Straight Talk

I’m terrified of being happy.

I enjoy thriving and feeling as though I know who I am. That I know myself. That I can be on my own and be awesome. I can drive home from work and there are no thoughts of going home to any discord. I can be me; I can realize how lucky I am to even have the life I have.

I’m grateful for who I am. I’ve gotten through so many hurdles you can read about below. And I’m here and I’m still me and I’ve gained strength I didn’t know I needed. But I don’t know what else I’m going to need it for. When that shoe drops, where will I be and how will I catch it.

As I get older; I accept myself. I enjoy my positives and it gives me a skip in my step; or rather a swagger in my heels. My humility is what keeps me from projecting that in a negative way. I realize we’re all just bumping into each other and some of us stick and some of us bounce off, leaving bruises behind. We encounter relationships, friendships, baffling interactions. Humorous situations and harsh experiences. Baffling moments.

Those times when you laugh to hide the pinging of your heart; the sinking of your stomach. The moment when you realize levity has been interrupted. At that point, you decide how this is going to shape you and how you’re going to realize your autonomy is your greatest weapon. You decide how life affects you and you can roll with it or you can be rolled over by it. And in the same vein, you feel deep down a thrill of what is actually unadulterated joy. What can simply be the way you’re supposed to be at your best. Knowing you can always be better, but you have less distance to travel.

I’m a little scared of being happy.

The fear of being happy is because it feels fantastic.

Hedonism is the ethical theory that pleasure (in the sense of the satisfaction of desires) is the highest good and proper aim of human life.

And you know what? That’s a pretty damn good way to live. Because it applies everywhere. You aim to succeed in every area, because success feels good. And that includes being a decent person.

I now know these phases of being happy are what make me who I ultimately am supposed to be. That I can look at these times during the points when the other shoe has dropped. I can find the happiness in otherwise bittersweet times of my life. I can know that when I come through the other side, I’ve gained more of myself from the experience.

I’m not afraid of being happy.

I can use this energy to surpass obstacles. I can feel okay expressing this despite the fear that I’m ultimately creating a universal rift that will jinx me.

Because I’ve done enough; experienced those moments that cumulatively form who I want to be. I know the low points are simply times when I’m building my personal armory. The positive moments are what keep me fighting. What keep me living with a smile.

I’m going to be happy as long as I can. And that has to be enough.

Snippets…

Because by sharing pieces of my book, it’ll encourage me to keep going, here’s a snippet from my timeline entry style book that’s needed to take this long to write, but hopefully I’ll finish some day.

September 8, 2013

The call lasted for hours. The grape juice and vodkas I’d downed helped the process. But it was also because I was talking to someone I’d known forever for the first time. We were oxygen and fire. Feeding off each other. Ebbing and flowing. As is the way of the world; the digital playground of the internet had unearthed him. He was striking in looks. To me. His eyes. They held the world even in photos. Deeply. Dangerously I’d realize. His age a concern, but it seemed to be the path I took. Youth. At least when you were my age it seemed to be. Still in his 20s, even if nearly out.

I had no idea what I was looking for when conversation began over quick exchanges through the system’s limited abilities. Until we traded numbers and could converse on end. I was looking for something I’d lost. I’d left a marriage. I was one of those. No one plans for it. But as the world turns; and humanity evolves, we could be fickle or rather more in tune with changing together or apart.

I hated to be alone. Still. All these years later and I thrived on interaction. Touch. Caring.

We talked about work; made sarcastic jokes about whether we were each being catfished. And hours later, we realized we should probably hang up. We said goodbye and I floated for the rest of the night. There was electricity and something that was reaching me, whether preying on my vulnerability and lack of identity or simply meeting a longed for need.

We were going to meet. In three days. And it would all change forever. Indelibly.

A Love Story. Of Sorts.

She was coming off the death of a tainted love. She rebuilt and survived and made it out; barely at times. She had seen dark days and light dance in children’s eyes. She valued others while learning not to let it consume. She realized who she was and who she would be were entirely contingent on who she wanted to be.

She found her resolve, albeit as sound as a house of cards. But it was standing. She sought joy. Pride and happiness.

