. On The Other One .

Ohhhhh, good golly. This might ruffle some feathers. I feel like a disclaimer is in order. Normally, I toss in a disclaimer at the end because I sometimes feel that it takes away from what I'm actually trying to say. 

Eeeeeesh. This one though. This one.

Before we start here, I'd just like to make a few notes -- 

• The following blog post that has taken me a solid two months to write is not about my life. Craig is a peach, ya know? I adore him. 
• The following blog post that has taken me nearly two months to write is not about you, or your relationship, either.
• Unless ... Unless.
• If you are the girl that was sitting in front of me in a different booth at Hy-Vee one morning. 
• If you are the girl that was scrolling through webpage after webpage.
• If you are the girl that was researching over and over again.
• What to say to the other woman. 
• If you are the girl that has ever had to think about ... what you would say ... to the other woman.
• Well. 
• Then.
• This is for you. 
  

xoxo, B.

there are some
things that you can
only learn
in a storm.​

Dear Other Woman: 

Is that what I should call you? 

Or - are you a Sheila? A Tiffany? A daughter? A mother? 

No. Surely you are not a mother. Because if you were raising a child then you would most certainly know that there is not a line. You can't preach and preach and preach to your child that they should live in the light and do all of the right, if - 

If. 

If you are not also doing the right.

Other Woman seems just so ... tame. So pedestrian. So easy. It does not shout to all of the others that you waltzed into a room that was not yours and you yanked and prodded and ... No. Other Woman is not what you are.

I will think about you for months. Obsess about you almost to the exclusion of everything else. You must have something that I do not. You must have something that he wants. You must be some sort of Temptress. Seductress. Some velvety, safe place to land. You must be the More that he was looking for. I will scroll through pictures and I will analyze all of you, searching ... for something. 

I don't even like baseball, but I've found myself resorting more and more to their stark, boring cliches  because just a bit outside sounds so much better than - 

I just wasn't good enough.

And I just want to know, too, while we're talking about what your label is - I just want to know how it feels to be a Breaker. A Cliff Maker. An Exposer. How does it feel to know that you shattered what I had into so many pieces that, years from now, men will still be cutting their fingers and hearts on my jagged parts? 

You are a bad person. And I know that sounds like we're back in kindergarten, but isn't that when we learned to not touch the things that aren't ours and to be nice to one another? 

All I want to do is reach out to you - all I want to do is ask you a thousand different things. I haven't, though. Because maybe I'm terrified to hear what you have to say. Because maybe you'll confirm my deepest fear. Maybe you'll tell me that you just did it ...

Just because.

Either way, here we are. Here I am. And just ... 

• Who broke you? Who burned down your house and who shut off the water? 
• Who left you behind? Who was the last person to tell you no thanks? 
• And what made you so hard? 
• Did you lose your way? Get tangled in the lonely weeds? 

I've now reached the point after impact. The Explosion of Knowing has happened and the shock has somehow, somewhat abated. I feel like I can see you just beyond the haze of what you helped to ruin and you are dancing.

When I think of you, I will always think of a dancing, laughing girl. Someone that did not have to live so bravely through The Explosion.

You exist solely in the rubble, I'm fairly certain. You are no builder. You are no sculptor. You are no weaver, no two-become-one-for-lifer. 

No.

The more I think about you, the more I think that you are probably dancing in the fire you set.

You are an Arsonist. 

And so, I suppose, I should've started this letter as 

Dear Arsonist. 

And because Women Like You probably don't even understand compassion or empathy ... and because Women Like You certainly don't even deserve my respect -

I've decided to make my letter exceptionally brief. 

Dear Arsonist, 

You can burn down whatever you'd like. I'll even buy you the matches next time. 
I'll still shine brighter than all of your bullshit. 
I'll wear this like war paint.

Bless your heart, 
The Girl That Had Him First