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lachouettification · 7 years

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Please talk to me

But I guess it wouldn’t help, anyway. I can talk all I want to; the problem isn’t changing or evolving quite yet. I need to sit still in an empty room for an hour and think, but motherhood doesn’t often present me that luxury. So since I have a little bit of time right now, let me use it, before it’s gone. I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen. I have a lot to get out of me.

If I had to imagine my perfect world going forward, I have no idea what would be in it. I’ve given up so much to get to this point that I barely remember what I enjoy doing anymore.

I remember when I found out I was pregnant. So many things were supposed to be different right before it happened. I was going to move to Texas but chickened out. Then I didn’t get into the college I’d been secretly praying would send me to Texas anyway, and I was crushed. I sobbed. I was then going to move to Thailand (I got the certificate to teach English finished one month before I found out I was pregnant, which means I finished it one week before I got pregnant) to get some perspective and understand myself better and try to get some distance from and time to process the intense feelings I chickened out from. I was dating several people, all of whom were unimportant distractions from reality; see “chickening out.”

Then, of all the things that could have mattered, I started dating this kinda crazy guy who had some potential to be a little less crazy, but I didn’t really care that much because I had other things going on. He wasn’t supposed to be the future father of my child. I barely even knew him. And I talked on the phone to the person who did matter, and he pointed out that staying with someone just because you’re procreating with them is a bad idea. And I didn’t listen. I wanted to try because I didn’t have two sets of parents. I saw my dad like maybe 10 times in my life, all but two being before the age of 5.

Shortly after finding out I was pregnant, we decided we were in it together. He was going to be there for me. I wasn’t going to be abandoned. We started going to couples therapy, paid for by the big bad sexist/racist/homophobic/history-revising/repression-inducing (but it reminded me of my most recent shrooms trip at the time, so I didn’t care about that list) Mormon Church.

She was a great therapist. Getting her grad degree. Divorced. Not some crock religious counselor who tells you that you’re loved by angels and that Jesus will wash away your tears, amen. She was great. But she believed in us making it work. Because that was the reality she and the father of my fetus understood and had been sold their entire lives. Meanwhile, I was frustrated with myself for my issues (re: chickening out) and wanted to believe I could escape the weird life I’d been led into by my mom and my aunt that fast forwarded to this terrifying image of me becoming an old maid who never could loosen her grip on the reins long enough to know what love even was. Except maybe when drunk, but then that was like, “Hey, there aggression. Nice to get acquainted. You’ve got a lot of pent up shit in here, and alcohol is sort of exacerbating that.” Nevermind that I’m starting to learn that my inability to love unabashedly and compulsive behavioral fixes have something to do with being the adult child of an alcoholic. I didn’t have any idea about that then. I barely have an idea about that now. I told the therapist in our first session before I was pregnant that I thought maybe I wanted to get married and have a family of my own one day, and then BAM it had happened. It had to be fate, right? So, I started pregnant-waddling down this path to “healthy marriage” and family. I slowly stopped working and started letting him pay the bills. I slowly/quickly (depending on how you look at it) stopped talking to any and all straight/male friends and many of my straight/or-gay/female friends, no matter how important they were to me. I slowly got huge (I gained a lot of pregnant weight) and miserable and regretted the decision to stay pregnant half the time. I considered running away and making it on my own, but I felt trapped by my lease and all of the sacrifices I had already made to try to make this fucking work. I considered going somewhere else and not telling him when I had the baby and just hiding away almost every time we got into another one of our huge blowout fights. But then he would help me. We lived in this teeny apartment, and he rearranged the furniture just how I’d wanted while I was out of town for a week. He would put my socks and shoes on, rub my feet, sacrifice his place on the bed when I was uncomfortable, help me shave my legs, go to therapy with me each week. He tried so hard. I sobbed alone on long drives around the city and hated myself for the one brief moment that had conceived my son.

But then he was born, and all of that changed. I can’t explain that love to you. Even my issues couldn’t stop me from loving this magnificent human. He’s a miracle. He’s the only thing I’ve ever felt I was meant to do. And I had no clue till he came out. But now I know.