Often finding wounded birds can lead to a feeling of giving unless you discover you’ve nursed back a pterodactyl.

He was boyish charm. Humor and welcome simplicity. A kindness that dwelled beneath a jaded wit and sardonic undertones. He was a diamond in the rough to a halfway lost girl. A girl who sought to care and be cared for. Sailing along on hope and compassion.

She giddily confided in friends. She enjoyed the momentum and the devotion. She saw cracks in the veneer; but she realized everyone is human. She wanted the best. She wanted her moment.

He supported her during a difficult transition. He carried positive and negative in a teetering balance. He had unpolished kindness. He possessed a compartmentalized coping that seemed endearing. She could help. She’d be the solution.

She didn’t know where her darkness was creeping in from. Life had given her curveballs and lemons and she wasn’t on it enough to sort through them. She had compassion when she was weak. She could disregard the verbal blows. Truth be told; she had a lifelong skill of accepting the blame. Whether or not it was the correct direction. She saw weakness in herself and strength in the ones who could point out those flaws openly.

He had an entitlement that she wanted to understand. He accepted the bad and dwelled with it. His emotions were uncultivated and he struggled to navigate them. To filter them accordingly.

He had little verbal control of his projections.

She doubted herself. She worried. She saw eggshells and landmines and still kept going forward as carefully as possible. Apologies were the currency she was paid. But it wasn’t good to cash in anywhere. She wanted to help. To make him better. This was her place. This was her project that would give her meaning. She loved sometimes blindly.

He accepted her assistance begrudgingly while sometimes belittling her in an effort to stay the same pace. It was always peppered with love. A raw, rough-edged love that had purity at nature, but nurture had decimated. He saw no other way and his blinders made the corners tough to turn.

She saw an upswing in her life. Things were improving. But part of her was missing. It was a little piece. But she felt the wind blow threw her some days. She was chasing happiness and it was fluttering down the street like a piece of paper, barely within reach. As she’d get close; graze it with her fingertips, a gust of wind would come up again.

He was crumbling and his façade had tumbled down. He saw hurdles afoot and it was easier to blame for them being put in his way.

She was starting to wonder if she had limits. How much she was accepting and how much she should. She had so much to love to give; it was easy for it to get taken and tossed about like a water balloon. Was this what she was destined for? Would Atlas shrug at any point?

He rarely smiled. He easily lashed out with words. He felt weighed down by the world and it was easier to throw bits of it at another. He wanted to love and he had no idea how.

She started to realize how much of her was now missing. What energy her heart was spending on repair instead of growth. Her pain and sadness was outweighing her tolerance for it. She wanted to try, for she felt like a failure for not creating beauty with what she was given.

Her heart broke.

He left.

She started to rebuild. But she was rebuilding scars on scars. Bumbling along. Lost. Panicking about lost time.

He made promises.

She refused to listen.

He made more promises. Gestures of goodwill.

She started to hear. She wasn’t sure she was ready, but her heart swells usually drowned out the voice in her head.

She opened the door a crack.

He came back.

She was happy, albeit cautious. Hopeful, but jaded and skeptical. She didn’t want to be jaded. She wanted to be okay.

He started out with hope. He built with positivity. Making what should be important to survive what he actually focused on.

She had a second thought. She ignored it. Her rollercoaster was on a climb. She had gone through some dark tunnels; but she had found they did end at some point. She started to ignore the signs. There was no way this would happen again. Apologies and promises had been doled out. Words had been said.

Words. The antithesis to action.

He was slowly enveloped in a cloying darkness. An overwhelming tendency to watch things happen instead of participate. To give love weighed down by blades and sorrow. To reduce her to tears while hugging her at the same time.

Words were weapons and she’d accept the olive branch that followed while nursing her proverbial wounds. She had hope. She believed. Who would love her again? Can love be damaging in its intensity when not directed properly?

He questioned. He doubted. He ended her nights with discord and sorrow. He started her mornings with kindness and love. He was easily upset. His pain was overwhelming in his ignorance of its depths.

