daughter was the one to ghost me? Is there a resounding smell of resentment here? Is this my torture? Oh, this is the bad place.

Pinterest, unknown artist

My comfort had already gone away considerably.

“You okay?” she, my love interest, asked me with kind eyes.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I nodded with a blank expression. Mask the pain away. Blink the tears back in.

“Are you sure? Do you need help?” Her inquisitiveness was making this worse. But I appreciated the help and took it. Reluctantly.

“Yeah, I don’t know how this works, honestly,” I laughed it off.

She explained some of the bits and pieces, but it made no sense. Also, part of my struggles with neurodivergence is auditory processing. Receptive language skills, especially verbal ones, are very difficult, especially combined with stress. Yes. It was harder than it should have been. I gave myself grace and compassion, even in the midst of trying to fit in and not look like an idiot. My gut and brain were twisting into knots.

Suddenly, her mother shifts her head to me. “Have you ever gone fishing?” This was the first thing her mother said to me that evening. No “hello” or anything. Have you ever gone fishing?

I perked up. Is she asking me a question about myself? Well, is she trying to get to know me? Fucking weird, but I’ll take it. Maybe her mom’s just having a bad day.

Happily and beaming, I said, “Oh, yeah. All the time with my dad when I was a kid. I loved it.”

Not even a breath later, she stated, “Then you should be able to pull the string through that needle.” tone flat and her expression expressionless.

“Well,” I had my teacher voice ready, steady, and calm, like when I talk to my second graders, “it’s okay to ask for help sometimes, you know?” but this took a lot of courage. Second graders are learning the skills of kindness and compassion. Adults, like her mother, clearly missed this lesson.

Yeah, fuck this. Every breath I took aimed to hold back the tears. My mom and dad wouldn’t treat me like this. Even as a person in their mid-twenties, all I wanted was my parents. My parents raised me to be kind and comforting, because that’s what they showed me. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like a child.

“Mom, don’t be like that; don’t be rude,” my love interest said. Oh, now you say something?

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” her mom looked over at me, “I was just poking around. It was just a joke.”

“No, no, of course. I know that,” I laughed it off, per usual, because why the fuck not?

Okay, now I am mad. Now, I am angry. Now, I will fake having to piss and go cry in the bathroom.

“I’ll be back. Gonna use the restroom,” and I did just that; cried silently and pissed. And accidentally sneezed on her mom’s good hand towel. (ahahaha).

Pinterest, unknown artist [look, it’s me, crying on the goddamn toilet]

Some time later that night, she must have felt something from me. Something that was off. I was uncomfortable and unwelcome. She knew it.

“You know my mom was just being funny, right? That’s just how she is with people.” Her tone was anything but comforting, and her words were funny, like oil on sandpaper.

“Yeah, it’s cool.” I left it at that.

I didn’t leave it. I just shoved it in my overnight bag with my good pajamas and toothbrush.

The words I said were meant to comfort her: “No, no, it’s okay,” or “It’s cool.” My words did anything and everything to ensure she didn’t feel upset, or so we wouldn’t oppose each other, cause a rift, or cause strife. I didn’t want to see her act like her mother because I knew she could. I am both sorry and not sorry to say this.

That evening, we went up to her art room. We didn’t do anything else that night. We worked on homework, watched some of the YouTube videos she liked, and went to bed. There was no locking of eyes, lying down together, lying on each other, whispering in the moonlight.

The candle wasn’t even lit. Was it ever lit to begin with?

let me know if you guys want Part 3. Yes, there is one more part.

much love
-emorie

The candle she lit on the dresser was dripping the air with jasmine and bergamot. It was intentional, I assume; the lights were turned off, a little ambient fish lamp dimmed nicely in the corner, the candle on her dresser, and her hand started caressing my shoulder. We were now face-to-face. The boundary of our arms transversed into shared breathing territory. I had done something like this before, but there was no safety to it. This felt safe, however. This was new.

things she drew for me

A strand of my reddish-brown hair laced around my ear. Her hand twirled it before placing it back on my shoulder. She was being kind, and it felt good. She was being intimate, and I was touch-deprived. I wanted more. I held her hand, skimming my thumb across hers. Back and forth, it was fingerprints to skin. Take a lamp to my surface, I pleaded in my brain. See me…all of me.

