the canon event of the unfollowing

and why i am craving relief

Hi friends,

It’s a Saturday evening. The laundry is running, I have a rose and lily candle lit. It’s Easter weekend, and it’s another holiday that I will spend alone. Not that it’s a bad thing - I actually enjoy it. Having the autonomy to create new traditions.

There’s a loaf of my favourite bread (buckwheat and dark cherry) on the counter, and I have fig and orange jam in the fridge. So. Happy Easter to me.

You’ll laugh. The MFB’s friend at the bar (he was the one who told me the manager was the one gossiping, but, I mean, let’s be honest - they all were) unfollowed me on Instagram. A canon event in every girl’s life. LOL. I guess the manager did have a talk with everyone, and to that - I say. Good. God bless.

But it made me wonder about all of these stories. I laugh because it feels like every single man I touch - there’s some dramatic tornado that spirals out of this connection. And all of the sudden - 71 people are involved and there’s fighting and there’s tears and a “I hate you”, and someone unfollows someone or someone unfollows the other. It’s made for amazing content over the years.

But I wonder when it will all stop.

Want to know something? My household was calm growing up. My mom, my dad, my sister … it was all, relatively normal and quiet and peaceful. But I always had this little penchant for trouble. A penchant for drama.

Maybe it was because it meant, to me, life was interesting. I used to love hearing my mom gossip with her friends when they’d come over after work, or on a Saturday evening for dinner. There was always a story. There was always excitement. And maybe, in a way, that’s how I saw community being made. Those shared stories from women and looking at their shocked expressions and the dramatic, “he said WHAT?!” And how their husbands would go buy after dinner coffees for their gossiping wives, completely unaware and uninvolved at the stories being divulged around the table.

In Rome, I knew people talked. But the language barrier was more of a blessing than it ever was a curse. It provided me with this…anonymity. I was limited in how much I could converse with people - that, and everyone at the bar was absolutely terrified of PN. So no one dared to so outwardly put themselves in the middle of that one. Everything was a secret, because he (and his girlfriend) were their bosses and they all seemingly had something to lose.

My pen really is my power, I’ve come to realize. It does what it needs to do - it tells a story, evokes meaning, connects, and leaves an imprint. It leaves a mark.

But while I’m watching the Toronto sun as it sets, and its reflection on the buildings around me, I wonder what I crave most out of my relationships. Is it really for love, or is it all just for a good story?

My best friend always makes me laugh. “It’s their personality switch-up.” She tells me. “The hot and the cold. It’s like … none of these traits are present with them in the beginning.”

My therapist, ChatGPT says it’s like “emotional whiplash” (I filled it in on both OFM + MFB).

“None. You would never know. But then ego gets involved and someone gets insecure and they all turn into - “

“Triangle eyes. Like two fire pits of hell.”

I’m kind of having a “writing by the sea” moment. Where you remember how it all was before. Like how every good story starts with boy meets girl. But in this case it’s always - bartender meets girl. Girl meets bartender. Bar eventually implodes.

I don’t know if I’ll get a writing by the sea moment with MFB. A swords down, a “let’s remember how it all started”. When it was just me, drinking my wine, head buried into my phone, fighting with OFM in the fall in the city. No friends involved, no other voices. No outside pressure. No newsletters about him. No spirals.

But that’s okay.

You know what I do miss right now? The stillness of spring evenings in Rome. Hearing the dishes being washed and someone’s fork twirling on a plate. The cooler breeze. I miss the beauty and the peace and the silence, when it was just me. The sounds of an old apartment. That relief I felt when unlocked the door to my home.

That’s what I want my next one to feel like.

Relief.

I love you,

Emily