She believed all of it. She believed the remorse; but she believed he had the inability to see how much damage was being done by his choices. She absorbed his energy. The room could be cloying when his mind was in a dark place.

The roller coaster went up; she’d brace herself because it had to go down. Sometimes the hills were numerous and some had more coasting between.

He left.

Repeat the process. Repeat it again. Go up the hills, hurtle down at nearly a 90 degree angle. Get off the ride. Get right back on.

He questioned. He doubted. He spread frenetic bursts of insecurity and word-whipped someone already lying down.

The coaster was running on a rusty wheels. She agonized and continued buying tickets to ride and wondered if she’d ever be able to just sit on the bench and eat some cotton candy.

He made promises. He pleaded. And interspersed it with lashings and pain and love that he couldn’t process or apply. He pledged; he backslid; he apologized and then was quick to anger.

He left.

She realized she was gone, too. Missing. Somewhere along the ride, she wasn’t even sure who had been present. She wasn’t sure where the rest of her went. She wanted to believe there was good. That she hadn’t caused this. That she could make better choices. She was lonely. Lost. She doubted herself; wallowed.

Her house of cards had fallen long ago. She was still finding the rest of them that had floated away along with that same bit of happiness she’d never stop chasing.

 

Queen of Hearts

cards

“Life is what happens to us when we’re making other plans.”

That’s a dandy little saying for those who don’t have life punch them in the face while they’re trying to make new plans to make up for the plans that got thrown off by that left hook. Sometimes I wonder if feeling like 35 years is my mid-life crisis dooms me to an early demise, but with the way I’ve lived at times, it’s possible.

But suddenly, surrounded by ups and downs (though the downs seem to be reigning when it comes to hash marks) I wonder the eternal question; why DOES your metabolism slow down one you hit 30?

I also wonder how much one person can take; where the reprieve comes in, or if I missed the boat on that one and my struggles are the sail on a choppy ocean.

I’m an incredibly empathetic person, some might say an empath, but I know that’s a misperceived identifier, so let’s keep it simple. I have realized that I’ve inadvertently shut it all off, that I’m just managing. As I realize I’ve lost my joy; I am aware in a muted way of how hollow it really does feel. How exhilarating even the rough moments once were. Even in sadness it would swallow me whole and I’d sit in the underbelly, all neurons pinging. Happiness was a nearly manic state of bubbling effervescence I’d cling to; even if I had to supplement through man-made influences (take whatever meaning you want from that.) Anger would burn from inside, filling every blood vessel, every muscle until my cheeks would actually feel aflame and I’d unleash a fury my everlasting guilt and compassion would later make me feel terrible for. Apologies were rampant when I felt as though I’d upset the balance of nature with my toxic spewing of a momentary irritation.

I’ve always felt too loud, too expressive. I love games, but my face would make me the favorite of anyone I’d dare to play poker with. I thrived at acting in school and storytelling. I could wing a speech with flair and dynamics even if I had literally come up with the subject as I got into the classroom. The beauty of youth is that’s before you start to question the quirks and pieces you’re developing and you just simply live them. You don’t overanalyze your excitement; you don’t suppress your moodiness. You just are. As an adult my fear of the fact that I feel I overwhelm a room has always conflicted with my tendency to simply be that person regardless. Cringing as my laugh was too loud, but not being able to help how I felt in the delight of a hilarious moment. Feeling a connection to others that lightened the moment and gave us all levity.

Yet somewhere along the way, through grief, confusion, pain and disarray; I’ve lost the ability to revel in that. My laughter is halfway. My sadness is mellow and set in. My anger is simply a state of being at times that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; but doesn’t stir enough in me to even enjoy that momentary fire. Due to situations and people and being an adult who adults hard without reprieve, I’ve lost my tenacity. At least to the degree I used to have. I’ve shielded myself from sensing others; from absorbing and examining their energy. I’ve blocked my tendency to read others to properly interact in a way that suits them.