Eyes fluttered in the dark, and I wanted to live in this picture memory of the sapphic desire I’ve always dreamed of. Yes, I was sex-deprived, too. But, since breaking up with my ex-boyfriend the year prior, this is all I ever desired…I just wanted to lie with a woman and feel her skin against mine. Not just any woman, or femme person, because there’s no depth in that, for me. It needed to be someone like her, someone I felt connected to.

It felt most natural to lie here in this bed, the curtains pulled but still letting in moonlight and starshine. She was moonlight and starshine, and I longed for the night.

Banter and quiet laughter ensued as our legs intertwined under the quilt. This is it, I hoped. It’s what I always wanted.

We continued on this way for some time. Our heads were touching, and a wave of heat ran through my stomach and brain. She wants to kiss me, I thought. She was laughing at my jokes. I loved making her laugh. It moved the depression out of the room and down the stairs, bringing light into her eyes. I do not declare myself to be the funniest specimen to ever live, but there is humor in me. She liked that humor, I believed.

Pinterest, unknown artist

She asked for the time, and it was 3:00 am. Like Cinderalla, the clock tolled, and reality snapped her back. Her fingers slipped from mine, and she patted my hand, as only a friend would, and rolled on her back.

“It’s getting late…we should get some sleep. Do you have enough blankets for your bed?”

I looked down at the floor on the mattress bestowed upon me. This was not as romantic as it seemed hours ago.

“Oh, and can you blow out the candle? I don’t wanna get up,” she giggled and gathered her pillows.

“Sure,” I quietly rose from her bed and out of her orbit. I found my glasses, and whatever strength I could bear, and blew out the candle.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Goodnight,” I said.

I lay on the mattress, cold and mysteriously comforting, and cried myself to sleep that night. It was the only safe spot I could now feel. Her bed was no longer safe. Her gaze was not, either. The little mattress on the floor was my temporary home for the night; she was not.

Tears carried me to sleep, and in those tears, I realized that I loved her. It was devastating to lie without her all night as I listened to the soft snores of her sleep underworld. The candle was blown out, and the light was off- check and check. Curtains closed on our night of splendor, and I should be happy. I was happy, very. But, instead, I was crying.

The sun rose hours later. I went home. It was awkward.

I went downstairs and said goodbye. We hugged in a sideways, friend way, but much more awkward than that. Both of my arms went in, and only one of hers did. She wants me gone.

Fuck me. Driving home flustered, it was everything I could do not to cry. I could not come home that way…my parents could not see me like that. I cannot see myself like that. Crying? For what?

I pulled into my driveway, got my things, and went inside.

Three Days Later…

She never texted me back after I told her I had come home safely. It was me. It was my fault. I should have done better. I should not have lain with her in bed. I shouldn’t have cried myself to sleep, hoping she wouldn’t hear me. She heard me crying, I thought to myself, staring at my phone at the kitchen counter. My food was burning, and I was risking the smoke detector going off. Not to worry: my tears stopped the flames once more.

Evidence of Lesbian Love Troubles, Emorie Ek, 2025 (also, I’m too cute to cry, so like what????)

Weeks went by, and there was nothing left of us. No calls, messages, no explanations. I had messaged her once between those weeks, asking if she was okay. She was depressed and switching medications. It was hard for her, so I felt guilty of these horrible thoughts towards her and myself: Fuck her, or she used me, or how could I have been so naive?

Though I was quick to forget her, only because I had to. Whatever this territory was, there was no staying in it. Removal was the only expectation I had of myself. It was necessary.

One Week Later…

“Hey,” the text popped up on my phone.

Her number was already deleted. The one picture we took together was deleted. But her number was recognizable. I knew it was her.

Hours went by before I replied, “Hi.”

We talked some. She apologized. She explained everything that was going on in her life. She was sorry.

I apologized, too. I don’t know what for, other than the feeling of social expectation.

Not long after reconnecting, we hung out again. And again. And again. At her house, at mine, at the coffee shop where our hands touched and we sat close, whispering, at the bookstore and the antique store and all the places she wanted to go; I went with her. There was forgiveness.

Together, we would take a quilt to her backyard, and on our spontaneous day trip to the mountains. We’d laugh, eat, drink, read, and talk about life. All the little things people do when they fall in love. All the things I craved, and only craved with her.

I was in love again…

until months went by, and I realized I hated everything.

let me know if you guys want Part 2.

much love
-emorie

TW: Brief mentions of death & substance abuse
[A little more serious than usual]

“You’re not behind. You’re right where you need to be,” my mother spouts as she leans back in her office chair, room scattered with art and paint stains.

