Loved and Lost

Welcome to the Valentine’s Day edition of Down With The Norm.

To get into the spirit, let’s talk about the times that stupid cherub Cupid royally fucked me over.

My first was innocent and sweet. Dylan. I was fifteen, and so was he. I’d never kissed anyone before, and he graciously showed me how in his basement, my entire body burning red as he leaned me against the pool table and gave my eager lips their first peck.

The next one I remember is Alex #1. I met him at the Singles Ward. Neither of us took church seriously, and we’d leave early to make out in his car. It was something fancy, like an Infiniti or something that I was supposed to be impressed by. He was at least 5 years older than me, had pale skin and orange-red hair, and talked about working out more than he actually worked out.

Next was Joey. He showed me Fall Out Boy and the Oreo Cheesecake Shake at Sonic. A true emo boy who took his feelings out on a guitar. He had no idea how to follow through on plans, and, as Joey did, bailed on our Halloween date to go to a haunted house with his buddies instead. So I, desperate for somewhere to be, went to Alex’s (Alex #2, that is), who was just a friend, I swear. I don’t remember how that night ended, but the next morning began with a spinning head and pain in every place imaginable. Part of me blamed Joey, and we went our separate ways.

Somewhere between Joey and the next one was Brody. Brody raped me, and that’s all I’m going to say about it here because that horse was beaten to death four posts ago.

I knew Austin from high school. We’d lost touch until a while after he’d returned from his mission. He didn’t drink, but he brought me wine and insisted that I drink it in hopes that he could feel me up. He ghosted me after a couple of months, turns out he was married.

And then there was Joe. He was 25, and a brand new pharmacist. He was boring, but nice, and therefore deserved a chance. I gave him one for six whole months. I think he may have been my first breakup. I vomited both before and after, I have no idea how to handle disappointing people. Last I heard, he’s still friends with my ex-roommate. She had a habit of keeping in touch with those I’d left behind.

After that was Alex #3, because I hadn’t yet learned my lesson. Alex #3 was different, though. We met thanks to Tinder, our first date in a quaint European-style cafe for brunch. We eventually got kicked out after four consecutive hours of blissful conversation. He took me bowling after, and a month later, I was all but living with him. I invited him to a fundraiser gala where he’d meet my parents. He took me with him to Banana Republic to find the perfect suit. The night of the gala arrived, and I was dressed in an elegant, floor-length red dress, jewelry, and a face full of makeup I’d been working on since I’d gotten home from work. He rang the doorbell, and to my dismay, he wasn’t wearing the suit we picked out. Just jeans and a simple t-shirt and jacket. My face sunk into my throat, which sunk into my chest. He was breaking up with me. He said he’d coincidentally ran into his One That Got Away the other day, and decided he had to chase her instead. I closed the door slowly, gripping the sides of my gown, and sauntered to the gala alone, hoping that no one would ask me for an explanation.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’d be left for someone else.

Tim was somebody I’d admired from a distance since high school. He and his girlfriend back then had exactly what I was craving; a seemingly blissful, happy union between two blissfully happy dorks. He was a bleeding heart liberal, a D&D nerd, a motivated millennial with a master’s degree at 24. He only asked me to coffee because his girlfriend wanted to be my friend. It took me months to agree (thank you, crippling anxiety), and by the time I did, they were broken up. He and I clicked over iced coffees and side hugs. Our second date was at the cinema, and afterword, he declared his like for me. I was giddy, and proclaimed mine for him. And we swiftly became each others’ dorks. A few weeks later, he asked to come over. After skirting around the issue for a moment while petting my cat as an excuse for not looking me in the eye, he asked if we could not date anymore, as he was too anxious.

I found out on Facebook that he’d gotten into another relationship not 2 weeks after he dumped me.

