The PDF

They say bad things come in threes, but what about fours? Fives? Sixes? Shit, sometime this month, I stopped counting and simply braced for impact. It’s been a whirlwind of a month, to say the least. 

I’m no longer the pessimistic, sad sack-of-shit that I was in my youth. I get up, I smile, I laugh. I face life with a lightness in my heart and a twinkle in my eye; because if I didn’t, the absurdity of it all would swallow me whole.

It’s been… a lot. A slow cumulation of one small shitty thing after another. So let me face it all with a sense of humour and a keyboard, I don’t have time to wallow.

Let me set the scene, it all started about a month ago.

As I walked downstairs one unassuming morning, the first thing I noticed was water pooling up in the corner of my kitchen. Fuck. Then, the dank smell of damp rot and hidden mold hit my nostrils. Outside was an absolute downpour and my kitchen resembled a kid’s wading pool. I spent the day mopping up bucket after bucket of water. As I pulled up each floor board, I discovered more and more mold. 

With incredible good luck I managed to find a new place to move into almost immediately – a gorgeous, warm and inviting home. So, I began to pack my life into cardboard boxes. At first glance, this doesn’t seem like a hard task, but it felt like a Sisyphean sentence. The labour of sorting through my ex’s, my kids and my own accumulated ADHD hoard of “well, maybe we could use this someday.” Every time I tackled one corner, the mess seemed to multiply as if it would bury me inside. I had no choice but to take on this feat by myself, no prince would come rescue me out of this mess.

Between hauling boxes and mopping up the water that continued flowing into my house, my breaks were dedicated to tackling the stack of student essays with a looming deadline. My brain, moving at a chaotic speed, thought about single parenting responsibilities, grading rubrics and relocation logistics. Unfortunately, it appears that my time-consuming minor crisis proved too much for my boyfriend to handle.

“It seems to me you don’t have the time or temperament for a serious relationship right now.” – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

I thought that would be the end of the chaos. The new house brought the promise of a fresh start. A new house that didn’t have any ghosts of angry men lurking in dark corners. The promise of bright new memories with my kids, my dogs, and my loving boyfriend. That bubble quickly burst. The universe decided I was ready to face off with a woman who belongs in a role as the antagonist of a psychological thriller.

The first night, I saw someone peering in my windows with a headlamp. I hesitantly opened the door, “Why are you banging so much? How much do you pay for this place? Answer my questions!” I was thrown off my game a bit, confused by the abrasive nature of this auntie. I thought she’d be quick to get used to a new neighbour, then leave me the hell alone.

I was wrong. I left the ghost of an angry man behind, only to find a new predator.

Within a week she was threatening to call the police and get her lawyers involved for my son and I, daring to make the slightest noises during daylight hours. The plot to that soon-to-be Netflix documentary thickened, when she somehow found out my old address and demanded my former security guard share some dirt on me! He denied her request. He told me a strange lady called. I was really creeped the hell out. I guess the stuff on my plate seemed like I was creating an intentional list of inconveniences for my dear boyfriend.

“When you feel anxiety it seems you add up all the shit that is weighing on you. I really don’t want to be on that list, so I’m going to take myself off of it.” – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

Then, before I could really get to my “shit list” of things to deal with, I got a text. 
“I had a mini stroke. I can’t get a hold of your sister.” 
Panic ensued as I tried to get a hold of my sister. The 12-hour time difference felt like a crushing weight as I waited for replies. My head ringing with a thousand what-ifs. I don’t want to lose my mom. Monday morning brought another text; another TIA. Tears filled my eyes as I tried to get my son ready for school, send messages to my sister and stepfather to get more information. Is she okay? Is she going to be okay? Why does it take so long for everyone to fucking reply?

* I don’t want to lose my mom. *

Tears stung my eyes as I walked into my office, and after briefing a few close coworkers, I blinked hard, took a deep breath and got on with my day. The weight of my mother’s health was pressing into my chest throughout the day, a mammoth, crushing anxiety that not only could I lose my mom, but my nephew, of whom she has sole custody, could lose her too. I carried that in silence as I walked into the classroom with a warm heart and gentle smile, as the thought of “I don’t want to lose my mom” repeated endlessly in my head. 

