chapter 9 chair 2 saga
Chapter 9
Blocked, Blessed, and Emotionally Repossessed — A Celebration
Written by: Candz — Landlord of Her Own Peace, Evictor of Ghost Tenants.
This chapter is a party for the petty and the peaceful. It’s where the glitter meets the rake — we sweep up the shards of what used to be and plant them in a new garden where no one is allowed to leave passive-aggressive voicemails.
Scene: The Digital Knot-Slashing
It’s 3:12 p.m. You’re in sweats. The tea’s gone cold. Your phone buzzes — again. You stare. It’s him, because of course it’s him, delivering a magical combo of begging, vague grandiosity, and one emoji that’s supposed to mean remorse but reads like a threat.
You breathe. You think of every time you apologized for being human while he treated you like a suggestion box for his emotional tantrums. You think of every “I didn’t mean to” that meant “I meant to, but I like attention more than I like accountability.”
You tap Block.
The screen doesn’t just go dark — it thunks like the sound of a judge slamming a gavel on a bullshit case. It’s tiny. It’s sacred. It’s the sound of reclaiming oxygen.
You do a little ritual: block, delete, unfollow, and then — because you’re not a monster — you archive the chat in a folder called “Museum of What-Ifs.” Let the exhibits sit. Let the ghost tour be for historians.
You light a candle because dramatic gestures are fun and also because you deserve to do a tiny ceremony for the part of you that survived the nonsense.
The Little Things That Feel Monumental
Deleting his number: Like cutting a string that used to pull at your puppet limbs. You realize the string was attached to your own hand. You snip. You dance.
Turning off read receipts: It’s delicious. No accountability for someone who never learned it in the first place.
Removing mutual tags on social: It’s not petty, it’s tidy. You’re Marie Kondo-ing people out of your feed.
Blocking his friends who act like diplomacy managers: You’re not at a UN summit. Remove. Mute. Move.
These little acts are not petty — they’re surgical. They’re the stitches that hold your boundary together.
The Celebration: Rituals That Aren’t Weird (Except They Are, But In A Good Way)
Playlist of the Repossessed — Songs that make you feel like you could relocate a small country with your middle finger. Make it loud. Sing like you’re in a stadium that exists only in your living room.
Ridiculous outfit parade — Wear something you wouldn’t have worn for his approval. Sequins, leather, whatever makes you feel alarmingly yourself. Walk in front of a mirror and snap a photo. Keep it as evidence you thrived.
The Thank-You Letter (You Don’t Send) — Write a letter to him. Thank him for the lessons he taught you (no, seriously—list them. Even the shitty ones have receipts). Burn it in a safe bowl if you want closure that smells like victory.
Block Party (solo edition) — Throw a small “I’m done” night. Order pizza. Watch a movie where the heroine doesn’t return to the villain. Laugh. Eat dessert first.
Financial Repossession — Reclaim time and money previously spent patching emotional leaks. Treat yourself to one small, meaningful purchase that says: “I’m investing in my future, not in your apology tour.”
The Emotional Repossession Checklist (Practical, Not Preachy)
Delete contact — yes. Do it.
Block on all platforms — if he has more accounts than you have patience, block them all.
Change habits that lead back to him — stop checking his stories, stop refreshing mutual friends’ pages for “news,” stop replaying the voice notes.
Tell 2-3 people you trust — shortcuts the drama and gives you witnesses to your move-out-of-sadness.
Set a No-Turn-Back rule — for 30 days, no contact. No exceptions. If you break it, you owe yourself a real apology, and maybe therapy with a stiff coffee afterward.
Journal one line a day — what felt lighter? what still hurts? tiny wins compound.
The Petty & Holy Bit (Because Balance)
There’s a space where petty is holy. Text-blocking is petty. So is keeping one of his ridiculous gifts in a box and naming it “Evidence.” But petty can be a form of boundary enforcement, and honey, enforce those borders.
Also? Call your energy back. There’s nothing more sacred than taking the emotional currency he spent irresponsibly and reinvesting it in yourself.
A Note on Guilt: You’ll Feel It — Then It’ll Shrink
Guilt is sneaky. It’ll try to creep in like bad lighting in an old movie. “But what about his feelings?” it says in a voice you can barely hear. You respond: What about mine? You owe yourself the same compassion you keep giving to people who don’t deserve interest on their emotional debt.
Real growth doesn’t look like martyrdom. It looks like choosing peace over performance.
Closing Scene: The Unapologetic Sunrise
A week later, you wake up. The air feels different because there’s less noise in your head. You make coffee. You don’t draft a reply. You don’t rehearse how to explain your boundaries. You just exist.
And — tiny miracle — you like yourself more in the morning mirror. You see your face, not as a checklist for someone else’s redemption arc, but as the home of someone who is, finally, emotionally repossessed.
You raise your mug. Toast to being blocked, blessed, and beautifully done with nonsense.