Will met me at a Halloween party. He told me I had something “special,” something so alluring that he simply couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. (I was dressed as a PlayBoy Bunny, in true Elle Woods fashion, though, so that more than likely explains it). He was sincere, sweet, and genuine. The last time he attempted to see me, he had to work late at the Apple store, and he was terribly sorry. He waited until midnight on a Thursday to explain why he never showed. And now, it’s been two months since I’ve heard from him, so I presume that that’s over.

Then there’s the one that blindsided me. A Facebook acquaintance, initially, turned best friend, turned Cat Sitter, turned boyfriend all in a matter of a month. I panicked and withdrew, then reached back out again. He panicked and withdrew and begun a hiatus of which I see no end. But as soon as I get closure on that one, I’ll pass it on. I’m sure you’re dying to know, just as I am dying to get it over with so I can stop feeling like I’m about to fall off a cliff of emotions.

I’ve heard the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit a handful of times. The sting of being left for another girl only lasted a day or two, and honestly didn’t even alter my self-esteem. I’ve had terrible experiences with relationships and dating. I actively, deliberately, obnoxiously avoid them at all costs, but they evidently just happen sometimes. I keep using the excuse that I’m not ready, but I think that’s a lie. Relationships scare me because they require some degree of sacrifice of freedom. They confine me, suffocate me, and I inevitably either run, or make him run. They require vulnerability, trust, and communication. All things that I am still doing my damn best to develop.

Despite all this, or maybe because all of this, the weight of loneliness is getting heavier day by day. And sure, we can blame some of it on our society’s commercialization of love; Valentine’s Day.

Here I sit, almost 24 years old, with two cats and no idea what a healthy, meaningful relationship is, much less how to be in one.

I don’t need chocolates or flowers or teddy bears. I don’t need a date or a card. But damn would it be nice to be loved in the way I need to be loved for once.





I’m back writing again, and you all know what that means.

I’m in emotional turmoil 🙂

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than succumbing  to my own humanity. Y’know, feelings and whatnot. Particularly the ones that make you appear vulnerable and weak.

I’ve developed into the classic “funny girl.” Ask anyone that’s had a 30-minute conversation with me, I guarantee I’ve made them laugh. Humor is arguably the most effective tool of deflection.

I guess this is my self-protective mechanism; my adaptation to the realization that i’m not safe out in the world. And it’s served me well, for the most part.

I want to be perceived as the comedic, confrontational, independent gal who couldn’t give two bothers as to what anybody thinks of her. And to my core, I am that person. And I love that person. But even she isn’t immune to the pain of rejection, betrayal, misplaced trust, and heartbreak.

And i’ll be honest, initially, things don’t really get to me. I can shrug off most anything, and I’ll probably even crack a joke about it just to assure you that I’m okay. But after a random duration of time, it all gets to me at once. Pain always catches up, no matter how far of a head start you have.

Today was one of those days where I felt the pain of the last decade all come crashing down on me at the same time. I happened to be at the gym, actually, when the lump in my throat began to build. Leg day was cut short so I could make it to my car in time for the water works.

I’ve been through a lot in the past 10 years. Puberty, anorexia, braces, high school, rape, the loss of friends and significant others, death, rejection, and the constant frustration that I’m the one behind the wheel, but my GPS keeps rerouting, turning me in unproductive circles.

And I really haven’t done a whole lot of feeling.

You can only suppress emotion for so long before you break, I guess. Being alive hurts.

A healthy, well-adjusted individual would probably just allow themselves to feel the pain in real time, give themselves time to work through it, and then move on. I’d really, REALLY like to be a healthy, well-adjusted individual.

Recently, I’d misplaced my trust in someone completely, allowing them to tug me around. They gained my trust and vulnerability far too quickly, and left me the fool. My initial reaction was complete denial that it even affected me at all, and then it turned to frustration. Granted, this person wasn’t in my life long enough to put me in the emotional state that I am now.

But there’s always a catalyst for this sort of thing.

And that lead me down the rabbit hole to every other instance in which I was forced into a vulnerable position, which turned into me driving home from the gym with tears dripping down my face and some Kanye song blasting in the background.

