Hey y’all, it’s Tina. Grab a snack, pull up a chair, and prepare to feel better about your own life choices, because today we are diving deep into the archives of my most unhinged behavior.
We’ve all been there, right? That specific type of relationship “itch” where your intuition is screaming, your anxiety is peaking, and suddenly you find yourself acting like a literal secret agent in your own bedroom. Except, I wasn’t exactly James Bond. I was more like a confused raccoon in a pajama set.
Before we get into the nitty-gritty—yes, the story lives rent-free in my brain forever. If you’ve lived this life, you don’t even need a picture to see it. It’s nighttime, the room is dark, and the vibes are… suspicious.
It was about 2:00 AM. The kind of quiet where you can hear your own heartbeat and the faint buzzing of the refrigerator three rooms away. There he was, fast asleep, dreaming about whatever men dream about—probably sports or a world where I don’t ask “what are you thinking about?” every five minutes.
And then there was his phone. Just sitting there on the nightstand, glowing with the forbidden energy of a thousand secrets. Now, a normal person might say, “Tina, just go to sleep. If you don’t trust him, leave.” But 2:00 AM Tina is not a normal person. 2:00 AM Tina is a private investigator with zero budget and even less dignity.
I didn’t want to just reach over and grab it—that’s too risky. I decided the best course of action was to crawl. Yes, y’all. I got out of bed on my side, hit the carpet, and began a slow, agonizingly quiet belly-crawl around the foot of the bed. I felt like I was in Mission Impossible, but instead of high-tech laser grids, I was dodging stray socks and a half-empty water bottle.
I finally reached the summit (his nightstand). I slowly, carefully, reached up and snagged the phone. I was mid-scroll, squinting at the brightness, when the unthinkable happened.
The bed shifted. The breathing stopped. HE WOKE UP.
In a panic that can only be described as “pure survival instinct,” I didn’t just put the phone back. Oh no. I dropped that thing like it was a hot coal and shoved my entire upper body under the bed frame. I started patting the floor blindly, whispering to myself, “Where is it… where is it…” like I was searching for a lost contact lens at 2:00 AM with no flashlight. Please.
I thought I was being slick. I really did. I was waiting for him to ask, “Tina, what are you doing?” so I could say, “Oh, I dropped my earring!” Instead, there was just silence. Then, a heavy sigh.
He leaned over the edge of the bed, looked me dead in my face while I was still half-under the dust ruffled abyss, and said:
“You ain’t looking for shi. Keep going through it, because we’re going through yours next.”
Y’all… my heart didn’t just drop; it evaporated. My soul left my body, packed a bag, and said, “Girl, you on your own.”
See, that’s the thing about “Mutually Assured Destruction.” I was so busy trying to find out if he was talking to ‘Jessica from work’ that I completely forgot about the three-hour vent session I had with my best friend earlier that day where I called him a “sentient thumb with a bad attitude.” I realized in that moment that the “Phone Inspection” was a two-way street, and I did NOT have a crossing guard.
When I realized I was about to be audited, the panic reached a new level. This was no longer about curiosity; it was about self-preservation. I couldn’t let him see my messages. I had to pivot. I had to create a distraction so big, so chaotic, that he’d forget all about my digital footprint.
I scrambled up, grabbed my own phone, and did the only logical thing a person in a toxic tailspin does: I called his mama. At 2:15 AM. Immediately. No hesitation. No shame. Just vibes and fear.
When Ms. Gloria picked up, sounding all groggy and worried, I let out the most theatrical, Oscar-worthy sob of my life: “Ms. Gloria! Yo son finna put his hands on me!” Now, was he touching me? No. He was sitting there with his arms crossed, looking at me like I was a psychiatric case study. But technically, if he tried to take my phone out of my hand to “go through it next,” that counts as “putting his hands on me,” right? I was playing chess, not checkers!
Looking back, was it my finest hour? Absolutely not. Was I the villain? Probably. But let’s be real: we’ve all had those moments where our “crazy” comes out to play because we’re hurt, scared, or just plain messy.
If you find yourself crawling on a carpet at 2:00 AM, just remember:
1. The floor is dirtier than you think.
2. If you’re gonna go through his phone, make sure yours is scrubbed clean first.
3. Real love shouldn’t require FBI tactics. If you’re reading this and laughing nervously because you’ve been there—I see you. She was doing the best she could with what she knew, ignoring red flags like they were decorative. But the version of me now? She doesn’t crawl. She walks away at the first sign of disrespect, because peace is way better than answers you weren’t ready for anyway.
Stay messy, stay hydrated, and for the love of God, just use a passcode he doesn’t know.
Until next time,
— Tina 💛
Wow, man. That’s harsh. You silly girl!