Vegas

Here’s a happy life update: I’m moving to Las Vegas. My last day in New Jersey will be July 12th.

Jersey was never my dream. In fact, living in this state is one of the many things I can attribute to privileging the needs of others over my own. Throughout college, I dated a man originally from India who was working on his PhD. After five years together, we got married – but for different reasons. At the time, I had wanted to start a life with someone, and felt marriage was a requirement as part of that. My husband never wanted to marry, but his job search would go more smoothly with a spousal visa. In fact, he was offered a position with Montclair State, contingent on the university not having to fund a work visa.

We were not aligned, and still I went ahead with a paltry ceremony at the officiant’s home. We moved from Philadelphia to New Jersey. While I welcomed a change of pace (we lived in a very rundown part of the city), residing in the New Jersey suburbs without a car was difficult. Finding employment wasn’t easy, either. Degree and all, I was working as an apprentice dog trainer at a retail pet store. Whether it was ninety degrees or freezing cold, I’d walk two miles to my place of employment, and then at 10pm, walk two miles home.

I wasn’t happy. I was young and didn’t know how to work through the feelings I had about my post-college life. While my husband was able to turn his intentions into reality after our time at Temple, he wasn’t especially sympathetic to how our circumstances left little space for me to self-actualize. But I also had no clue what I wanted, outside of a stable relationship.

We didn’t last. And I was stuck in New Jersey. I didn’t help myself when I entered a relationship with Scott, the abusive sex addict I lived with for over three years. (Because while I had no clue what I wanted, the one goal I had in my life was a stable relationship – something to fill the hole left by my estranged family.) Meanwhile, my ex-husband has since moved to New York. No ill will towards him, but it’s funny that he got to end up in a city, and I got stuck in this state.

Life has since been a lot of ups and downs. New Jersey hasn’t been all that kind to me; anyone that reads my blog understands what I mean. It hasn’t all been for nothing, though. While I’m never going to be that person who offers platitudes such as, “everything happens for a reason,” my experiences have proven my resilience. I’m alive, and I’m here, and I like the person I am for the first time in my life because holy fuck, I’m really fucking strong.

I used to feel that being a survivor was a negative. What’s the point of trying to exist in this often shitty world with a massive amount of baggage playing interference? After I left Scott, my life didn’t stop being a rollercoaster, offering proof that it wasn’t enough to simply leave an abuser. That didn’t fix my life. And some of the relationships I formed since, however brief, hurt me more in some ways than he ever did: I couldn’t understand why people would play me, or be unkind, when I was so upfront about my past with abuse and bulimia and overcoming living out of my car and so many other crazy things. All of this after enduring a childhood with a schizophrenic and seriously abusive father. I disclosed this information (perhaps too) freely – why add to my pain?

More than ever, I understand that I’m overly sympathetic to people, especially men, who share the same experiences that I do. They’ve been abused as children, dated cheaters, deal with abandonment issues, externalize their fears of not being good enough in destructive ways. The people I’ve dated that I care about most (because I am crazy enough to still want the best for them) and will always remember are also the ones who hurt me in extremely callous ways (see: Javier), largely because they have something in common with me that most people don’t: they know what it is to feel broken. Unfortunately, they took that out on me.

Javier would often tell me he’s “just this way.” My former rock climbing friend that I genuinely loved echoed similar sentiments. Both broke my heart. There was a time when I thought that of myself, that I am this way and people can take it or leave it – but if I had kept that mindset, I’d still be puking in toilets.

It’s funny that seeking a stable relationship was always the first item on my life checklist, but that it’s going to be the last thing I figure out. Everything else in my life has come together beautifully. I’m no longer a retail dog trainer and am relocating because my well known employer asked me to take a huge opportunity in Las Vegas. My struggle with depression and bulimia is finally coming to a close, it feels like. And I know myself. I know what I like and what I want. I am not the person I was when I was with Scott, living my life around his needs. I’m not the girl who broke down in public at the rock gym when thinking about how my climbing friend would never love me, how I had no idea who I was outside of my pursuit of someone that cared about me as much I cared for them.

I’m the woman who survived. The person that will not allow pain to be a reason to hurt others. I’ve had my ups and downs, and dealt with experiences that would tank anyone. But I made it through it all. It’s a testament to my intelligence, my will, and my innate resilience.

