Heartbreak always brings a great deal of debilitating pain. We all have gone through those wasted days of yearning for that one person who broke our heart. However, the pandemic has brought on a new wave of communication during lockdown. With couples now being separated, it seems that most  relationships have lost their spark. Data  states that 23% of couples were struggling with their relationships. 

A psychotherapist weighed in on the issue and said that it was due to the newness of these relationships. Whereas older couples, who’ve experienced many more hardships together, they are able to push through because they already have such a strong foundation. Relate’s survey affirmed this, stating that 38% of couples between ages 16-34 weren’t able to emotionally support their partners during lockdown.

In order to emotionally support yourself through a breakup during the pandemic, you have to create a new routine. During lockdown, going out with friends to mend the breakup blues isn’t an option, so you need to create a routine that best fits you. Here are some methods you can apply to your daily life so you can begin to heal.

Acknowledge your pain

It is crucial that you practice mindfulness during all breakups. Try to acknowledge that you are newly single, and try to work through your emotions. Keep a mood journal! Watch your favorite sad movie! Listen to a playlist and just cry! Now is the best time to do so. Now that you have more time to yourself, you can easily dedicate more time to feeling your emotions.

Be productive

Now that you have experienced the post-breakup blues, it’s time to be productive and set daily goals for yourself, in order to feel more accomplished. No more instagram stalking! In order to learn how to detach, read some new books on relationship dynamics and attachment theories. 

Here are some recommendations: Attached: The New Science of Adult Attachment and How It Can Help YouFind - and Keep - Love, Facing Love Addiction: Giving Yourself the Power to Change the Way You Love,Getting the Love You Want: A Guide for Couples.

Lean more towards your art

Focus more on your art and self expression, studies show that engaging in art helps people’s psychological well-being. Also, what would make you prouder than creating something beautiful all on your own? Try to keep a mood journal to measure your progress and growth. This will help you look back at all the troubles you’ve faced and feel more satisfied. 

There is always something to learn from breakups, and relationship dynamics make it so much more interesting. 

Strike out, 

Ana Hernandez

Florida Atlantic University

I remember when you wandered down to the road to my heart

Obscure lillies incubated behind fences,

Mimicking my hands wanting to reach out and touch you.

I was seven years old when I met you

We didn’t get along,

You called me ugly

You made me cry

Every so often

I was a sensitive child.

I remember when you 

Told everyone I liked you,

That I was obsessed with you.

I wasn’t 

But I can’t deny that cocoons were growing inside my stomach, 

waiting to evolve into butterflies that were caught in my throat

 every time you talked to me.

I know you won’t return the love I have for you. 

But I will always think you’re exquisite. 

I will always feel regret at having 

told you how I felt when 

I knew you wouldn’t return your heart.

I still feel the murmurs of my room in the night 

My mirror muffling visceral screams as I dream about you,

 to wake me up from the heartache.

 Knowing I will never have you. 

But I will always care about you. 

I want to make you feel my love. 

I want you to feel it with the warmth on my arms

Instead of the coldness of my tears. 

I open the vessel of each broken wound.

Slide past it’s silvery openings

And try to piece the broken tissue. 

Because I want to see your skin bloom color like the roses I’ll grow for you

Like the heartfelt poems I write for you

I would give you everything. 

But I know that you’ll never feel the same

I swim across the cross sea,

Squared ripples collapsing against me in every direction.

My salty tears formulate empathy,

Like the salt expanding from the sea

I’m drowning in empathy, that’s where it gets me

When I’m a victim of crashing sea waves 

Melting me down to the core of me.

Until I inhale water Into my lungs

Burning the core of me 

I am a natural phenomenon,

Occurring in the slightest of times

Sometimes I come out of my shell 

Just to watch the broken ocean merge and swell

I try to ride amongst the motion of the ocean

But all I am left with 

is a fishnet for a brain, and intercepting cognitive distortions

I still speak to the ocean and say,

Guide me through the waves

And they pick me up 

Before I fall apart

The salt cleansing my skin and pores

And breathe air enlaced with 

Salt, iodine, magnesium

I am still an eternally free soul 

Who will make riches out of mold

Because I am that very surfer of life

Who will ride the wave, 

and fall until a whirlpool of sinking ships. 

Yet still manage to make it to shore

Trust lies beneath the eyes of the deceived 

Every time I think of a response to your defiance,

 my cheeks turn a widened red like the seams on my esophagus

 that get caught in my throat every time you

 recite your phony lullabies as an attempt

 to bestow a trance embroidered upon the linings of my temporal lobe. 

