My head was throbbing. I checked my alarm clock. 6 am. I had to get ready for work. Gosh! I hated Mondays. Last weekend I was at The Radisson Blu, having English breakfast, sipping tea with lots of creamer and spending my evenings by the pool in a bikini. After two nights of luxury and living the baby girl lifestyle, I was back to my apartment. The familiar walls reminding me that good things were only temporary. After being surrounded by all that amazingness in a room that had a wonderful view of the sea side, I was back here. I had lavished my savings on the ephemeral oblivious of the fact that after trying to distract myself, I would be drawn to the reality and my problems would stare back at me, wide-eyed. I was still heartbroken. 

Don’t go looking for solutions to all your problems on Google. It’s silly. I had heard that before so I followed those pages on Instagram with lots of memes about moving on and YouTube channels that had a Black American woman preach self-love.

“You’re the prize, baby girl. Act like it “. 

That was where I heard that spoiling myself; shopping spree and a weekend getaway would make me feel better.  So I obliged but it was over and I was in a downward spiral. 

I got up with all the strength I could muster. Taking a few steps, I kicked over an empty vodka bottle and it shattered, leaving uneven glittery pieces of glass on the floor. I made a mental note to clean it up later. I hurried to the bathroom, trying to hold back tears as I brushed and flossed. My eyes looked swollen. I cried in the shower but the good thing about being an unhappy woman is that you could conceal it with layers of makeup. So I did the needful, as I sat by my dressing mirror with bottles, tubes, cases of Mary Kay, Iman and L’Oreal. I blinked hard. My eyes were beautiful. I could see it too. Perhaps that was the only time he had been Sincere. The only compliment that made sense. He probably said it to his other woman, simultaneously feeding us lies to make us feel special while he carefully and as an artist, dabbed on more colors from his palette to paint us as clowns on different canvases.

I looked stunning in this typical Monday morning outfit. A pair of Louboutin heels would complete this Stylespiration. Looking I the mirror was 24-year-old me, glowing on the outside but broken inside. Something pierced through the soles of my feet. I had stepped on those broken pieces of the vodka bottle I held hours ago in a state of drunkenness. I slumped on my bed and whined. I couldn’t make it to work.  The sun was already out and the traffic? It would be so hectic. 

I  started crying again. Not because I was injured. I was heartbroken and it hurt more. 

This article was written bAkpere Vera; connect with her on Instagram via here  

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