And it sucks. That’s not eloquent, or well-stated or anything of the sort. It simply is and that’s simply me right now. I’m searching for what this part of my life should mean, but afraid of searching too hard inadvertently missing what I’ll realize was the meaning in two weeks; two months; two years. What lessons I’ll share with my kids when they’re asking why something is unfair or sharing joy in a new experience. I truly have no one to blame but myself, as much as I’d like to say life has done this to me; life has happened to me. While some of the moments I’ve been through would probably sound like fiction to some, I’ve stayed in them. I’ve tolerated them and I’ve allowed them to decimate pieces of me that I should have clung to. My strength required plenty of sacrifice; but I perhaps left behind a little too much. Confused ease of getting through a situation with who I was supposed to be. I’ve let too many in, too close and I don’t regret that, but I tend to forget how easy it is to allow moments to take me with them as opposed to keeping them with me. I wonder why in all of this; I’ve somehow still maintained the strength of my own self-doubt which has always been my crippling hindrance. What stops me from truly grabbing hold of me. I value others. Everyone, good or bad. I try to understand them if they seem cold or abrasive. I try to fix them if they seem broken. I thrive in the company of unadulterated jubilation in someone who just lives without giving a damn (even if deep down, I know they do). Being a friend is crucial to me. If I’m not being the one anyone can turn to, I’m not fulfilling what truly brings me happiness even when that emotion is quietly at half-mast.

I’m trying to find what makes me happy. Seeking what will re-ignite my soul; and bring easier smiles to my face and allow me to be the best I can be for anyone I come across, but mostly for myself. Which is the first time I’ve truly made that a priority, probably ever. And I feel guilty about it. I’m more than likely over thinking it all, but did I mention that’s something else that’s a key characteristic of mine?

I don’t need a dictionary entry of who I am. A Wikipedia page defining my character locks me in to too much. I’m mostly at a point where I want to find what I embrace and stand by that. To examine what I know I need to accept is a work in progress and simply gives meaning to moments and that maybe the bigger picture is too grand. Maybe it’s the blips on the radar. The joy I’m recently missing. It could possibly not be about the laugh that was too loud; but what made me laugh in the first place. What conversation with my kids made me feel at peace in the moment. How even if my successes are marred by frustration; it’s the drive to keep going and keep aiming for success as opposed to defeat. I’m looking for myself right now, and that might sound like heavy, dramatic commentary; it’s unpleasant that I had to be so far gone to realize I let it slip.

I still have to make plans; I’m a grown up. I still have to do what needs to be accomplished to survive in a way that makes me proud and not as though I’m just squeaking by. I’m trying to keep life in my peripheral along the way. Find my joy. Locate my fire. Be me, unabashedly.

It all sounds simple, right? Maybe I just need to play poker. Nothing makes me angrier than losing.

Deal me in.

Faulty Wiring

I have the lucky characteristic of empathy. I don’t mean that in a pretentious, self-touting way, because it can be just as detrimental as it can be positive.

An empathetic tendency means that emotions wrap around you like ivy on a building. And sometimes Ivy can make a building more beautiful and other times it can overtake the entire structure, visually suffocating what lies beneath. You feel the energy of the rooms you’re in. It’s overwhelming, and exciting and energetic and cloying. Tension makes you try to calm it, yet creates your own personal stress that bear hugs you. You’re constantly struggling to be the positivity because of how much you just want peace and happiness. Seeing other people happy makes you swoon from inside out, that sensation in your sternum that feels like you’re bursting, yet containing it in a small space.

If someone seems angry; you wonder how you can fix it. Because it actually overwhelms your thoughts in concern for their well-being; but also makes you dissect your thoughts to determine if you had a role in creating it. Simply and ultimately seeking an end goal of fixing it.

Memories carry with them more than the picture in your head, the passing graze of your feelings during that time. They carry the whole experience; muted, of course. But your sorrow, glee, confusion, etc.; anything you felt, taps you on the shoulder until you turn to see it and decide how and when to send it away. Past experiences can give you a complete grasp on how you want to feel, what you need to be you, but also endless limits of tolerance.

But my tolerance has a stopping point; and it’s unfortunately extreme. It’s like a tire. You can drive on a tire for a long time; the treads will wear and tougher terrain will wear it even further. If you keep driving on it, though, the treads can become threadbare; thin. And if you drive it long enough like that, at some point you’re bound to end up with a flat. You metaphorically deflate. The air rushes out; the situation, relationship, atmosphere takes the last bit you had to keep driving.