“Sitting still, waiting for life to be interesting,” recoiling, I feel my brain doing somersaults of estimations, rounding up my age like pennies at checkout.

Only 25? says my brain. Seems unlikely…you’re exactly 30 years of age. You’re old.

Photo by Me, Emorie Ek, at my house :)

No, I really am just 25. I’ll be 26 in a few months.

Something in me deems 26 closer to 30, but 27 further away. I do this with money, time, and other things. The number ‘6’ seems closer to the nearest 10, but not ‘7’?

I can’t explain, won’t explain, and can only direct you to a tour guide of my brain, coming to a city near you.

Nevertheless, I stand at my mother’s office door, the calendar driving a pitchfork between my eyes. It stares, it gawks, and it reminds me that I’m not moving. Or, so I think. But I talk with my mom and feel like a kid. It’s like asking your parents as you drive to the hotel, “Are we there yet? How close are we?” and you’re halfway there, in reality. Though it feels like you and your family just picked up the rental car and left Enterprise, not even on the beltline yet.

To be clear, I am 25, and I still live with my parents.

Let me rephrase that: I’m 25, and I live with my parents.

Some might say I’m cursed, that I should’ve left the nest long ago. After all, when I talk to acquaintances and hear murmurings of so-and-so still living with their parents, it brings me right back to my reality -- are people really this judgmental of living situations?

And, here’s the bottom line - I’ll get right to it: You don’t know the cause of someone’s living situation. Period. Unless you are that close, you may not know all the facts. And also, it’s kinda not your business.

Photo by Me, again, Emorie Ek, featuring my cat, Charlie :)

This hits close to home. Not just in my case, of being in my mid-twenties and living with my parents. My own family member is in a somewhat similar situation ~~~

A few months ago, my uncle passed away. He was a painter and, seriously, not to brag (though he was such an awesome, talented hippie, RIP Uncle), he was a famous painter. He was married to my aunt for decades, and my aunt had two kids from a previous marriage. Though my Uncle was their stepdad for much longer, he was more consistent in their lives. He was, undoubtedly, a father figure.

So, my cousins, both in their 40s, were obviously distraught when he passed. Placing himself voluntarily into hospice care, he understood his days were limited and wanted his immediate family to have the support they needed.

He passed away while his favorite movie was playing in his room, my aunt and cousins next to him. He would find that iconic and ironic because I believe it was the movie Groundhog Day.

But, not long after, one of my cousins had voluntarily sent herself to rehab for substance abuse issues, issues that my Uncle and she both shared. She’s since been in recovery, and is actively taking care of her health with the support of her sibling and my aunt, their mother.

Through this, both of my cousins had moved back in with my aunt. My one cousin went to rehab while the other stayed at home and took care of my aunt. They have all lived together since.

My photo, again, Emorie Ek, just some squash trying to grow :(

You don’t always know why, you don’t always know how, but this is more common than people think. Not just in my family, but in others that I have interacted with here on SubStack in the past week. People older than me are living with their parents for numerous reasons. Younger people are living with their parents, too.

For me, I have worked online since graduating with my bachelor’s degree during COVID. I have since worked in education for nearly a decade, mostly online, and will graduate with my MEd in Education this fall. I’ve tried my best to follow society’s formula -- get a degree, find a job, move out.

I tried that. It failed. I tried again, and it failed.

I didn’t fail, though.

It’s taken me a long time to get here. Even as I stood there with my mom in her office, thinking about the life I really want, and scared of the life I’ll never have. I still know that I am doing good work, I’m getting my education, and I’m caring for my parents in the same breath.

Thank god, and I don’t take this for granted, I have a really awesome and wonderful relationship with my parents. They are my best friends, and I won’t deny that. I’m lucky to have parents who love and support me, and want me to be myself, and want to see me succeed, no matter if that means living with them for a few more years or until they die, hypothetically speaking.

For many of us, myself included, the job market just sucks right now. I could give metrics and write about how fucked it is, but that is a waste of my time because we all know we’re fucked…at least for now.

So, yeah, I’ve applied to full-time jobs that I am more than qualified for. I’m working on a teaching license. I bust my ass every day teaching kids how to read. I am doing good things, things worth something, only if you understand my world. Lots of people would rather judge someone’s situation before trying to understand them.

I would love to have my own place one day, and I am working towards that. But for now, I’m happy to have these memories with my parents that they didn’t have with their own parents.

