A Breakup Letter to the Diva Cup

We had a good run... kinda

Hey girl,

How’s it going? Stupid question. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make light. I know how tough your week was — I was there to witness it all, front and center.

First of all, I want you to know that I didn’t use to be like this. I really didn’t. I know you didn’t know me before Ziggy, but I used to be a lot lighter. In fact, sometimes I wasn’t even sure if anything was going on — that’s how light we’re talking. I’m sure you don’t believe me. Honestly, I wouldn’t either if I were you. Not after last week. But I hope you can find it in your heart to at least try to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Anyway, I think you and I both know it’s over. I know that’s blunt, but we’re both adults here, and there’s no point in sugar coating the situation. Especially not after my hand was coated in blood not once but twice last week because of our…mismatch.

We had a slippery beginning, you and I (literally and figuratively). I wasn’t quite sure about you or what to do with you. Our meeting was a bit a awkward to say the least. Eventually, though, I figured you out and got comfortable with you. I “got” you, so to speak. And when that happened, I fell hard and fast. I came on strong. It pains me to admit this, but I love-bombed you. I hyped you up to anyone who would listen, imploring women everywhere to trust in you. To make the switch. To never look back.

But last week, things got messy. Like, really messy. So messy that I think we both know there’s no coming back from it.

I trusted you. I trusted you to do your thing, and you failed me. After hyping you up to my friends and family, you let me down. You couldn’t handle the load, the pressure. We all know the first few days are the hardest, but I really believed you’d be there for me. Even though you can hang for 12 hours straight, I knew to not be so confident. To not do that to you. So I checked in after 5 hours, and alas, you ranneth over and into several pairs of my underwear and leggings, leaving your mark.

I love a little drama and passion, don’t get me wrong. But last week was over the top. I know I threw a lot at you, but having to go in and get you in the middle of such an unsightly situation was traumatizing. There I was, holding you in the same hand that had just retrieved you and was covered in blood. Like murder scene covered.

Somewhere between emptying you into the toilet, rinsing you, and having to clean up the murder scene (including my hand), I realized this was all too much. That I didn’t love you, per se but the idea of you. That while you’re the smarter, safer, more sustainable choice and you look great on paper, we aren’t it for each other.

What makes this so hard is that we’re both good people. No one did anything wrong; we just aren’t a match. And before you say anything, yes — I’m going back to them. My old flame. My on and off again. The one I just can’t quit. My tampons. Are they inconvenient? Yes. Do they give environmentally unsound? Yes. Are they most costly? Yes. But after what we went through last week, I simply can’t do it again. I can’t… and I won’t.

I know you make many others happy and that you’ll continue to, and I love that for you. I really do. But I fear you may not be built for a postpartum system, and so we’ve reached an impasse.

I wish you the best in your endeavors. May your cup always runneth but maybe not runneth over because it really sucks when that happens.

With love and blood,

Emma