When I end up in these moments; I’m reminded that I’ve been here before and struggle to determine what lesson I’m fated to glean if I allow it. What this will contribute to my life story and how I’ll look back and perceive my handling of it. I get a little lost. I potentially think that I should write, yet am so defeated, I can’t see the point.

I sometimes see myself as abnormal, that maybe I’m not being a good grown up. That life happens and my intensity of feelings through it aren’t an excuse to let it engulf my mind. That there has to be a balance. I wonder if I should observe others and how they cope. How they work through these types of frustrations, sad moments, heartbreaks, and any other human experience. If I’m doing it right and conversely if it’s fair that I should have to ask that.

And yes, life can always be worse than that moment. But how do we learn to deal with the especially worse situations that will inevitably be a reality if we can’t see the small and medium sized ones for the challenges they actually are. For their roles in how we evolve; use our individually varying emotional intensities to decide how we live through every step.

Per usual, this is a bit of a wandering train of thought, but what I present typically emphasizes how the situation feels. Smooth, thoughtful or erratic and grappling. I translate my human experiences in hope that not only will it shed some light for me but perhaps offer a different perspective for anyone who reads it. In my empathy, I reach out. I turn to people, not only when they need it, but when I need it. I try to avoid burdening others with my mind dump of thoughts; but if I feel as though they can handle me, I try to seek answers and respect their take on guiding my directions when I can’t read the map. I spread kindness with no expectation of return; but rather in hopes it forges a mutual appreciation for everyone. And because not doing it just seems wrong. This leads me to wonder if baring my thoughts is selfish. If sharing how I’m feeling is obnoxious; obtrusive almost.

As I process being in a darker point as opposed to living facing the sun as I try to do; I wonder when my path won’t have as many broken bricks to step around. Yet that’s negating the fact that it’s going to happen and I can’t expect to not have imperfections through life. I wonder what I’ll see on the other side of this one; if my reflections of this time will-be accurate or confusing funhouse mirrors. If I’ll simply think I was being a fool. We are our own worst critics, ultimately.

While it’s unavoidable to not partially shut down, yet also feel raw, due to understanding that I have receptors that don’t quite work right, it is possible to work through the situation in the best way possible. I have mental oppression that’s not my fault and is just a bit of my own wiring that is faulty, and that’s okay. I aim to get through a dark hallway with just a match to see in front of me, than to simply give up and not work to get through to find a light switch. Plenty of times I’d like to say screw it, and just not continue to be me. To give up on myself (figuratively). But there’s plenty of beauty in life to offset the broken parts.

If you’ve treated others the way you want to be treated, you’ll never be alone. You might be disappointed, but you’ll always have someone when you’re not enough for you. Life is hard, but not really living it is much harder on your experience.  Make the most of what you have even if it feels like it’s not much. Sometimes I think those last statements are bullshit, I’m just trying to remember that figuring out why they’re not is how I realize I’ve made it through the struggle. Found some electrical tape to slap on those faulty wires.

My Book. It’s Probably Time.

I’ve been planning to write a book since I was, oh, 13. I’ve been told I should write since I was that age. And I genuinely love writing and it’s something I will always admit I know is a strong personal skill.

I just haven’t that drive to actually finish one. But I also had no idea how much fodder my life would give me for writing essentially a loose autobiography. If you know me well, you know I have stories for days, all true. All stories a great writer possibly couldn’t even make up. I feel like  now is when I need to write. So I’m looking for the push, the motivation to continue what I’ve started.

So I’m posting the beginning of the book I’ve finally started. The book I hope to finish. It could be next year; it could be 6 months from now. But I want to finish this. I’m looking for feedback. Would you continue reading this as a book? Does this draw you in? Should I hang up my keyboard and learn how to knit? Let me know. All opinions appreciated. And thank you for reading. :)

Here goes…

The moral of the story is that you might know where you’re going, but that doesn’t mean you know where you’re headed.