His dad stepped up again. He tried again. He set me up every day with food and water so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed. He cooked and cleaned and worked so that I could stay in bed with my postpartum pain and the baby. I needed him, and he did everything I needed. There were still outbursts sometimes, but we were stressed. Who wouldn’t have outbursts with a life that hard and cramped? Then our son started getting a little older, and it wasn’t getting any easier. He wanted to have sex, naturally. He’d quit being Mormon, and we’d eloped so that we could explain to the government how many people were really in our household. He wanted to have sex and reconnect with me. But we spent the first year and two months of our relationship trying so hard NOT to have sex (because Mormon) that we’d wasted any chance we might have had to build that intimacy. Now, I was in excruciating pain and honestly really turned off by the thought of sex. I was exhausted. I still am. I rarely get a chance to shower. Some days, I forget or don’t get the chance to eat more than once. Back then, I never ate unless Zac allowed me to. If he was tired and cranky and didn’t feel like helping, I didn’t get to go to the bathroom or eat food or shower. I just had to deal with it. So when he was tired and at his limits, he pushed me way past mine. And honestly, I think I started to hate him for it. I may not have meant to, but I think the resentment was incredibly deep, and I loved Montgomery too much to feel it toward him. I know Zac had every right to be tired. We were working so hard. But as he got more tired, he woke up less to help me at night. As he got more tired, he changed fewer diapers and walked Montgomery to sleep less. As he got more tired, he gave me fewer breaks. And I started to lose my fucking mind.

Then my mom split her house in half to give us some privacy, and we moved in with her. My literal worst nightmare mixed with my wildest dreams. Montgomery could have a yard to learn to run and walk in that we could afford without me going back to work (since at that point, he couldn’t be away from me for more than 10 minutes without losing his shit anyway, I couldn’t even fathom working) but at the price of living alongside my mother again. I love my mother. I need her help with my son. I’m very grateful for this living situation. The rent is affordable, and the babysitter is free. But we still have a very complicated past and dynamic. Mixing the things I had to constantly give up to be with Zac with the things I have to give up to be with my mom finally sent me over the edge. Zac and my mom started to have this silent battle for control over my actions, and Montgomery is a baby, so he needed/needs me pretty much at all times. Zac’s anger kept getting bigger, despite mine being totally under wraps with the addition of motherhood as a part of my personality and the total absence of alcohol for almost two years (thanks, pregnancy and breastfeeding). He quit his job to go back to school, and we decided to live on loans–something that’s just the opposite of what I’m naturally comfortable with. He was home for six weeks. During those six weeks, most days, he was still tapped out. He cooked quite a bit, cleaned a little off and on, and didn’t do any work, but I still had to ask for showers and cut my time short because meltdowns were my job. Night wakings were still predominantly dealt with by me. I still felt unhelped. And while he was home, the jealousy kept peaking. It’s hard enough to talk on the phone with a baby present. Forget it when we’re all home. My only reality was the house. Not to mention that in that house, I would go into the dark with Montgomery for 12 hours each night. I would lay down with him for 30mins-2 hours every time he napped. During those times, Zac would sit in the living room getting alone time. Alone time I desperately needed and was asking for and still wasn’t getting.

Seriously, after all of that shit. No wonder it broke. After having so little time for myself in 8 months that it’s literally quantifiable (in hours) on my hands, it’s no wonder.

So I accepted a job. I needed some excuse to be alone for a minute. It was only 8-10 hours per week, condensed into two days. Good hourly pay rate. Good company. Room to move up in the future and get more work/hours/pay. And the kicker? From home. Literally my dream. Work a legit job that I can have anywhere. Hello, travel. I’ve been missing you. Unfortunately, that was the breaking point for Zac. Something about him having to help me watch Montgomery during those hours of work just wouldn’t click. And he snapped. But I’m so tired and so at my own breaking point from the zero time I’ve had to myself that I also snapped.

And now we’re here.

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ralphmorgan-blog1 · 7 years

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Saving the twins: Health scares and rehab for once-conjoined boys

Valhalla, New York (CNN)Nicole McDonald eases her silver minivan across Bear Mountain Bridge and hooks a right onto the steep two-lane highway.

The road twists like a snake up the mountainous incline, an old route where the road's edge blends into beautiful greenery and perilous cliffs overlook the Hudson River. Where your knuckles turn white from clutching the steering wheel and a knot grows in your belly.