This is the right time for me to move in so many ways. I can start fresh while mentally positioned to make the most of it. For the first time in my life, I will be moving as part of advancing within my career. Not because of a man. I’m successful. Despite everything I’ve gone through, all those times I thought I would not get back up again – I’ve won.

Bowflex

He texts me, Update: I’m trying to figure out how to do sled pulls on the Bowflex. There’s so much wrong packed into this statement that I don’t know what to say to him, so I decide on silence instead.

Nothing obliterates my interest more quickly than men trying to relate to me through a common interest in the gym – mostly because it’s powerlifting that I’m actually focused on, versus being able to claim that I “hit the gym” however many times a week. I actively avoid the strange, ineffective bodybuilding routines that I see men performing; bad programming is just something I don’t tolerate or respect. To that end, I absolutely would not be caught dead on a Bowflex. (Although up until his text, I forgot those were even a thing. For the rest of the year, and perhaps for the rest of my life, I’m going to be perplexed by the fact that someone tried to woo me via their experience with equipment advertised on TV at 3am, following demonstrations of OxyClean and Nad’s.)

Also, no one can do sled drags on a Bowflex. That’s just a solid case of what the fuck.

He texts me a day later, Change of heart?

I say, I’m just really busy. I can’t really do a lot of back and forth texting. I’m sorry.

I block his number. I guess I’m one of those girls.

 

“I think I love you,” he says, rubbing his bristly, balding head against my arm.

For the past several hours, I’ve spent the night hearing about his job and his friends. When I mentioned that I like video games and played World of Warcraft in high school, he added very one sided conversations about his experiences as a gamer to the long list of topics he went on about. Things haven’t improved, and instead of engaging with anything I say in response, so far he’s just smiled dreamily at me before rolling into whatever subject next came to his mind.

The “I think I love you” statement catches me by surprise, though. We’re a few drinks deep into a long night, and if he’s already drunk, I’m embarrassed for him. We’re not exactly connecting and yet he seems to think there’s a vibe; I briefly wonder if I’ve been in his current position without realizing it on first dates. Before I can tell myself the thought isn’t worth my energy, he kisses my hand several times, sloppy and with sound, bringing my mind to a decision tree where the first fork is a choice between pulling away and letting him do his thing. I’m not here to make him feel bad, so I just deal with this overt public display of affection from a man I do not know all that well before interjecting with, “It’s getting late. The trains aren’t running as frequently past midnight. I should make a move.”

“I’ll walk you back to the PATH,” he says.

Oh, goodie.

We leave the small West Village bar and walk in a silence that is more uncomfortable for me than it is for him. I’m already thinking about how I’ll tell him tomorrow that I just wasn’t feeling it, or that it’s too much trouble for me to go into the city with my current routine. He, on the other hand, is humming, rubbing his thumb against the palm of my hand. He’s happy. Because of me, or because he thinks this is a very successful date.

When we reach the PATH, he leans in to kiss me. I reciprocate because it’s the easiest thing I can do at this stage. I don’t want to deal with his disappointment. I want to avoid a confrontation.

He’s attractive enough. Still, his self-importance leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

 

Alone on a Sunday, I find my thoughts drawn to the men I did love. I’m not unhappy to be relaxing by myself at home. I don’t miss them. Relationships, I’m coming to realize, are probably the worst thing to happen to me. It’s in this area that my self-esteem is worn thin, damaged by long history of abuse, and still recovering. (I wonder if my usual detachment to dating is only interrupted by the men who will break my heart because that’s my conditioning. Love is pain, sacrifice without gain.) I’m afraid that most people are too good for me. Give me a man without a car, who doesn’t know where he’s going in life, and I’m in love.

Perhaps I find silly reasons to write off successful people. Maybe I should give the man trying to impress me with the Bowflex a chance or see if Mr. Self Important is better at having a conversation after a couple more dates. On the other hand, maybe it’s time for me to be alone, to not use dating as a crutch. In some ways, I feel like all I’m doing is conducting a search for the next fuck that will make me miserable, but who I will nonetheless be devoted to as part of my pathological inability to form, or even want, healthy relationships.

