Heartbreak to me feels like the bed indentation of Norma Bates’ corpse in Psycho. Literally, I have felt how that bed feels. Metaphysically. Metaphorically. Except, my heart is the indentation and the corpse, and the mattress, just sinking under the weight of death. Underneath another corpse that was a relationship, but now is just my son dressing up in my clothes, and talking to himself as me.
I guess the only way I can describe this is through a metaphor.
The first time I had sex with my son...what? Sorry. No.
The first time I had sex with my son, I thought, wow. This is incredible. Two beings not hindered by time, or space, or ancestry. Sharing a motel of love and vulnerability and sexiness. I touched him, and he touched me. I had a little bit of whipped cream on my boobs and he licked it off.
We started out as friends, well I raised him. Then, we became friends and eventually started dating and made sex together. He told me he liked me for a really long time. He was really funny, he looked like his father. Then, and I don’t really remember this next part, we were arguing because he was sexting another woman with my same name but not me, and then he lied about it, and I told him to leave. But, when you see your own son on your bed, I mean, can you blame me? So, we did it again, and then I told him, “Go Home!” which was here, so he stayed, and we had sex again.
I woke up the next day and he told me he was cheating on me for a long time. Then he killed me.
Except not because I was engaged and stopped showing him attention. No. Some other very rude lady stayed at our motel and they ruined our motel of love, and then killed me and left me in a bed for a long time. And I decomposed into a skeleton.
It is what it is.
I lost my best friend. And the protective casing around my heart shattered into hundreds of pieces, stabbing me multiple times in different ways. It’s the kind of pain you can’t move away from. You just have to wait for it to heal.
I guess the greatest lesson I learned from this was that it had nothing to do with me. I mean I did have sex with my son, but it was consensual, and that’s beside the point. He wasn’t gonna stay unless he wanted to. He was just a boy, and maybe would never become a man. And if he really loved me, he would have treated me like he actually loved me.
I stood on the sidewalk and yelled at him, “As your mother, I will hold you accountable for your actions.” I said, “You don’t treat people this way, especially people you care about, especially people like me. So, figure your shit out!”
Heartbreak is hard. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I did wrong and missing everything that I thought was right. Letting go of it is the hardest thing, but the most important thing.
For the record, I did not have sex with my son. Do I even look old enough? To have had a son? Who would then be old enough to fuck me so good I'd call him "Daddy"? No. But, as someone with experience, I recommend staying away from that. It’s sexy, but it’s not worth it. You will end up a hollow skeleton. Also, don’t date people who make you feel like you’re their mom.
We hope you enjoyed Emily's piece from our last It's Personal show: Heartbreak.