Because really. If you hear the moral first, you’ll search for the meaning as opposed to having it handed to you at end without time to process it.

But I digress. You’re here for a story. Mine.

February 20 2014

I stood at the back door. Smoke wafting out into the yard.  Clouds rolled by. There’s a beauty and a sadness to clouds gliding through the sky. Things change. Life changes. Nothing stays the same. At our base, kinetic energy will keep us going.

You never know the real story. You can hear it. Tell it. But living it is so much different. You don’t get to choose your own ending, until after the fact. By going forward.

We met online, as is our age and times. As more and more gravitate towards that questionable picture as opposed to deciphering body language as you interact with someone face to face for the first time. Basing judgment, applying gut decisions to some words and the perception that person has chosen for you via photo use.

He was younger than me. They all seemingly were. But he was different. There’s a magnetism in love that’s necessary for it to survive, but can also cause combustion should the draw be too strong.

There was no nervousness that first night. As is the way of online meetings, we’d already spoken on the phone and via text multiple times. I strolled in, sat down, we started talking and by the end of the night made out for an hour in a parking lot. He had me then. He owned my feelings. And I his.

But you don’t want to hear that part first. Let’s go back a little further.

June 10 1996

“Hey. Mind if I sit here for a bit?” I asked this guy with dark eyes and dark hair who appealed to me immediately.

I was at a party I wasn’t supposed to be at, with my best friend; doing what teenagers do. Getting drunk and doing things we knew our parents would be appalled at. A guy had been following me around, so I found my target. My savior. Sitting in his little Ford Ranger, listening to music and smoking a joint.

“Yeah, I do mind. Why are you in my truck?” he asked.

“I’m just trying to avoid this guy who has been following me around.”

“So you assume my truck is cool to sit in?”

Oh this guy was an asshole. I needed to know more. (Logical thought, right?)

I grew up in a small town in southern Michigan. High school is a field of landmines, mixed with prizes for those who avoid them. I’m not sure I ever found my spot; my niche. I liked everyone, had a mix of friends, and a mix of people I just knew. (Well, everyone knew everyone, to be fair.) Guys didn’t give me a second look, and I floated from group to group. When I was 15, I had decided that everyone else was having sex, I needed to take care of that step. When I want something, I go after it. So I met a guy at a neighboring school, had a two month relationship with him and succeeded at losing my virginity. Perhaps going into a relationship even that early on, based on who would pay attention to me and who would do what I needed is how I stumbled my way through future love and lust.

If anything, this night. This is when my adulthood started to form and take shape. I had grown up an only child, with very few rules. But this night. I can’t even tell you how the argument started. All I knew was that there was a party, and I suddenly had developed this new life, new friends. I was actually being independent. It was a different shift from how I had grown up though. I think it scared my parents who were never sure they wanted to be parents. They loved me, but had me late in life and I think parenthood was an afterthought. There was just this new human in their lives and they had to care for it. So when I reached a point where I was suddenly beyond being identified by how they knew me as their child and grasp for my own autonomy, it was met with resistance.

She told me not to go. But I’d never been grounded and it’s not as though I’d listen if I were. That she’d take my keys if I want. I laughed, because I knew there was never any way she’d get them. I stormed out that front door to my friend’s car, got in, my mom yelling behind me. Off to the party we went.

It was in someone’s backyard/farm. Partying next to a cornfield, as is small town life. Trucks parked in the yard, teenagers drinking, yelling, smoking and making out. Parties were exhilarating and I think that’s probably how I ended up chasing any high I could get later. That thrill. I lost my best friend among the group pretty early on, so just wandered. Talked and drank. This guy started following me around, and I humored him, though I had no interest. But he paid attention to me and I didn’t know how to say no.

And that’s how I ended up in that truck.

“You have a lighter?” I asked.

He pulled out a zippo, lit my cigarette, “How long are you planning on sitting in here?” he asked.

“Why do you want me to get out of your truck so badly?”

“I didn’t ask you to get in here.”

By that point, the other guy had found me. He came up to the passenger window and leaned in, “Hey, there you are. What are you doing? Are you with this guy?”

