"9-1-1 please state your emergency."
"I was desperate."
"Miss, can you tell me what happened?"
"He told me happy valentine's day, and I was weak... so very, very weak"
"Ma'am did you respond?"
"Help is on the way."
"Hurry! Just please... don't send the Fire Department..."
It had been a rough week and a half.
Sitting up all day at the hospital.
Fielding, "how's he doing?" texts.
Running errands all over SmallTown, Texas - because my mom didn't particularly want to leave my father's side.
Staying up at night, clutching a loaded shotgun, thinking that the creak in the living room was probably a mass murderer looking for new meat, all the while praying that if I did jump out guns-a-blazing, that I didn't shoot my brother's girlfriend by mistake.
By the time I was supposed to come back to DC, all I wanted was a warm bath, chocolate chip cookies, and a "Hot in Cleveland" marathon.
I'm telling you... I was spent.
While riding with my mother on the way to the airport to fly back to DC, my phone vibrated.
I looked down at the text message hoping it was ManMe texting me, but it wasn't... it was TheFirefighter.
Now it's probably been about a month since our first date, and a little over three weeks since he used me and flung me into the rubbish.
Normally I'd say, "f*ck you!" And go on my merry way.
But I was vulnerable.
My emotional self was tethered to my brain by a single silk thread of a spider's web. I wasn't full of the sassy spunk that had let me shut him down two weeks ago, when he nonchalantly pretended like nothing happened.
Instead without even thinking about the repercussions, I responded with my standard I hate valentine's day response, "Back Atchya."
I assumed that would be that.
That was not that.
That started this.
This was the promise of another date.
I was mentally tired, physically exhausted, and emotionally spent.
To be perfectly honest with you all I wanted to do was cuddle with someone and since ManMe was not an option (curse you distance! CURSE YOU!), and My Bartender was being fricking ridiculous with his demands, "pictures lead to cuddletime, cuddletime does not lead to cuddletime."
"No pictures. I look like shit."
"I still want a picture."
"You're not getting one, me coming to see you in person is 100x better than a picture."
"But a picture lasts longer."
...... two hours pass
"How far away are you?"
"... It's 1:30 a.m. I am not coming over. I am now in pajamas. p.s. you suck."
So when TheFirefighter suggested lunch and hang time the next day...
I had to do it.
I needed to cuddle like a meth addict needs money.
When I got to his place we picked right back up where we left off. His genuine concern for my father's health and his own story about worrying about his father's well being cut the silk thread. As soon as we got back to his place after lunch, I buried my head into his chest as his arms curled around me.
We didn't talk much, but I clung to his stocky, comfortable frame like a barnacle on a waterlogged ship.
I could feel my endorphins slowly start to rise, and my insides began to feel normal again.
That was That.
It was like filling up on fuel at the gas station of life.
Except it's not one you'd tell your friends to stop at, because it's absolutely disgusting and the bathrooms look like they haven't been cleaned in years.
One of my friends, I'm not sure who, once told me that they actually couldn't stand the guy whose arms they ran to, but something was better than nothing.
I never really understood that. Why would someone want to spend time with a person they despised, no matter how cute they were or how cuddly they were.
Then it happened to me.
I felt dirty, and not in the "oooh baby," since of the phrase.
I actually felt like I needed to be scrubbed with lye soap inside and out. The emotional grime of using someone who used me was clinging to my skin and sinking into my pores.
Can someone have emotional acne? Like... on their soul?
Is there a Clearasoul product that can help me?