Nicole makes this trip every day from her home in upstate New York to see her twin sons, Jadon and Anias. The 21-month-old boys are at Blythedale Children's Hospital 40 miles to the south, where they've been undergoing rehabilitation since mid-December. The twins, born joined at the head, captured the world's attention after a marathon surgery to separate them last fall.

The journey to go see them, Nicole says, is similar to the one her boys have been through: setbacks and victories, nerve-wracking and awe-inspiring.

"It's like climbing a mountain," she says, "and you get to the place you thought was the top only to realize you have another mile to go and you don't have the supplies for it."

She thinks back to a moment weeks earlier when she reached a breaking point. Jadon and Anias had been sick off and on for nearly a month. Her other child, 3-year-old Aza, battled high fevers and croup. Amid it all, Mom got sick.

But after a few days, finally, it seemed everyone was healthy. Nicole visited the boys at the rehabilitation center. Jadon fell asleep in his crib, and she worked to put Anias down. He was laughing, but in an instant, he unleashed a scream and vomited. Again and again, until nothing was left.

Nicole stood, drenched in vomit, and held her 25-pound boy for more than six hours. Then, Jadon awoke, "just puking nonstop." She wondered why, after everything her boys have gone through, they couldn't seem to catch a break.

In that moment, she closed her eyes. "I quit," she thought. "I can't do this anymore."

A 360 look inside the operating room during the boys' surgery

Seconds later, though, she snapped back. Amid the desperate exhaustion, she found strength. She became more focused, more determined, more resilient. Her boys needed her. Her family needed her.

She didn't sleep for two days, tending to their every need.

A physical therapist by training, she learned that she could rely on her instincts -- and that no matter what was thrown at her, she was strong enough to take it.

"My 'I quit' moment shoved me into the mindset of 'I can do this,' " she says. "Not only can I handle it, I can handle it on my own. It was about being free, even though it's hard."

She took that moment almost like a rallying cry for her boys. And she found it both exhilarating and rewarding: "I can be their mom without some nurse coming in every two seconds. Eventually, I'm going to have to do this at home. It was proof for me in that 'I quit' moment that I can."

What drives her is the sheer joy that spreads across her boys' faces when she enters their room. Most of all, she just wants to bring them home.

She mashes the accelerator on the road to see her boys.

'Just trying to survive'

Christian McDonald climbs the extension ladder and rips rotted wall studs from the outside of the family's split-level ranch house. His shirt is peeled off, and sweat drips from his chin.

While Nicole works with the boys, Christian works to ready their newly purchased home for the twins' return. The work has allowed the former truck driver to return to his blue-collar roots. Knocking down walls and ripping up siding has been good for his soul, a way to relieve the stress of dealing with everything Jadon and Anias have gone through.

The wood-shingled house, nestled in Orange County with views of the Catskill Mountains, is the family's third home in less than two years.

In February 2016, they transported their lives from small-town Illinois to the Bronx to be near the Children's Hospital at Montefiore Medical Center, where the twins' surgery took place. They lived in a rental home for more than a year.

Once the twins were moved to rehab at Blythedale, in Valhalla, the family moved too -- in part to get away from the hectic pace of the city.

The house, which had been a foreclosure, is in need of what a real estate agent might call "a little TLC." The stairs leading up to the front door have been demolished -- one of many projects on Christian's to-do list. He's refinished one bathroom, turning it into showroom quality.

Nicole and Christian hope to flip the home eventually; they say they wouldn't have been able to afford it if not for strangers who donated more than $330,000on their GoFundMe page. Neither parent has been able to work since their journey to New York began.

"We're just trying to survive, really," says Nicole, "and this is how we're trying to survive."

Christian says he doesn't quite understand why so many people have found inspiration in their story. In his view, he and Nicole are just regular folks going through an ordeal, not too much different from other families with sick children. He's grateful and thankful not just for the donations but for all the messages of support.

Nicole draws inspiration from them, too. She holds one note especially close, written by a woman who said she had planned to commit suicide until she read about the McDonalds' struggle and found hope in their story.

Even with the ongoing renovations, their home feels warm and inviting. The message on one living room wall reads "Live, Laugh, Love." On the other, "Peace, Love, Dream." Collages of photographs show the boys from before and after the 27-hour surgery in mid-October.

The McDonalds gave CNN exclusive access to the surgery and allowed us to follow them in the months since. Their story will be featured in an hour-long special, "Separated: Saving the Twins," hosted by CNN Chief Medical Correspondent Sanjay Gupta on Friday night at 10 ET.