Another photo from me, down the road from my house

You never know when you’ll need to lean on family. Maybe there’s a death, or maybe someone lost their job. Perhaps they got a divorce. Or, maybe they want to start saving money and combine resources by living together.

You. Just. Don’t. Know.

“For Each Other” by Sylwia Giza

You’re running around cleaning the house, specifically the mess he’s made, doing the grocery shopping, making sure the bills are paid on time, listening to his conservative parents talk about god knows what, and the list can go on.

It’s not easy to change the relationship if you live with him. After all, you have all these bills you have to pay, you both share a Netflix account, you have that couples massage brochure that your much more liberal parents gave you for an anniversary present. It’s just too much.

Or, maybe you don’t live with him. Maybe you live at home with your parents or family, or you have your own place. It feels good to have someone desire you, to plan sleepover weekends and evening dinner dates that end in heteronormative, good enough sexual intercourse. It all feels comfortable when life is hard, and you feel alone. It all feels too safe.

But then, something else happens. Something that starts to bug you as the months and years progress. You realize, hey, I’m fucking tired of picking up his clothes and washing the dishes while he’s on Discord with his buddies playing some fuck ass game of DND or Pathfinder. You realize, “I work too…I’m tired. He does nothing, and why? Can I fix his behavior?” Some of these things were cute at first. At first, you daydreamed of doing these mundane tasks, being the one to care for him like no other…except his mom, of course.

Okay, maybe I’m wrong. I’m sorry. Maybe all you need is to take that massage brochure, spend some quality time together, gaze into each other’s eyes, and watch movies all Sunday afternoon. Maybe all it takes is a little intimacy, doing some of those things he wanted to try in bed, or maybe no intimacy at all because you both know the connection is gone. Perhaps you need to do some self-care and practice those yoga poses you saw on Pinterest last night while cooking his favorite pasta dish with the ambiance of clothes tumbling in the dryer and the occasional “Fuck off!” to his bros.

Maybe, just maybe, if you try harder, says your brain, you can make things work. After all, it should be up to you to make him happy.

Girl. What????

Did you just read all of that? And, what are your thoughts? Honestly?

Think about how all that made you feel. Don’t think about your parents’ expectations of a perfect love life, don’t think about the media we’ve been force-fed all these years, and don’t blame yourself for not falling into the Hallmark Dream World trap.

It comes down to a simple question, in my opinion: Who are you?

Question mark in your brain? Emorie, what are you on about?

Just reflect on the question for a while. You don’t have to answer it today, tomorrow, or next week. Just think -- Who am I?

If your mind is blank after a while, or you feel as though the question is too fuzzy to answer, you may have found your answer.

When I ask the question, “Who are you?” I’m not talking about what your favorite food or color is, or the song you play on repeat in the car. I’m asking, do you know yourself enough for you to see the value you inhabit?

Do you know yourself enough to see the value you inhabit?

You are a valuable person, so do you recognize it? And, what does that value mean to you? Not superficially, and not in the way of career or family or other life priorities.

• Do you know your own passions and interests that bring you joy?

• Do you know the things you’re good at? Bad at?

• Can you laugh at yourself when you make small mistakes?

• Scratch the last one-- can you love or take care of yourself through those mistakes without extreme judgment?

• Can you find happiness alone in your own body, in your own space, and in your own company?

• Do you like yourself?

• Can you trust yourself?

• Will you fight for yourself first?

These are questions I often ask myself to reflect on my own internal connection. Sometimes, I don’t have an answer to these questions. Sometimes, I don’t like myself, or I am too judgmental toward myself, and sometimes it’s hard to tap into my own self-love because I am human, and so are you.

This isn’t meant to be a questionnaire or essay that declares you must meet these criteria to actually value yourself. It’s just a starting point for myself, personally, and for those I’ve had these interpersonal conversations with. It comes from my experience, and others’, when I say these things, but it is not the end-all, be-all of self-reflection and identifying your own value. And, you can be with someone romantically and not have any of these things figured out just yet. Maybe you have a really amazing and supportive partner who sees you as the wonderful individual you are and supports your internal self-love journey every single day. If so, that is a very beautiful thing.

