Chapter One: The Girl Who is Too Much

“Ruby, what kind of story do you want to write?” Miguel asks me, leaning towards me on the rusty iron stool in my rose-hued sunroom.

I bring emotional intelligence to the conversation by proceeding to bawl my eyes out in front of my romantic interest-turned-friend, searing tears spilling down my face.

“I want to write the story I have always been writing, even if I haven’t actually been writing it. The indiscriminate love I have for people, my open heart, my loving soul…I guess it’s a simple story” I sigh, sniffling, internally wanting to scream. “Yes…” he continues softly, “but I mean in your life. What do you want people to know you for? What do you want to look back upon and be proud of?”

I can’t have this conversation right now. I am so thankful for Miguel, for everything he has done for me in such a short amount of time, but I can’t be told that time heals right now.

The beautiful brown-eyed boy, who made staying in Melbourne seem like the right choice, notes that I am not up for a pep talk (was the inability to stop jittering a sign? Or perhaps it was me laying down on his sea of crinkly 80’s jackets) and begins to pack up his things, giving me not one, but two tight hugs.

“You will be okay. It is going to be okay”.

I gracefully flop on to my bed, exhausted from interaction…and, well, existence. I open my laptop…desperately trying to ignore the pastel green goblins stuck to my laptop, smirking at me almost as cheekily as the boy who created them.

I open Google and type my query.

“how to stop being desperate and pathetic”

I turn to these bleek searches when I want a stranger on the internet to coddle me and tell me that I am, in the words of Kris Jenner, doing great, sweetie.

The unfortunate reality is that wishful thinking is usually just that – a wish.

I am met with millions of articles on exactly why I am, indeed, desperate and pathetic. It’s almost like they’re meant to make you face yourself and your shortcomings. I frown, slam my laptop shut and decide that Rebecca from Elite Daily doesn’t know shit about my fragile heart.

All afternoon I have been staring at my phone, waiting for the improbable “ding”. I wish I could say that I understand. I haven’t even bothered Googling “love” – I already know the answer to that one. The answer being that there is no answer.

One could say I am quite partial to the ding.

What the fuck is wrong with me? How have I gone from the abused to the broken to the manic in the space of a month? How have I managed to feel heartbreak 3 times in 2 months?

I’ve never been religious. Spiritual, absolutely…but the thought of Big G looking over me whilst I fashion yet another roach, balls deep in a depressive episode…well, I just didn’t think he worked like that. The good get what they deserve and the bad get eaten by an exotic animal behind a green screen. Is my life actually not a telenovela…? It sure as fuck does not feel like it.