Want

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I am tarred to sounds created between tongue and teeth – fixed mid-motion, waiting for your voice to break the silence. I’ve been here before. (Perhaps you’re not so special after all, given that I can say this is a pattern. In thinking you are the one, however, I can deny my fault in this.)

My thoughts are monologues from me to you: with time, I’ve come to understand that you and the men I wait for will not bring to life the fiction I imagine, the words I yearn to hear. I want you.

Climb

Maybe she’s just prettier. Perhaps he was just an easy choice, more malleable than the men I’ve chased, more emotionally available. I don’t know the answer, but I bring my imagination to their relationship regardless. He just looks so happy to be here with her that I can’t help but wonder what they discussed on the car ride over, if they went out for brunch first at one of Hoboken’s nearby bars. The man’s smile, fixed across his bearded face, probably made her feel warm when she walked with him side by side, even in the chilly outdoors.

When it occurs to me that no one has looked at me that way in a long time, I feel a sense of sadness that’s difficult to put into words. I’m often the object of people’s lust, but I have felt little in the way of being loved.

I come back to the thought that I’m lacking. I always do. She looks more like a woman compared to me, at least from what I can see at a distance. Her climbing skills are certainly better than mine: she’s ascending the white and blue rock wall at a steady clip, pushing off footholds with her long legs. Whereas she’s graceful and lithe, I’m brute strength in an incongruously small and childlike package. It’s likely not just about the looks, either. I’ve had a hard life. I have baggage.

If jealousy and envy are not the same, then it’s the latter I feel when her companion shouts “to the left.” I’ve asked Sean, who is not my boyfriend, to become belay certified, but that’s too much of a commitment for the man I regularly drive to the rock gym.

I watch him now, his black work shirt rolling up his back as he makes his way on one of the bouldering walls. He finds the routes easier to solve than I do, especially since we started climbing together regularly, and completes a V5 that I can’t even start. For such a tall and not particularly graceful man, he looks athletic as he reaches for the next hold. When he climbs down and turns to smile at me, I feel my stomach tighten: my body knows what my mind denies, that I’m hoping for something to happen that never will.

Eventually he will become one half of the couples I desire to be, but I won’t be the woman to close the circle. Friend, fuck buddy, lover – but not his girlfriend, and not his partner.

It will never be you, he’ll eventually tell me. But I know this now. The problem is that I hold onto the lessons of my childhood: the people you love are supposed to cause you pain; the more pain you bear, the more true your feelings. He doesn’t love me, and he may not even care about me. But I accept that, because it’s not the worst way someone’s responded to my love for them.

In a year, I’ll excavate the part of me that considers what I deserve in relation to how I’m treated, but that will be a sad day too, because what I will realize is that I don’t know how to give love to men that are able to love me in return. If I don’t suffer, it’s just not real. What a joke, I’ll think, to come so far in my life and still be so broken.

For now, however, it’s my turn to climb. I push my hands, one after the other, through the opening of my chalk bag, a white plume following each motion. “You were awesome,” I say to Sean. And I walk past him, placing my fingers on the start of a problem I can solve.

Cope

March begins with a broken heart. For a moment, I fear that this year will be the same as the last: my capacity for love will become a fire that turns my world to ash. But I’ve since learned that life is not grief or pain.

Life is how you cope with loss. To live, you let go.

Snapshot of a Feminist Male

“Don’t you remember? I said I don’t like documentaries.”

Before I can say, well, I do, and I’m sorry I asked if you had any interest in seeing that new Netflix one on the ivory game, he interrupts my thoughts.

“Remember?” He repeats. “They all have too much bias.”

Diplomatic is not the right word choice here; diplomacy occurs among equals, not in arrangements where one party is expected, even if not explicitly, to submit to the other. No, I am learning how to be demure. While I think, yes, a film on elephant poaching is biased towards conservation and the prevention of this mammal’s extinction, bias is not inherently a bad thing, I say instead, “okay.” As much as I want to say, Men think that their self-assessed ability to identify bias makes them enlightened geniuses, I turn my attention to my cuticles and add, “We don’t have to watch it.”

It’s alright to not be enough of myself when I’m with him. I decided that when I decided I was too lonely to spend the final third of the year by myself. There are things I can save for when I’m alone, like my opinions and self-respect.