Bittersweet Chocolate

by C.M. Guidroz

I have taken on many hobbies over the years but I am trying to find myself. How will I know what I enjoy if I don’t try new things?

Riding the high of a new hobby is great until you start to come down and lose interest. Then I’m on to the next hobby, chasing the high of feeling something, anything.

"Being a mother is incredible, but I'm more than just that. I need something for myself, too. I told you I already have books to read; I don’t need money. I was just trying to talk to you. But whatever."

Can you fall in love with a daydream? If I embrace her will I be embracing my own descent into madness? What is wrong with me?

The act of letting him pick them out felt motivated by a small shred of guilt. A small trade being made unknowingly to him, a few toy cars to replace the fact that I’ll be murdering his father.

The reality I faced was far from that ideal, a stark truth that I had grown tired of denying. I had spent years attempting to fit into societal expectations, seeking fulfillment through various hobbies, only to find emptiness in the pursuit of happiness. Now, at the precipice of revenge, I had embraced the chaos within, unapologetically accepting the cards dealt to me. The facade of people-pleasing and endless searching for fulfillment had come to an end.

It's easy for the world to cast judgment on the wreckage of our union, to speculate and moralize on matters they've never endured. Until one walks the jagged path of heartbreak and disillusionment, they remain blissfully ignorant, shielded from the searing pain of shattered dreams and the bitter taste of unfulfilled promises.

Many women endure their pain in silence, conditioned to bear disrespect with stoic grace. I was guilty of it myself. Society's expectations, like oppressive shadows, force us into a role where our suffering remains invisible, veiled behind the illusion of picture-perfect family moments and extravagant vacations. These women were taught to uphold a standard of unwavering strength and craft a narrative of happiness that conceals the emotional turmoil beneath. The cracks in their spirits are cleverly hidden amidst smiling Facebook pictures, and the opulence of their getaways becomes a glittering distraction from the truth.

I’m not saying every woman in the world is in some domestic prison, a lot of women are lucky. But even the lucky ones have felt unappreciated at one point.

In the quiet company of my sweet insanity whose hand I still hold, the promise of the sun on the horizon mirrors the awakening of my heart to the possibilities that lie ahead.