Though it doesn’t always happen that way. If it is a beautiful relationship where you can explore yourself without judgment from your partner, then 110%, that is really wonderful. Truthfully. For many of us, there are battles to manage internally and externally before ever getting to that person. Or maybe you realize through your self-discovery that you don’t want or need a romantic partner, because you’re happy being your own person in this life.

~~~~~~~~~

Now, let’s get to the bottom of this. What I am really trying to say is the following:

GIRL, PLEASE BREAK UP WITH HIM FOR GOD’S SAKE IF YOU FEEL SUFFOCATED. YOU ARE NOT HIS MOTHER, PARENT, GRANDMOTHER, OR TEACHER. YOU ARE YOUR OWN PERSON. YOU ARE NOT HIS PLAYTHING.

RECLAIM YOUR POWER.

Reclaim your power, please.

As I divulged above, there are caveats to being in relationships and discovering yourself. Your journey is your own.

But I’ll be damned if I have to hear one of my friends talking about how their boyfriend or husband is this, that, and the other, acting like a fucking idiot. Like I said, you are not his plaything, and this isn’t a game of The Sims.

My advice: Grieve and reclaim yourself. I am a proponent of “Love yourself first.”

If he needs a mother figure, he needs to call his momma, not his boyfriends on Discord while you clean the house.

I was here once as well, dating a man, and for what? Being drenched in sweat cuz I did all the cleaning and organizing and shit? By the way, as someone with physical limitations, this doesn’t apply to those with physical limitations. I’m talking about the lazy fuck ass men sitting around without a care in the world, as if it’s the norm (of which, it is to them) for you to do the cleaning and washing and taking care of animals/kids, and all the other things.

You may disagree, and that’s quite okay. Please: Tell me what you think and how your experiences shaped you. This reflection is based on my experiences, and does not mean this has to or applies to everyone. It’s all subjective, and we have our own paths and backgrounds, so take this article with a grain of salt.

xoxo,
Emorie

Illustration from Pinterest, unknown artist

When a man loves a woman, and they want to spend eternity together [pukes in lesbianism], they often make that mistake; spending eternity together. No amount of bad sex could sway this Home and Garden couple because the love was strong enough to bind them in the same flesh and vows for decades to come. Except, no one was c[u]ming.

By no one, I mean me, myself, and I.

But, satirically speaking, as our mothers have somewhat taught us, sometimes the man and woman can’t work it out. In the end, the Home and Garden couple might break up, divorce, or separate. Either way, c’est la vie.

This is the couple I aspired to be many years ago. I was so certain of my path, and so was my Pinterest board. Now it all lies barren, such as my current love life, and I’m okay with that. More than okay. It’s freeing, actually.

Also, side note -- no one can [let’s call it ‘making bread] make bread like I can, if you catch my drift. Ahem. Like, when I made bread all by myself? Girl. I am fine. Get that disco jockey list of male exes AWAY from me this instant. Like, what?

[Also, if you’re looking for a bread machine type of tool to help you make your bread, I suggest some crystal/glass options sold on Etsy -- handmade, evading the corporate greed one step at a time]

What was I saying, though? Oh, yes. Bad sex.

And that’s not all. If I had to hear about some post-nut depression shit from a man ever again in my life, like GTFO. Absolutely not. Like, if talking about my anemic-causing, never-ending periods aggravates you, but you can talk my ear off after intercourse about “my back hurts, post-nut depression is real, blah blah blah,” get out of my house.

Thankfully, I am SO gay. I’ll never have to have a man in my bed again, praise be!

Illustration from Pinterest, unknown artist

And, that’s not to say realistically that I am looking down on those who are happily in a heterosexual relationship. For real, that’s great, and I wish you nothing but good things, 110%.

But, the gays…we have a whole other society going on. We have our own language, deep history, and a longing for community because of political and legal and all-around societal violence and oppression [insert Stonewall Uprisings - not riots]. And this history is felt across multiple large and sub-cultural sects, i.e., socioeconomic, gender, racial, spiritual, etc.

So, as I recall, the last time making bread with my ex was anticlimactic. The sourdough didn’t rise enough, and the temperature in the room was too cold. It felt like a morgue. My identity felt dead, and so did I. The only thing to help this half-loaf bake was the mere thoughts of the movie Carol, of which I [and the lesbian community, safe to say] am quite fond of.

Yes, Cate Blanchett. Thank you for letting me escape what I called “Hetero Hell” by breaking up with my ex. May he find the person he needs, because damn, I am done making bread with any man.

To be real, my lesbian awakening has been a decade in the making, if not more, if I really think and reflect on it.