Much has changed since the surgery. Although it might have been the most difficult medical task, the parents knew what to expect. The doctors essentially gave them a road map of the procedure and the care that would follow. Emotionally, they were prepared.

But rehab has been different: filled with sick boys, constant worry and extreme ups and downs. While the care has been great, the parents say, there was just no way to be prepared for the various health scares.

"Every day is a new day with a new challenge," Nicole says. "It has literally been the journey of sickness for the last couple months."

One night, a feverish Anias suffered a lengthy seizure and stopped breathing when his temperature rose too high, too fast. Two fluid-filled cysts have emerged on the top of his scalp, doubling his head's normal weight. He had to have his skull cap removed due to infection and will undergo another surgery when he is 7 to insert bone.

Jadon has battled infection, too. Dissolvable plates that were inserted during the surgery have pushed up through his scalp. "I pull out pieces of plate from his head," Nicole says, "and every day, it breaks my heart."

How do they maintain a semblance of sanity amid the stress?

"Those little smiling faces when you walk in," says Christian. "They smile so big at you, and they get so excited to see you. ... It's amazing how happy they are.

"Everything they go through, they're just always smiling and happy. We learn a lot from them."

Excited boys, ecstatic mom

Nicole pops into the boys' room at Blythedale. The two are sitting in high chairs in opposite corners. Their faces immediately light up at her presence, and their arms and legs kick excitedly.

She rushes to Anias first and smothers him in kisses. "Anias, I see you," Nicole shouts.

She admires his onesie adorned with images of a magnet and a baby chicken. "Chick magnet," it reads.

"I love your shirt today," Nicole says.

Across the room, Jadon points to the buckles keeping him locked in his chair, as if to say, "Undo these, please!"

Nicole rushes to see him, unbuckling his strap and lifting him into her arms. She gives him kisses. He responds with kisses of his own. "Thank you for the kisses," she says. "Now your brother is jealous. We've got to go get him."

They join Anias in his section of the room. A physical therapist soon enters and takes Jadon away for a 30-minute session. As he's leaving, he blows his mom a kiss and tells her, "Bye."

This has been their life on the good days: moments of sheer joy and love.

In addition to physical therapy, the boys receive speech and occupational therapy.

Jadon has started doing block puzzles and making animal noises. His expressive language is also about that of a 9-month-old. He rolls across the room, lifts his head and sits up by himself. He learns new tasks fast. He can roll a ball while he's sitting, and he can get up on his hands and knees and rock back and forth.

Anias is still learning what things are. His speech is delayed. He makes sounds like "bah-bah-bah" during speech therapy and is able to say "da-da."

The physical therapist in Nicole has prepared her well. She works with Anias on getting him to stand and track objects with his eyes. Because he struggles with his right side, she places toys on that side to make him work harder. He'll track the toy and then roll, lift his head and stretch ever so gingerly with his right hand.

"He's my slow, steady turtle," Nicole says. "Anias is going to do it all. It's just going to take more time."

Lead neurosurgeon Dr. James Goodrich and lead plastic surgeon Dr. Oren Tepper say they are pleased with how the boys are progressing. The situation is understandably stressful for the parents and the boys, but from a medical standpoint, the twins are doing well.

In the weeks after the surgery, Goodrich's biggest concerns were bleeding, fluid buildup and infection of tissue surrounding the brain.

"We've been able to avoid all of that, which is very gratifying," he says. "In rehab, they're actually starting to develop what infants are supposed to do in the sense of being able to sit, stand, hold their heads, and starting to stand with assistance."

Tepper adds, "I can tell you the trajectory looks very good for both boys right now. (Their infections) have been local with no signs of meningitis, which would be essentially an infection surrounding the brain or something deep. Neither one have had any problems like that."

Both credit Nicole for getting the boys this far -- a combination of her effusive love and her years as a physical therapist.

"Nicole's abilities as a parent and skills as a medical professional are really quite unique," says Goodrich. "She has spent every day, pre- and post-surgeries, strengthening Jadon and Anias, in every respect, from physical therapy to wound care management to interaction and play time. She has dedicated herself to helping them thrive."

Her husband says simply, "She is Superwoman."

