Bad Thursday, Good Friday

Love is all, it gives all, and it takes all.

Soren Kierkegaard





I had a meltdown, last night. I don’t hesitate to use the word “meltdown” because that’s exactly what it was: a stream of tears like lava pouring down from the eruption that just occurred in my brain.


Woo. Talk about dramatic! Here’s the specifics:


I’m a really big soccer fan. I watch the English Premier League and support a club called “Arsenal.” They’re famous for players/legends you may have heard of like Thierry Henry, Robbie VanPersie, Cesc Fabregas, Theo Walcott, Freddie Ljunberg, etc. On my Tinder profile (yes, I have a Tinder. No, I didn’t swipe right on you. Sorry.) the only thing my bio says is: “I’m an Arsenal fan.” My whole life has been spent watching my brother play soccer, attempting to play soccer, myself, going to Columbus Crew games, and watching European soccer on television. It’s just my life. It’s just what I enjoy. It’s a part of my personality. Some girls identify with Hello Kitty, or Nicki Minaj, or all-things-camouflage—Kelsea identifies with soccer. Joga Bonito. The beautiful game.


This is no secret to all who know me. In fact, it’s attracted a number of prospects. My best friend Lauren and I shared a squeal while watching The Bachelor this past season, when Juan Pablo confessed that he “just wants someone to lay in bed on Saturdays and watch soccer” with. (Uhh… pick me!) In fact, my last (and only) relationship enjoyed many hours of soccer-watching. Moving in together was a joyous occasion—but even more joyous when we decided to go for the deluxe cable package to ensure we wouldn’t miss any Arsenal games. And when we would lie in bed and dream about our future together—it would always include his very young son playing soccer, and us cheering him on enthusiastically. (If not coaching!)


However, when the time came to sign up his son for soccer, last year, we couldn’t commit. My ex-boyfriend did not yet have full custody and the visitation schedule was still being fought out in a very nasty custody battle. We knew we’d have to miss the first year of soccer, but took solace in the fact that there would be many, many, many more years of “footie” to come.


But that was a year ago.


So, back to the meltdown.



It’s a warm, sunny evening in Columbus, OH. I’ve just arrived home from a long day at work and am anxious to spend some time in the sunshine. I realize that none of my friends are available, so I resolve to plop onto my bed for a little while. The devil on my shoulder whispers how nice it would be to have a boyfriend on a day like today—to hold hands and go on a walk. To have a picnic. To go get some food on a patio, somewhere.

That same devil reminds me that if I had stayed in my last relationship, I’d probably be out fishing somewhere right now. Oh, how I miss fishing.


I manage to fly-swat these destructive thoughts. I turn on Mad Men on my tablet and begin to consume myself in the early 1960’s. As the sun begins to fall, I pull open the Facebook app on my phone. I’m scrolling through brainlessly until I meet a head-on-collision with my past and what had the potential to be my present:


A photo my ex-boyfriend’s mother has posted of my former step-son.


He is dressed to the nines in soccer gear. A green “PORTLAND” jersey compliments his porcelain skin. He’s offering a squinted smile in the sunshine. He’s holding a soccer ball on his hip and I can just make out his shin-guards and cleats. I recognize the soccer fields he’s standing on—but that’s the last thing I can see before the eruption begins.


My vision becomes exclusively obstructed by tears and I begin to hysterically sob. I run to my mother and show her the photo. She’s confused and asks why I’m so upset. I manage to cry out, “what have I done?” and “I should be there for that!” She says my name in an attempt to calm me down and assures me that I made the right decision, but I’m not convinced.


I find a way to regulate my breathing and go back to my room to wallow. I’m angry at myself for being so dramatic, which is just exacerbating the situation. All I kept thinking about, and all I’ve been thinking about since I left my last relationship was “who was winning.” And at that moment, it felt like he was winning this break up. Because even though I am living the life of a single woman, doing what I want to, spending my money how I please, and being a selfish motherfucker—he still gets to hold and raise and love and enjoy my baby. My heart. That precious little boy that took a blow-torch to every icicle in my heart. And not only does he get to—but his new woman does, as well.  He’s winning. They’re winning.


Or so it appears.



I’m reminded today of how Satan must have felt, watching my Jesus hang on the cross like a crook. Watching this immaculately conceived “angel” be whipped and pierced and bruised. He must’ve laughed when he heard Jesus cry out in pain, and his followers weep at his feet. He must’ve felt like he was SUPER winning that break-up. That his leaving Heaven was the best decision he ever made, because now look at things. God’s son is a carcass on a cross.  Oh, what a joyous day to be evil. Oh, what a good day to be bad.


Not to compare my plight to the one that literally shaped history and life as we know it, FOREVER, but I’m seeing some similarities. I had a meltdown yesterday. A volcanic eruption of emotion. It sucked and I cried and I doubted God and I wept—but I refused to look backward. I didn’t turn my emotions into a text to my ex. I didn’t try to mess with things and slither my way back into a life I knew wasn’t for me. Just like Jesus didn’t command angel armies to lift Him off that splintering wooden cross. He just hung there. For me.



Because He knew Sunday was coming.

And you know what?
MY Sunday’s coming, too.





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