So don’t speak to me anymore. 

The day after you broke my heart, 

I found crescent moons pinned upon my arm. 

Symbolizing the sky we walked under, 

each one marking a trace of the places you touched me.

 Which resemble vaccine bruises stapled upon my flesh, 

which now seep stains so violently purple that question my naïveté. 

Now as I watch the petals that once flaunted the pardoning of my exiled heart take flight,

 I am reminded of the fact that I still haven’t landed.

 I still see your skin pale as you proceed to stumble on your words 

and vehemently crash upon your truth. 

Transmission deceived.

I swallow sunflower seeds like the pills I take at night

Hoping that those seeds will bloom from my stomach 

And deploy flowers from my skin.

I use those sunflower seeds as bullets 

Throwing words, cacophonied into triggers of hurt and deceit.

I still find ruptures of seeds in my veins,

I want them to heal me but they tear the seams of my skin

I Transcribe my thoughts onto those broken latitudes of the horizon 

Into my skin.

I still trace my body, like a garden, forming a continent-like figure 

As if I were somehow scripting my own demise.

My sunflower garden is a burial ground,

Of all the seeds I planted, 

Formulated into broken fragments of molded petals. 

That were somehow personified, deeply.

In my heart, my flower. 

I still cry on the soil. 

Mourning those lost memories.

I often ask myself if they were real.

Is there any way to know?

I rattle my fingers upon the veined leaf

I strike a razor upon the surface,

It’s sap bleeds out like a wounded soldier 

as I hold it in my palm. 

Veins intertwined like 

two serpents in love. 

I soak myself in it to cleanse my bruises 

From the horror that took place in my room

The day I was abused

So tell me why did you hit her? 

Did you want power?

Your palm, once so comforting, 

Blemishing her skin in a purplish brown,

Once pink, from the way you made her blush.

She now sees you as a monster, 

A man who once sprouted the word innocence

 from his mouth, like a rose, mounting on enriched soil.

I still cry from that night,

I’m sorry you had to go through that 

If you’re so sorry, 

why did you inflict that 

same pain on another 

I can’t hold your hand

Because as I feel the warmth of your veins

I’ll reminisce that warmth she used to confide

 in spray painted her cheek

 in a purplish black color

I’ll always remember, 

what my bruises resembled after that day

watercolor violets,

Braided upon my legs and arms

I’ll never forget how much I weeped, 

My eyesight, demonstrating opaque caricatures

As my tears clouded my eyesight, 

And my mind remained a fog. 

I tried to tell my brother, 

But he claimed it was all a lie.

They would never do that. 

Stop lying.

So explain it to me, 

Write it on a napkin, 

a rose

 or a window 

Explain to me what you did. 

Why you hurt her, 

Like they hurt me

My blush has a pneumatic effect 

I can see how bright someone’s soul burns 

Or sometimes, a glimmering whisper 

I still get stuck at times.

Person to person 

Attachment is a wicked substance 

Foaming out of my mouth every time my lips touch another’s.

Like a secret being spread from the sync of our lips

My heart keeps pondering over the glaciers

 that penetrate my heart every time 

someone withdraws from my weakened grip 

I cry to sleep still. 

Hoping I will not be used as some midnight pit stop.

Muted figures brushing their flesh finding a balance between love and intimacy

But I will not be a victim of your craving for midnight lust 

It seems that you’d rather dig a grave instead of living the fairytale

 that would have been you and me.

There’s no one to blame but you,

 with a soul that’s flickering red 

That tries to warn those who get too close

 but the lamplight is dampened by your charm

But you have no substance, utter waste of beauty 

I trace your face that stems beauty from the roots of your veins 

But the termites that crawl beneath your complexion 

carve their way into a rotten heart

Carrying nothing but lethal muttered lullabies

as the soul is quietly murdered 

And the only thing that’s left is 

a pretty face

I wonder why I cry so much.

Why my tears merge into the ground,

 Making stillborn flowers crack from

 the edges of the engraved, dead soil. 

I hurt myself because I don’t know

 how to escape the thoughts that pitter patter on my head 

and leech themselves into my mind like lice. 

I still cry every day because I yearn for the ocean’s song, 

a song that cleanses my pores and rummages 

through my skin like vibrating particles that sing 

every time the waves talk to me. 

I cry because my mouth can’t comprehend my feelings that

 stumble around my head and my chest and my stomach. 