The real work, she says, will begin when she and Christian can bring their boys home. Jadon's wound dressings have to be changed twice a day. Anias eats via a tube every four to six hours. There will be diapers to change, mouths to feed and constant tasks. In between, she'll have to dedicate time to her 3-year-old, Aza.

Still, she's looking forward to the job.

Her plan is to work with Jadon and Anias on simple tasks, getting them to repeat each one 20 to 30 times so they can thrive. "Every way that I hold them, every way that I sit them, every way that I position them is in thinking with what's going to improve their condition," Nicole says.

She says she can tell Anias will have some delays and is eager to work consistently with him. "I can foresee him walking, and I can see him doing all the things he needs to do to function in a community and in his home environment," she says.

"I just want to get them home so I can practice with them all day long."

Late last week, Nicole and Christian learned that may soon happen. A doctor at Blythedale told them the subject of Jadon and Anias going home was brought up at the medical team's weekly meeting.

"I don't want to scare you with this concept," the doctor said, "but what do you think about moving in this direction?"

Nicole's heart swelled. She says she nearly jumped out of her chair. She's thought about that moment almost all day, every day. The picture is clear in her mind: She and Christian are sitting in their living room, each holding one of the boys, while Aza runs up and hugs them. There's no worry about them being sick or sleeping in a sterile hospital room without their mother.

"It's just bliss," she says.

See the latest news and share your comments with CNN Health on Facebook and Twitter.

She's thought of practical things too, like getting them cribs and preparing their room.

"We just want to be a family," Christian says.

The date of their return home has not been set, but the preparation has begun.

It's the start of making their family whole. A new life, together.