I had realized who I was at 15, but didn’t know exactly what I felt. The feeling is still vivid…I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, panicking, thinking of the girl I had confessed my feelings to through the Kik messaging app, and her telling me she felt the same. The guilt I had felt because I could never feel this way toward a man...and I was only 15.

Later in college and my early 20s, it was the urge to feel accepted and desired by men by any means, even getting back with an ex for another extra year just to make sure he wasn’t the one. News flash -- he wasn’t.

Now at 25, going on 26 this summer, I feel so at peace where I once lived in anguish for many years. The thoughts of ‘Am I a lesbian? Bisexual? Pansexual? Queer?’ and now feeling at home with being non-binary and lesbian. It’s freeing, isolating, and distressing all at the same time.

Illustration from Pinterest, unknown artist

It’s not sunshine and rainbows 100% by any means. There’s internalized burnout, isolation from living in a rural area, and neurodivergent issues making socialization hard, and don’t get me started on the damn dating apps around here.

It’s also saying to my therapist each week, “I feel [XYZ], but also, the world is crashing and burning, and I recognize my privilege as much as I can in my own being.” It’s all of these feelings at the same time, all the time.

This is all a process, leaving the life I once thought would come to fruition, as evidenced by my Pinterest account.

But, now being on the other side, I can confidently raise my glass to Cate Blanchett and say, “Je suis content de ma vie, merci beaucoup.” Thanks for Everything!

Illustration from Pinterest, unknown artist

The separation from one life to the next doesn’t equate death, in a physical sense. There is a death, a loss, a lung extracted from oneself when this separation occurs. If the spell is wound upon you so, then it becomes cataclysmic. Inescapable. Infuriating. It creates a loss of words.

It creates a deep wound, resurfacing when it likes and disappearing when it’s had enough air.

Your paper necklace hangs on me and is so terribly easy to break. But then you find paper to be cheap enough, so you make a new one. Each necklace, its own shade of death, follows me around until it is ready to be broken. A new one arrives at my doorstep, and I am made to wear it at gunpoint. Each time I wear it, I must look at myself in the mirror. Happy or not, I must succumb to it. Depressed or not, I have to make peace with the paper. It is not something I like doing.

The necklace tells a story like hieroglyphs. Pictures show what once was, and what is now. Suddenly, a paper cut appears on my neck. One by one, they collect like memories on a shoestring, floating around every square inch of the earth I walk. It feels like nothing, for I am numb.

Love. What a silly thing. What a marketable idea in this world. But it can be beautiful…it can be grand. Love can be so many things, except when all the memories are with a man.

My love for others cannot remain the same. I have evolved. I have changed. Seasons are nothing, but the waves of time crash into me, struck by their wisdom and doomed by their constant motion. Everything moves, and nothing stays still.

Except for these markings on my neck, reminding me of what once was years ago, and the pain I still feel now. Why? Why all of a sudden do I mind your whereabouts so much, as if you still matter to me? As if I ever mattered to you? You will take what you have and build grandiose things with which you desire. Go ahead. Life is an open playing field for you, is it not?

Oh, how the tables have spun. I am in your seat, and you are in mine. We see how we feel over time, but nothing truly remains the same. You still sit and build pieces of jewelry for me to wear, like the woman I ought to be. Sent directly with no return address, you ensure the paper sits tightly upon the clavicle, which has been destroyed by your carelessness, by your desire for control, for something you can place your hands around when you no longer haunt the halls of my soul.

But you take up space, and I no longer need this. I need to scream. I need to feel something other than your pain. I was happy until I was not. I need to be reborn into the renaissance of my being, casting aside olde rituals and long forgotten beautiful things you insist I dress, and seep away to the highest castle away from your grasp. I need not a king to save the day, but a Queen to guide me to the loving right of my soul’s requirement. A meadow of flowers and bushes, life orbiting around me, and trees standing tall away from your grasp. You cannot cut them down for your paper necklaces and crowns. If you do, make it for your new maiden in the next greenery and ask her to wear it down the aisle. For I cannot do these memories with you all over again. It tires me. And I need to be here for my Queen. I refuse to be tied to your kingdom of trees and paper mills once more.

Illustration by Emorie Ek, 2022

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“Why?” my friend asks over FaceTime.

“I just don’t care to use TikTok and Instagram and all that shit,” affirmatively, my reply is felt through the chambers of the brick I hold in my hand. It doesn’t matter how many times I remind my family and friends -- every so often, I’m hit with the kind and inquisitive “Why not?” that lingers in my own mind throughout the day.