I cry because I hurt. 

I cry because I can’t escape this sad excuse for a household

 that makes me want to coalesce with my 

tombstone written with my family that claims 

to love me but opens scars every time I speak. 

Fuck love, and every sense of the word. 

Love doesn’t exist for people like me, 

who fall victim to this flame of anger and manipulation.

I can feel lightning falling upon me to make it brighter. 

I can feel the ashes leak into my skin

 to make me feel less alive.

 So don’t dare to speak to me anymore.

 I don’t wanna look at another person that

 justifies the means of my traumatic endeavors. 

I only ask myself one question: who is it going to be next?

I’m only a mere tracing from my parents.

If I was created I was bound by the wildflowers  In god’s garden aching to be touched but when touched they squirm and blood dries out. But I don’t believe in god. I know my parents would call me a whore if they knew I was having sex and their words would rain down like bleach, as if I were a blank canvas they could spit on and draw a whole other tracing of a new person. I cave in between disparities of emptiness and fullness; wearing down the climate; I’m Mother Nature. Wearing down the earth; I am god. I’m a mere tracing from my parents, one they wish they could erase, and start all over.

 Love is a common feeling that we experience throughout the course of our lifetime. The concept of love has been delved into by researchers who have tried to look into love and its constructs. However there has been more research concerning the more problematic aspects of love. Also known as “toxic love”. This love relies on relationship dependence and unfulfilled desires in the relationship.

What is love addiction?

Love addiction refers to a pervasive pattern of maladaptive behavior showing excessive interest towards a romantic partner. Love addiction is referred to as a behavioral addiction due to the recurring involvement with the romantic partner and excluding themselves from their personal interests or social,recreational, or occupational activities. In the first stages of romantic relationships, the relationship is often regarded as a statement of well being and satisfaction. However as the love deepens the individual may experience a dependence towards their partner.

Treatment for love addiction

Self help groups

12 step groups such as codependents anonymous can help people share their experiences and implement and step by step program to heal from their relationship trauma 

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

This could help individuals work on automated behaviors and thoughts that come with addiction such as impulsive actions and maladaptive behaviors. It is said that the best treatment for love addiction is self-counseling which consists of self communication along with interventions that help the person distinguish the contrast between facts and feelings.

Psychotherapy

Love addiction also stems from developmental attachment issues. This may occur because the individual had problems with attachment in early childhood. It has been suggested that it can help address the intimacy issues that stemmed through their parents.

I once bred innocence like a newborn tulip exploring its carcass.

I once felt the rain down my shoulders and thought it was god polishing my inner sanctuary. 

Now I drink, like my father, when the sun rises and as it falls I fall along with it.

Drunken with the words that live in the seams of my throat when I swallow my pride.

When my father throws punches at the wall, I feel the thud. 

Pieces of my bones shatter elsewhere as I try to pick up the pieces.

But I drink like a drunk at a bar who recites his existential crises at the bartender. 

I am a woman whose remains have made part with who she used to be. 

A woman who’s flame can not wither even when her tears try to fuse the flame. 

I am not the girl I used to be when her parents loved her unconditionally.

I am a woman who’s sweat lights the flame in my parent’s eyes.

I am the woman who her parents raised her not to be.

I am a woman that her mother paints and with every brush stroke she can’t seem to get it right.

I am the woman that isn’t loved unconditionally.

Because once I show the parts that are not visible to the naked eye, 

I pose a threat to my parent’s eyes

I was inspired to write this piece due to the TikTok algorithm that was plagued with misogynistic comments about specific preferences that women should exude such as, their weight, race, and even their confidence. However, many men have stated that confidence in women is attractive. Men also view confident women as “cocky” or ‘self-absorbed”. The reason for this is that women have been taught that objectification from men should be their only source of self-worth. Since living in a capitalist world, even the most confident and successful women are often met with what is categorized as “imposter syndrome”. Even though many men are met with insecurity about their capabilities. Women are more likely to become a casualty within this term. A Hewlett Packard internal report found that men apply for a job or a promotion when they only meet 60% of the qualifications, while women apply only if they meet 100% of them.