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geodesicinquiry · 7 years

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Wow I'm posting on tumblr for the first time in years because no one follows me on here and I don't have any paper near me and I need to write. I was broken up with approximately four weeks ago from a relationship that lasted almost four years. I was certainly optimistic in my relationship but I believed we were in an ok spot. We were living in our second place together, we had a yard, lived near a bunch of dogs, and had two cats that were literally our lives. Looking back, I realized I was so fucking in love with you I didn't allow myself to put together the signs. We had sex maybe 7 times in the entirety of our most recent move in our house, that being almost 9 months. We shared less and less about our days, challenges, problems, etc. We always slept naked, though when you were on your period you would wear shorts. That last week you wore clothes to bed every fucking day. You barely made your presence known when you were home, which was pretty much only to sleep. I would cuddle and spoon you tightly, knowing that I would never have this with you again. You always said you wanted to sleep on your side, but that last week you turned your back to me in spite, sick of looking at my remarkably unappealing naked body, mouth-breathing stature, and obnoxiously loud snore. You wore that Bowie sweater and short shorts all week. I was trying to ignore this leading up to Wednesday, but I couldn't anymore. I took a shower because you were laying there not talking to me. I came back, turned the light off and put a Netflix show on. You were still up. No longer looking at your phone but still noticeably awake. About five minutes past, I looked over to you and began to have a panic attack. I was sobbing uncontrollably after 30 seconds, already accumulating an insane amount of snot. You tried to ignore it by pretending to be asleep. It got worse and worse, I was shaking so much from the anxiety, crying louder and wetter than I ever have before. You were still content on letting me suffer. After more time, I hugged you one last time, grasping at you, desperately trying to get you to elicit some type of emotion towards this situation. I wrapped around your head because I didn't know what else to do; you told me not to grab you like that. For the next hour, I sat completely naked in the bed, keeping myself in a ball, muscles so tense I believed they would snap, snot absolutely covering myself and the bedsheets, cry-heaving so hard I almost threw up several times. I tried to talk to you as you were listing off reasons why this is no longer working, I physically could not get myself to speak. You told me you had been with friends crying and telling them all you needed to break up with me. I'm not mad at you for this, you needed to do what was best for you. You told me had I not brought it up you were gonna break up with me AFTER YOU GOT BACK FROM YOUR FUCKING TRIP TO FRANCE. You were going to postpone this so you could have a worry free vacation and deal with my shitty ass when you got back. I'm sure you think that was some way of doing a favor to me but that is really fucked up, and I am mad at that. You still didn't show any emotion towards what was the worst panic attack of my entire life. I helped you through so many attacks within your life, I thought you out of all people would relate to the feeling I was currently feeling. You barely cried the whole time. At one point I mumbled something along the lines of I feel like I can't even touch you anymore. This was met with silence. I cried so much I was in physical pain. You went to the couch and fell asleep. I didn't sleep that night. I didn't sleep the night after either. I had two hours of sleep on the third day. I didn't eat until Friday evening. I immediately started smoking again and am back at roughly a pack every two days. I wanted to meet with you and talk about things, you kept postponing it. Eventually it happened, we met in the park by our (nope this is my house now) house. It was fucking weird. You said you were numb which is why you weren't showing much emotion. Personally I think that was not true, as your personality is extremely emotional. You never asked me how I was doing. I was going to show up smoking because the shitty part in me wants you to know how I'm doing. You couldn't even ask me that. I know our relationship was not without problem, but I viewed it as a combination of us slowing down and settling in, me being so FUCKING oblivious to these problems, and you not being able to express to me what is going on. I still don't fully know what was going on, because I don't think you actually expressed your true feelings for me. You messaged me halfway through your trip or so, pretending everything is ok, showing me this band you had seen the night before. I said it was cool, but I didn't even fucking listen to it. You blocked me from seeing your posts on Facebook. You didn't tell me you did this, and if I brought it up to you you'd get defensive and tell me it was for helping to separate or some shit. You could never fucking apologize about this kind of stuff. You got home earlier today so I am staying at my sisters house so you can recover from your plane ride. I asked you when you'd be back seeing if I needed to feed the cats. This interaction was fine. I left band practice after a cig and a short bike ride to my sisters house. I was feeling on edge all day knowing you're back in town, having the reality of this situation thrown back at me. Dealing with you moving out, dealing with us balancing our friends, dealing with us eventually having to pretend to be friends so our friend group doesn't have to alienate one of us. Being the pathetic piece of trash I am, I downloaded the tinder app to see what it was all about. I connected it to my Facebook, chose my least ugly photos, wrote a stupid bio, and linked my Spotify profile hoping for once someone be impressed with my musical taste. Tinder is pretty fucking dumb. I swipe left on two individuals, then you fucking appear. YOU HAVE A TINDER PROFILE. It's all set up with pictures of you from your trip and a silly bio about you paying more attention to someone's pets than them, with a sorry in parenthesis after that. Ultimately, this is an act I'm not mad at. You can do whatever the fuck you want to do, hell I felt some strange urge to download that shit hole myself. I'm mad that you have a tinder profile not even four weeks after breaking up with me, with two of the main reasons being you wanted to learn how to be more independent, and you wanted to be on your own, aka single. I don't believe these reasons anymore. Whether or not you actually use that fucking app, it's designed to make people become either attracted to each other enough to fuck, or enough to start seeing each other. I downloaded that fucking thing because I don't want to be alone, you told me you did. That's fucking me up so much right now, and I know if I talked to you about it you'd get defensive. You never saw my side in any of the arguments we had, instead you would call me stubborn and continue to retort. We had so much sex when we started dating. It was like a cliche fucking movie, that first six months or so was fucking remarkable. We never had a sexual dialogue though, we never talked about what the other wanted or what we wanted. This was true of our relationship in general. You were raped by our former very close friends, and that affected our relationship in a lot of ways. You were up and down so much, and I was with you and beside you the whole time. We didn't have a lot of sex after that incident, which was more than justified. I never pushed the issue with you on that. You went through something more tragic than I know I ever will, and it understandably affected your sex drive. We actually had a pretty good conversation about that, as we had gone almost five months without having sex. Sex isn't the solution to relationships but for me it's hard to be that intimate with someone without having sex from time to time. We talked a lot about this, reasonable talks where we both expressed and listened to each other. You even suggested I try and find someone to have sex with. At the time I couldn't think of ever doing that (haha monogamy), but I should've pursued that further. It would've opened a better line of communication between us without a doubt. I'm honestly fucking crushed. I've been depressed most of my life, but I've never felt as bad as I currently do. I will be going to therapy again soon. I cry every single day. I was planning my entire life with you, and you stopped loving me long ago. You put yourself through not loving me for a long time because I don't think you could handle breaking up with me. You didn't love after our fight at art a whirl, that was the dividing line in our relationship. You let yourself sign a two fucking year lease in a house neither of us could afford on our own because you couldn't fucking break up with me. You've left me fucked up and crushed while you're using tinder and seemingly far removed from me. You were over our breakup before it even happened.

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