“Yes, he’s giving me a ride home later,” I said, looking over at this guy next to me whose name I hadn’t even gotten yet.

“She’s right. She’s with me.” He answered as he looked toward the guy leaning in his truck window, drunken confusion on his face.

I smiled. This was going to go the way I wanted. I would have this guy. His initial resistance just made me pursue it more.

“I’m Jessica,” I said, leaning in towards him.

“I’m a Giant Douchebag.”

Okay. He didn’t really say that. Not to get ahead of myself here, but he may as well have. Once I got his name, I should have second guessed my pursuit. Since his parents were apparently tripping balls on acid or huffing whip-its when they named him, he earned the moniker of Jocko. He went by his middle name, Ashley. A choice between mocking comments flung his way throughout school and just plain getting his ass kicked in high school by bullies.

As the night went on and he exuded his dirty, caustic charm I was smitten. In a teenage, needy way. I was someone who had very little experience with attention from boys, but craved it immensely. As we laid in the front yard, making out, I wanted to keep him. I wanted him to want me and I wanted him to own me. He finally did drive me home, and I just didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to leave this bubble of excitement, new experiences and the rush of lust. So we pulled over. Into a church parking lot. And proceeded to use his truck as a bed and desecrate the holy parking lot. Well on my way to embracing sexual freedom and embracing my choice to do what I wanted with my body. Oh, and also my propensity to sleep with jerks.

He dropped me off in my driveway, over two hours past my usual curfew. Said he’d see me soon and would call me the next day. I floated into the house, high on a combination of alcohol, weed and sex. I barely heard the words my mom spoke. Tersely and angrily. I drifted off to sleep that night, with immediate clinginess and relationship dreams enveloping me.

June 13, 1996

“No, he’ll totally be here. He promised he’d come over tonight, I told him I wanted him to meet my friends.”

I very rarely had friends over, and was not only excited to have people over, as though I was suddenly accepted and moderately popular. But there was very little to do at my house, out in the middle of the country. I had already given the brief tour and awkwardly tried to figure out how exactly having people over worked. All the while waiting on this guy. This magical, mysterious guy who had yet to follow through on his word and made me doubt my overall appeal. I had no idea how to navigate a relationship and simply made it my life. Three days in. As my anxiety grew over the embarrassment that he may not show up, despite my bragging him up to my friends.

They waited, patiently, somewhat mockingly. And waited. But they were teenagers and time is full of things to do as a teenager and waiting for a deadbeat to show up wasn’t exactly on their list of things that sounded exciting.  They asked if I wanted to just go hang out with them, but I resisted. I had to wait. He was going to show up. They could go. But if I left and he showed up, he might never talk to me again or like me. I would wait. I said goodbye to them and apologized for wasting their time. Inside I was feeling anxious to the point of not being able to sit still. Panic and self-doubt was taking over in a way I hadn’t experienced before yet would only come to know all too well. I fought back tears as the night got darker and the phone stayed quiet. I wondered what I had done wrong and if maybe he was with another girl, or if I just wasn’t interesting enough. I hadn’t been around enough to know what being used for sex was like, so that thought didn’t even enter my mind. I went to bed and hoped the next day would be different.

June 14, 1996

“Well, I didn’t think I’d actually said for sure I’d come over, and I was hanging out with James. We smoked and then we had to go pick up something at his aunt’s. Then I just forgot.”

I was accepting of this answer, he was probably right. Maybe I misunderstood. And who was I to assume I was going to take priority. I was just glad he had called me. I wanted to see him as soon as possible, he was all I could think about. He was dominating my mind, distracting my thoughts. I didn’t know what was normal and what I should be feeling. I’d had one other boyfriend and that was for a specific reason.

I realized I’d just thought of him as my boyfriend. This full immersion trend would follow me for large majority of my life. All in. Investing my entire self in a guy. Forgetting who I was and molding myself to be available. Perfect. Wanted.
We made plans to hang out the next day. I was working for the summer, part-time, so had to work with my schedule and his. I was giddy to see this boy. And that would be eventually be the trend that damaged me.