“I hope you can find clarity without the stress I put on you.” – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

Finally, it was my turn for a ride on the rollercoaster. I drove my scooter to the hospital, with each bump on the road feeling like a stab to the abdomen. I knew a cyst had ruptured, but I had a hoard to sort through and a busy life to manage, I tried to push through. I did too much. The bleeding didn’t stop and filled my abdomen. 

Six hours in a sterile ER bed, watching the slow drip of the IV giving me hemostatics and opiates to stop the bleeding and ease the pain. The threat of emergency surgery lingering in the background. Luckily, I was stable. “Bed rest,” the doctor commanded. “Do not go to work, do not move boxes, you need rest.”

I went home to a house of unpacked boxes, wondering when I could ever finish packing up the old house, but sat in stillness and calm, knowing that I really needed to slow down.

My phone chimed. He knew where I had been and that I was on bedrest. But he had something he needed to “get out of his head.” Thus came the PDF.

“I need positivity, motivation, and good vibes, whether I’m injured or healthy. I hope you understand my approach to life.”  – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

A break-up PDF after two and a half years. 

It didn’t come as a surprise, I had been thinking about breaking up for months now. But, I wanted to give him a chance. We had something really good, it was just… lacking something. I really did love him.

The weekend before the house flooded, he had back surgery. A herniated disc had been causing pain for months. I slept in the shitty chair next to his hospital bed, emptied his catheter and got him food and drink when needed.

He couldn’t physically help me move. He was stuck at home recovering and in pain. We were stuck with digital communication as I tried to unbury myself from the amassed hoard of crap in my house. But, while I physically showed up for him, he didn’t show up for me. He saw a list of stressors that threatened his vibe. 

I sent long detailed texts about the stress of the day, not to dwell or stew in it, but to vent to the person who loves me. His texts were short, cold, and showed complete disinterest. No follow up questions, just a ‘how are you?’ and whatever the answer was, a ‘cool, have a good night’.

**Me:** *“I’m so afraid my mom will die and my nephew will be orphaned.”*
**Him:** *“She’ll be fine, here’s a meme about a pineapple.”*

**Him:** *“Hey babes. How’s it going?”*
**Me:** *“I’m exhausted. I’m so tired of going into that moldy ass house every day. My period even came four days early, it must be stress. Just want to sit and do nothing. But can’t. Wah wah wah. I can stop by tomorrow. I might need to mark essays though. If you need me to take a load of laundry for you, I can.”*
**Him:** *“Noice! Just wanted to say good night.”*

I told him I needed more. I didn’t need anyone to fix anything, I just wanted to feel seen, heard, supported. Seven days before the PDF, I was promised “I love you so much, I’m going to try harder.”

He asked one or two more questions than usual, but treated it as a clinical checklist. ‘I asked her about her day, I asked her about her son, I am a great boyfriend!’ But, my answers to those questions were skipped over. 

I am only lovable to him when I am the best version of myself. I am only lovable to him when I’m in a silly positive mood. 

“I’m sure it was a breath of fresh air to have me around for a while.”   – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

He wanted a baby with me, he wanted to move in with me, but he only wanted to connect with me when I was flirty and fun. “Deal with your issues by yourself.” He said I gave up on HIM. He didn’t want a partner, he wanted someone who could contribute good vibes and was void of anything too messy, too real or too human.

“Unfortunately, my fountain of gratitude only helps me.  Maybe I can be a better friend than lover.”   – Dear Lauren, (1).pdf

My friends and acquaintances showed more support than him. What kind of friend could he be? A fair-weather friend; that’s not one I need. 

When I called him out on how shitty it was to send a PDF, he said he wanted to avoid an argument. Two and a half years of love, intimacy, shared dreams delivered in a few KB of data and Arial 12-point font. He didn’t just want to avoid an argument, he wanted to avoid the weight of a real person and any sense of accountability.

While he was busy protecting his peace, I was busy building a life.

In this month of floods, stalkers, and internal bleeding, I didn’t just survive. I finished an AI certification course. I taught myself vibe coding. I developed my own app from scratch to streamline that mammoth grading task of checking stacks of essays. I took actions to lighten my load. I laughed, deeply laughed, with friends who actually show up. I turned a house into a beautiful home, and I spent my evenings making sweet memories with my son, setting a tone of strength, lightness and love for our new sanctuary. 

I am more than fun and flirty. I am a creator, a mother, a leader, a lover, and a survivor.

I am busy being my own sun.
Peace, sunshine, rainbows and good vibes to you! ☀️🌈🦄✨