I would beg whatever supernatural forces that exist to take the pain away, but I think the point is for me to let myself feel it.

So i’m laying here, in a cuddle puddle with my two felines, doing just that.

Growth; it isn’t always pretty.




I am kind of becoming the Taylor Swift of the blogging world.

Yes, I have endured yet another unfortunate break-up. Kissed another frog. (Insert whatever other cliche, yet encouraging phrase here.)

This past week has been the week from Hell. My family is kind of falling apart (another story for another day) and I had just gotten in quite the quarrel with my mother over familial issues. I was reduced to pathetic sobs and tears, and after leaving my mother’s house, texted this ex-suitor of mine, (let’s call him Derek, that’s a liar-face name, isn’t it? Oh, and sorry if your name is Derek and you’re not a liar-face. It’s unfair of me to generalize. Please don’t take offense and discontinue reading my blog, truthful Derek’s of the world.)

Anyway, I texted Derek and told him I was now available to hang out. He responded to my SMS messages swiftly, that is, until I had physically pulled my Camry out of my parents’ driveway. As according to plan, I drove to Derek’s bro-mance’s house and parked right out front. I shot him another text message, informing him that I’d arrived.

Ten minutes passed, and I sat and waited in my car for a response, still sobbing, though gentler now, and listening to my favorite angsty Fall Out Boy songs. I waited another five minutes before sending him another message to notify him that I was just going to head home now.

The next morning, Derek told me that he’d been sleeping in his car, which was also parked outside his bro-mance’s house, while I had been waiting for him. I responded bluntly, as I was having a horrible day, and still somewhat traumatized by the fight I’d gotten into with my mother the previous night.

Later that afternoon, Derek sent me the notorious frowny face.–> 😦

“What’s wrong?” I texted back, genuinely concerned.

“I’m not good enough for you. You shouldn’t waste your time on me, M.” Blah, blah, blah. All of the “It’s not you, it’s me,” bullshit you could think of.

I think now would be a good time to say that I am NOT in a good position to be broken up with, if there ever was such a thing. We’re talking breakdowns on the nightly, folks.

So there I was, on campus, attempting to prepare myself for a required assessment for a job i’d been pursuing, when this breakup happened.

I’m not going to lie, my initial reaction was laughter-laughter of confusion and unbelief.

Because I will probably not get the chance to ask Derek why he is not good enough for me, I am forced to jump to my own conclusions, in the sake of closure.

Although to me, this breakup seems to have come without warning, I think I can figure out just exactly what caused it. Derek, you didn’t break up with me because “you’re not good enough for me.” Well, I take that back. Perhaps that was partially it, seeing as my standards and morals are levels upon levels higher than yours, as are my ambitions. I am simply more grown up than you, and you feel pressured by me to change your boyish behavior, but aren’t quite ready to drop your bad habits. But it’s way more complicated than that, isn’t it?

No, Derek, the underlying reason as to why you’ve decided to drop me like a hot spoon is the mere fact that I won’t put out for you. Which is fine, and I completely understand that. You are a 19-year-old man-child hybrid with hormones. This is only unfair to me because we had discussed this earlier in our pathetic, little fling, and you assured me that you were fine with taking things slow.

You insisted that I “open up” to you and that you were here for me.

You told me next time I have a breakdown to call you so you can at least hold me while I cry.

You told me you liked me, and that you cared about me.

And then, when I finally gave in and decided that yes, I was ready to let you be there for me, you were nowhere to be found.

You, sir, are a liar.

Over the past few days, I’ve spent plenty of time over-analyzing this, and being plenty hurt by your deciding to go away at the time I could have used someone’s company most. And now I have blogged out my feelings. And now, I will move on.

Being alone sucks, but it’s nothing I haven’t done before.

I swear I become more and more cynical with age, or maybe people are just gradually sucking more and more?