Women are also taught to see other women as rivals. Underlying factors may include receiving a job or a promotion, or even in their romantic lives. Somya Shankar, a counselor, stated, "The same is true in our romantic lives. Girls learn that being attractive to men is the epitome of achievement and identity by the time they reach a marriable age, thereby making other women their competitors in the game of love.” I, personally, have also experienced this. Even at the ripe age of thirteen when I thought I was the ugliest girl in my friend group. But as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that there is no need to compare myself to others. Because there are traits in identity that no matter the recipe, distinguish us from others. A literature study from Tracy Vaillancourt in 2013 supports that analogy. The abstract states that “Research has shown that females typically direct their indirect aggression towards other females.” And that it usually has to do with competing for men.

Women are also criticized for wearing too much makeup. When I started to get into makeup, I was approached by many people asking why I wear too much of it. I was continuously told that I was trying too hard to be “conventionally attractive” and that I was probably ugly underneath. I was also told that I was wearing it to appease men, which couldn't be further from the truth. Women are usually told that their desire to look good was to impress others. Which, by others, primarily meant men. In a new york times article written by Emily V Gordon she explains that she also encountered internalized misogyny. Her article states “ In high school, I decided that all my female friends were stupid and traded them for guy friends. I loved horror movies and heavy metal and used these interests to become a “guys’ girl”. I thought that by segregating myself I would save myself from the awareness that I wasn’t ever going to be pretty/perfect cool enough.” Many women suffer from that internalized struggle which stems from internalized misogyny which I, also, can relate to. This is why its important to discover self-confidence in what some call a “man’s world”. To be able to break the barrier which holds women back from their true capabilities and what makes them different instead of similar.

Fenty Beauty’s latest collaboration with MSCHF has sparked division between makeup lovers.

In Fenty's recent collaboration with MSCHF, the infamous brand has launched a new saucy take on lip gloss. For $25 makeup lovers can now have their turn in a roulette consisting of either ketchup or makeup. 

Hidden behind an aesthetically pleasing package is 6 packets of what seemingly appears to be individual ketchup packets that entails either actual ketchup or sought-after makeup. 

When pictures of this new condiment themed collection dropped on social media, many confused and disappointed fans hit the comments. Even though this new collaboration was aimed to provide a new fun take on makeup, many Rihanna fans are divided on this new launch. Either debating on the cost or the quality of the product in general. 

One twitter user stated, “From the marketing executive that brought you the pots of lipgloss that clip to your belt (during a pandemic) comes... ketchup or makeup! Is the value 14 cents or $3? Who cares! We’re still selling it for $25!!” 

This dislike for the price tag is often a divider with obscure products like this - are we paying for the product or the idea? 

That’s a decision for the consumer to make. 

Considering if the idea has been well executed, many thought it wasteful. The design of the packaging means that once you rip the sachet to reveal (potentially) a gorgeous red lip gloss - there is no way to seal and reuse it. With few content creators mentioning this flaw, the comments of their videos seem riddled with confusion and dislike for the issue.  

In a world where sustainability is a regular conversion, perhaps creating one product to be split into lots of harmful packaging was a tad ignorant.

However, beneath the disappointed fans lie a few positive ones. Gurus on TikTok share their thoughts on the packages’ exclusive gloss, giving it their seal of approval. 

“This gloss is gorgeous”, says tiktoker @marjmaroket. 

Haters aside, this package ships worldwide if you are interested in this condiment themed game of roulette. Happy spending!

Edited by Emily Duff

On August 24th, six months after the season 2 finale, Barbie Ferreira announced her exit from HBO hit show, euphoria. This means she will not be returning to film the show’s third season. The actress also wrote a heartfelt goodbye to one of the show’s most complex characters, Kat Hernandez. “after four years of getting to embody the most special and enigmatic character kat, I'm having to say a very teary-eyed goodbye," she says. 

Kat Hernandez doesn’t fit the prolonged “fat girl trope” as her character aimed to break new barriers of complexity. In season 1, we see her undergo a metamorphosis after a traumatic sexual experience and see her reach an awakening consisting of promiscuity and a stylistic transformation. These changes allowed her to achieve a “fake it till you make it” level of confidence. But the controversial question remains, was Kat’s confidence genuinely authentic, or did it stem from male validation? That's a question even viewers can't seem to answer.

Even though Kat Hernandez played a memorable part in the hit show’s first season, the second season reduced Kat’s character to the background  When we see her internally debate about her relationship with her boyfriend, Ethan, who she then breaks up with by claiming she has a terminal brain disorder and we see her be the mediator between two former best friends in a fiddling love triangle with one’s former boyfriend, Nate. We still have yet to wonder how Kat’s character is going to be written off, but that's a riddle that one can only wonder about until the next season.

