how Women of the Hour made me cry like a baby

[EDIT] I started writing this on December 1st. That night, I decided to download Girls and watch it. I fell in love instantly with the show. So now I know who Lena Dunham is. But I like to publish my essays, even if they’re not completely finished or thought out, because this is my blog dammit.


December 1, 2015

If you haven’t yet discovered Lena Dunham’s podcast Women of the Hour, you need to yesterday. It’s funny and heartbreaking and raw and beautiful and I can’t get enough of it. I was in my bestie’s kitchen drinking wine, wallowing in self-pity over the brutal loss of a dear friend and his new girlfriend partner who is younger than my favorite brown skirt. This is how many of my life-changing moments begin. (In fact, this is the exact same situation I was in a little over a year before — same friend, different young thing(s) — there were a few, none really stuck.)

Back to this podcast and Lena Dunham. She’s fucking brilliant. I don’t even know who she is really, because I don’t have a TV and I’m equally bad about watching shows online. I never saw Girls, although I heard it was fabulous. I’m all for women talking about their pussies and giving a big finger to gender roles / binaries / societal expectations. I’m a fucking feminist. I would kill off all men if I could. Or just keep them around as sex slaves. (Damn them and their anatomy.)

Lena Dunham tells it like it is, and it’s refreshing and exactly what I need right now. I’m so fucking sick of hiding 1) my true identity, whatever the fuck that is I’m still trying to figure it out thank you therapy; and 2) my story. THE STORY. You all know the story. Or you don’t. But I want to tell it. But it involves hurting people I love. So I can’t. But it needs to be told. And every day that I don’t tell my story, I sink into a deeper hole of depression.

Also, I love to say fuck and I love hearing other people say it, too. Don’t listen to the podcast if you don’t like the words: pussy and fuck and raw discussions about both. You’ve been warned.

The most recent podcast was about sex and love. Jesus christ, do we really need to go there? I do. In it, you hear from so many delicious women (including the gorgeous Hari Nef, navigating getting fucked as a transgender in New York) telling their stories of love and sex and loss and romance and, did I mention loss?

If you’re impatient or unsure about all of this, just listen to the last segment, in which Lena Dunham reads [the letter I want to write] to her ex-boyfriend. It’s so goddamn beautiful and it made me cry in bed while Jojo was asleep in another bed in the same room. My belly stuffed with turkey and wine, I just wept. Because there it all was. ALL FUCKING THERE.

So start at 50:45, and listen to what she had to say to her ex-love, and prepare for all the feels:


Here are some of my favorite quotes from the podcast and the reason why I was weeping by the end of her letter. I would respond to each of these quotes and why I love them so much, but I’m afraid of how much I’ll reveal about myself. Some of it you know, some of it you have guessed. I’m just not ready yet, but someday (soon) I will be. 

*     *     *     *     *

the moment I wrote this letter the dreams stopped and so did the googling, actually, though I still think of him every time…

*     *     *     *     *

I’m writing now because I dream of you much too often.

*     *     *     *     *

We find many different ways to say we are sorry, but not sorry enough.

*     *     *     *     *

I wake next to the man I love, guilty as sin and soaked in sweat, so I’m asking for it to stop.

*     *     *     *     *

I don’t know anymore what you’re allowed to consider true love. Now, for me, true love is honesty and it steadfastness. And it is a bathroom stocked with everything two people need to stay healthy. It is cleaning up the dog piss that has dried sticky by the fridge and it is making sure the AC is where we both want it. It is breaking down in someone’s arms and going to brunch with their grandmother even when you’d rather die.

*     *     *     *     *

Back then it was waiting for the phone in my hands for your phone to appear.  It was begging you silently to see me.

*     *     *     *     *

I spent too long pretending I didn’t love you. But if I didn’t love you, then you wouldn’t be barging into all of these dreams. now would you? So let me just tell you the reasons I loved you:

*     *     *     *     *

I want you to know that I didn’t disappear because I wanted to but because I had to. I truly believe, whether it’s fair to me or not, that I let you think it was ok to hurt me. I gave that to you like a neatly wrapped gift. And then I couldn’t give it any more.

*     *     *     *     *

But I am here, in your borough, thinking of you more often than you’d imagine based on my schedule, and based on the fact that I’m in love with a man and with the life that we started building. Isn’t it wild that all of that can exist at once?

*     *     *     *     *

I imagine what I would do if you appeared across the street. what would I do? I would panic. And then I would smile. And you would smile back. Because it hasn’t been so long, really.

*     *     *     *     *

I’m sorry for my part in all of this.



I am sorry. Truly sorry. 

 

 

 

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About Gina Marie Thompson

writer • mom • trail runner • cheese slinger • educator • social justice crusader • seeker of love & beauty• living locally • I CHOOSE LOVE ❤️
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