dispossessed

I keep going back and forth on whether I should keep chromonospace attached to my real-life profiles or if I should use a pen name. It has been on and off my socials more times than I can count. It goes up in moments I feel empowered and confident, and comes right back down in the moments I feel unsure of myself.

I have always wanted to share my creations with the world in some capacity but have always felt too scared. I still feel scared. For better or for worse, it took the “inciting event” of my latest heartbreak to push me over the edge and actually hit publish. And so chromonospace was born.

It was a straight woman's most canon event. Imagine it:

You are blissfully minding your own business when a man appears and confesses his feelings for you. You decide to give him a chance and end up falling head over heels for him. Using your most precious resources — time, money, energy, empathy — you cross oceans to be with him.

He plays very nice at first. But once he wins the chase and scores his trophy, the mask slips and he hits you with the switch-up. Slowly — so slowly that you are not quite sure you can believe the transformation happening before your very eyes — his radiant smile twists into a grimace of contempt.

You are now being picked apart for the very same adornments of your personhood that he once claimed to cherish. You are an artifact of his conquest now and he doesn't want to play with you anymore. However, his fragile self-concept can't handle feeling like the "bad man" who mined you for resources, so he tries to soften the discard by using that familiar script of martyrdom: “You're an amazing woman, but I'm not ready for a relationship. I can't meet your needs. You deserve better."

Yes, I'm sorry, but it's true. You got played.

Spiral out and fade to black.

We tried to go back to the whole friends thing for a couple months (another canon event), which ended with me getting shouted at, hung up on, and blocked on everything, everywhere.

I never understood that emotional pain could manifest as acute physical pain until that day. My heart felt literally broken and I was ill for a long, long time. Both because I cared for this person so much and because I felt so stupid for not seeing this coming. This wasn't just a passing love interest. This man was first and foremost my friend, with whom I shared five years of trust and memories.

Journaling privately, writing unsent letters — those all helped a little, but they didn't fulfill my visceral need to be witnessed. I deserved space to express myself to him after the bullshit he pulled, and he ripped it away from me. Giving me that space was the least he could do short of a profound apology. Instead of being an adult and facing the music of accountability for somebody he once claimed to care deeply for, he postured today's trendy posture of "detachment" and slammed the door in my face, erasing me like a passing mistake. I felt so invisible and insignificant. Bereft, cold... confined to my bed, choking on my own tears and gasping for air.

But nobody heard.

This experience, despite the edge of its blade having dulled with the passage of time, still marks me. I don't feel capable of trusting another human being with my love, and I fear that I never will. The only vision I can see for my life moving forward is one of singledom, coping with loneliness as a resigned alternative to the pain of risking that type of betrayal again.

He has his own stories of heartbreak, so I know he's felt this fear too. He passed it along to me like an emotional contagion and now I carry as my own personal burden, undaring to risk infecting someone else.

In my pursuit to reclaim my witnessability, sometimes I feel liberated putting my stories, emotions, and narratives "out there" for the world to see. Other times I feel so exposed and isolated, like I'm floating around the endless expanse of space blindfolded. Those are the moments my courage falters as I yank down my entire digital presence and retreat back into hiding.

You know that bully in your head? I have one too. Here's what she tells me:

"Do you think you are important or something? Nobody cares about what you have to say."

"They will think you are cringe for whining on the internet like an annoying little lamb."

"You need to stop wasting your precious time crying about that loser and move on with your life."

Maybe one day I will sustain the courage to leave this site up for good. Maybe one day I will finally believe I'm worth witnessing in spite of the fact that he didn't.