I was waiting in the car when I got the tempting idea to crash my mom’s car into a nearby tree. My mother had rushed back into the house, looking for something she had forgotten. All I needed to do was put the car in drive. Drive. Drive. Drive… And it would end. On that very same day, I would finally get what I wished for and would be too dead to face the consequences.

I’m 23 and I don’t drive and fairly recently, a driving instructor cut my license in half. He had fins for hands and a look on his face that bordered on sympathetic when I cried because I couldn’t get the car to reverse. Reverse. Reverse. Reverse…

I always wondered what the last thought surfacing in the veins of my periphery before I died would be— it would probably include my  family. I was born into a middle-class household inhabited by hardworking Latinos. To better characterize them, I, myself, have a fishnet for a brain that is hardwired to look for danger around every corner. An abandoned street is a good example and would serve as a finger on the trigger.

My mom, the weight-bearing prodigy of my family, has scales to protect herself. You could tear them apart with bullets or scalpels, and there would be a fresh set of them, newly harvested for use. My brother inherited a “swimming nose,” its ripened nares fishing for signals of vulnerability at any corner—a true carnivore. My father, however, embodies the famous great white shark: fins for hands, clam-shaped eyelids with the eyes gently protruding from their sockets, and a daunting physique fabricated by heaps of pristine cartilage and a brain consisting of prey-driven vigor. We are all fish out of water, but what matters is how we handle it.

Driving lessons are like swimming lessons, they both possess the possibility of disappointment being a heavy mass on your shoulders. I watch my mother get in the car, the car still in park, the responsibility of bearing that thought honing in on me. I learned how to swim, but what does it matter? I still can’t drive myself home, the only place where I might find solace.

         I remember being hungry, hungry for that glass of that heavy auburn liquid that makes a stubborn addict fall to his knees. All those nuisances, those unrequited loves of my life seemed  insignificant at the time. Because the silky, chestnut-toned warmth was filling that void. Because in those times in my life I gave love everything, and it gave me nothing. That wasn’t the case with alcohol, no, alcohol gave me the courage to be bold, audacious and it gave me freedom to be a fuck-up. It gave me everything.

      I had picked up bad habits when I was in college. Emotionally unavailable men, my mother’s nicotine habit, my father’s drinking habit, and binge eating. But the bottle was my one true love, a spell not even  a 12 step program could break me out of. Once I was talking to a man I’d known for two weeks and after he ghosted me  I cried because I was sober. I cried because I didn’t feel loved. I cried because I made a commitment to being sober when the bottle gave me a false sense of confidence that was non-existent  when I was sober. I didn’t care that I almost died of alcohol poisoning. I didn’t care that my drinking made me severely incapacitated . All I cared about was that while being drunk, my headspace was adorned with ten  foot windows, a four story home, and lavender-scented air fresheners that furnished its atmosphere. When I was drinking, time was meaningless. It was a luxury I could afford. 

     The bottle also gave me friends, many of whom were men. Who at the time seemed like a good investment. But as I kept on drinking, my life slowly fell apart and a man I had been seeing took advantage of that.

“I want you to be drunk when I pick you up.” He stated firmly in his text.

“Why?” I responded.

“I love having sex when you’re drunk. It’s  good.”

I had complied.

       Soon after, I realized that his heart was encased in ice. All the memories of the man I had once seen as someone who was worth a romantic endeavor didn’t love me for the woman I was, he only liked me for the love I gave him. After months of longing for closure, I slowly started to lose my grip from the bottle. I was tired of the post-binge clarity. And I decided to do some good for myself and gain the clarity that I couldn’t have when I was drunk. I started doing everything on my checklist that didn’t include being shit-faced. And I slowly but surely started to learn more about myself. Then I found a community that loved me for who I was as a sober woman.

“Hi my name is Ana, and I’m an alcoholic.” I smiled shyly.

“Hi Ana, welcome!”

I knew my grandmother was dying
when I enlaced her ashen fingers with mine,
and you could feel the tremors
of her muted heartbeat.

When she walked, her feet were seething
into the ground, rooted in that impoverished soil
we were all destined to become too familiar with.

I knew because when she talked,
I could never understand her,
her broken language was shattered
by years of a tongue depraved of water
when before it was coated like enriched soil.

I know that when the time came,
I wouldn’t be able to feign indifference,
no matter how much I needed to.

We were both smokers; the difference is I stopped.
She’s 89 years old and counting, but not for long.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw my uncle
put a cigarette in her mouth.
Her lungs are two mountains, lacking life force