But I don’t regret this divorce.

Like when I finally resolved my years-long internal queer struggle and came out as a lesbian, I needed to leave my then male partner. Because? It didn’t serve me anymore. And, neither does social media.

Though like my ex of two years, I’m still stuck wondering if things could have worked out, even though I tried my best to make it work (i’m gay). I tried my luck, and I attempted to please those around me…even my own subconscious (but i’m gay). It seemed no matter how hard I worked, I just couldn’t enjoy di*k- I mean, social media, the way all the girlies could. :) (bc i’m gay).

SubStack feels different. Yes, I guess it’s technically a social media outlet, but it doesn’t feel like that for me, and the intentionality is different. There’s a freedom and creativity here. I’m surrounded by like-minded, supportive communities I wouldn’t have otherwise met on other platforms. I also create music, but stopped promoting myself because of the isolation and fear that scratched my neck each time I opened “The Apps.” A huge fucking tudum or badoop, or whatever little chime played upon entering the apps, would burst my eardrums, leaving me numb during my endless late-night scrolling.

Not to mention countless other trivial things like, oh I don’t know, watching ICE pull over people because they don’t look “American” (give me a fucking break wtf), or they have some type of reasonable articulable suspicion that doesn’t actually warrant anything at all, and is mostly just a fancy term (for bigoted white cis-het cops) for profiling, racism, or not doing their actual jobs well enough to obtain a legal performance quota so, hey, this beat up car that doesn’t look new enough, or a car that looks too new and clean, must be stopped by law enforcement because we must save america.

If you don’t like what I’m saying, you can leave. Here’s a receipt --- One of the best books written in our generation that every white person should read, called The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness by Michelle Alexander (2010). Get educated.

Anyhow, I really don’t want to flood my brain with depression and anxiety by watching countless videos of war crimes, domestic ICE and CBP terrorism, and other forms of crimes deemed acceptable by the current administration.

I need to and want to stay in the know, but I personally cannot advocate if I’m constantly absorbing multiple videos, one after the other, of panic attack-surging images reminding me how horrible the world can be.

I’m also an educator. My brain can only deal with so much, especially when my own students are feeling the very real effects of the country right now. There’s too much at stake not to be there for them.

So, all of this to say, I’ve learned one overarching thing: independent journalism is becoming far more legitimized than ever before, and I wish to remain informed by education, not fear.

Yes, my leaving social media was also due to hate comments and dumb fucks who think it’s okay to shit on my existence. I’m good. I’m 25 going on 26, so do I look like I need an 18-year-old gamer boy telling me my art is shit, or I’m ugly and fat, or I’m a depressed faggot liberal bitch, when he doesn’t even do his own laundry? Thanks, but no thanks!

All of my ramblings to say, I left because I believe hate is becoming normalized, and I don’t care to be part of that world when and where I can help it.

I don’t need to see the opinions from conservative people on whether the war in Iran is justified (it’s not justified).

I don’t need to see people cheering on a pedophile president, or saying “I don’t do politics, but I don’t mind [insert atrocities].”

I don’t care to be called a slur when I’m sharing music I made with my dad, who is a fantastic studio musician [insert old photo of him with Dennis Chambers and Alan Holdsworth].

I have learned so many beautiful things since divorcing social media:

1. I have connected more with my community, and have been more social in public (even when it’s uncomfortable)

2. Spending time with family is much more intentional

3. I actually have the brain capacity to call my best friends every other day, or whenever I can

4. Fewer notifications means I can touch grass and actually feel it

5. There’s more mental capacity for self-care, reflection, and internal love

6. My confidence in my career and personal life has skyrocketed since I’ve stopped reading other people’s opinions all day long

7. I can actually think for myself

8. I can literally dress, do my makeup, and curate my own interests without subconscious interference from others

9. I’ve stopped comparing myself to others -- like 95% of the time (i’m human)

10. Opportunities to make art without appealing to others

These things make it all worth it to me.

So, I guess this is my entrance into SubStack writing -- life as a 20-something grad student living at home, queer community and isolation, uplifting the histories of marginalized people, all through an educated lens.

If no one reads this, it’s okay. If someone does, then hello, and I’m happy you’re here.

This space is for me, but it can also be for you. Welcome to On The Vine.

References:

Alexander, M. (2010). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness.