I'm 27 years old. I'm single and alone. Many of my friends are married, in stable relationships, or have somehow maintained a multi-year flirtatious/romantic/sexual on/off relationship with someone.
My lack of a relationship has always bothered me. I think anyone who is friends with me knows that. When I was 18, I thought I was going to go to college, meet a nice guy, and get married at 22-23. I didn't care about my career or what I wanted to do for a job. I guess I thought I was going to meet a nice guy who will support me and all I need to do is find a nice office job that pays $50k/year. Then I'll have two kids. That's all I really wanted. I didn't really care about school or personal success. In a way, I still want that. I want to go back in time and do this, make this happen, and live this perfect, normal life.
I'm 27 now. Way past the year when I thought I was going to meet the love of my life. Way past the year when I thought I was going to get engaged, get married, and have children. I've been coerced into a kind of feminist-approved independence. I financially support myself. I drive everywhere myself. I assemble all my own furniture. I once rolled a box containing a sofa up a few steps of stairs by myself so I could get it to the elevator. Being single as long as I have, I know how to do everything myself because I do everything myself.
I'm now in a Ph.D. program in political science. Females are a minority in political science, and they are perhaps even more a minority in the American politics subfield. This past weekend, I presented my research project to a panel with an audience that included 9 white men and one woman.
I sound like I'm doing relatively okay, but I'm inexplicably lonely. I can't even begin to describe how lonely I am. I am so lonely to a point that I simply assume anyone in a relationship or in a pseudo-relationship doesn't understand what it means to be sad and scoff at them when they complain about their lives. As far as I'm concerned, I am the saddest person I know. I am the saddest person I know who has had the same opportunities as I've had.
I want a relationship so badly. I've tried almost every single dating app. I've joined so many things. I have so many friends. I know so many people. It's exhausting. I've done a lot of this because I want a relationship. I want to meet someone. I even thought if I just made myself to go to grad school, I'll meet someone. I moved from California to Wisconsin in hopes that the change of environment will help me meet someone. I've gone through so many phases of life--college, work, graduate school--and still haven't found The One. I just want to fall in love, feel loved, and share my life with someone and have someone share his life with me.
I don't even know the point of this post. This is just what I'm feeling right now. I just wanted to write this down. I just want to acknowledge how sad I feel, despite the fact that I'm trying my best to be happy. I'm trying to bring positive vibes. I'm trying to not be negative. But just feeling like nothing is happening on this front is so incredibly discouraging. It makes me feel so unloved and so irrelevant.
I was just sad for most of 2018. I guess I still am, but I manage the sadness a little better now. I think! I hope! I really hope!
I think the best decision I made and the best thing that happened to me this year was going on Prozac. Of course, it wasn't like, this magic pill that made my problems go away, but it was a pill that helped me manage my depression and anxiety. With those things out of the way, I was able to be more productive. And once it finally kicked in, I didn't worry about not being invited to things anymore and feeling ignored because I wasn't interesting enough. In most occasions, I was glad I didn't have to go to things and I was glad I didn't have to engage in small talk. I just didn't care as much anymore. If things weren't convenient, I didn't bother. And that didn't bother me. I enjoyed the newfound apathy.
For most of 2018, I was completely infatuated with a guy who didn't even like me back and who toyed around with me and used me for his personal ego trip. I was just so hungry for mainstream cultural validation that I was willing to put up with it. He liked the right things, wore the right clothes, and did things that were "in." He cared about Snapscores and Instagram followers and judged me for the few Facebook notifications I got. I wanted someone who cared about those things to accept me, to like me, to date me because that would mean I was cool and pretty and okay. And I never really feel cool, pretty, or okay so having someone who could make me feel those things would have been such a wonderful prize.
Looking back, I'm less angry at him. I'm just so angry at that version of myself that I find it so hard to forgive myself. The version that allowed myself to be bullied by some asshole who was shallow and superficial and who dehumanized me so he could feel better about himself. I'm so angry that the universe ruled in his favor: he now has photos with his current girlfriend who he "feels" someone for, who is allegedly "not that kind of girl," as he described in our last phone call together plastered all over his social media. I know the world is unfair, but all of this has just exacerbated so much of the loneliness I feel and have felt for a long while. And people keep telling me this feeling will end and I keep growing ever so impatient and angry at myself for getting myself into that kind of situation because I didn't have the confidence and self-esteem to know I deserved something better and much less painful.
I still avoid so many things. I can barely get through a commercial for the NBC show, "This Is Us." I know that sounds so silly, but every time that commercial comes on, I think about that guy and his new girlfriend. And how he's telling all his friends that she's "the one" and he's treating her well and how he's becoming a better person for her sake and how all his friends and family members think that "she's been so good for him." I just think about how he's treating her the way I always wanted him to treat me for so many fucking months. I just think about how he's not filming her when she's giving him a blowjob, and how he's not taking nude photos of her and sending them to his friends, and how he doesn't FaceTime his friends after sex to show all his friends her naked body, and how he's not sticking his dick into her into her in the middle of the night when she tells him that she's not wet yet. And I just feel like such a loser because I was just so insignificant and easy to exploit and so silly and so foolish and how I didn't report any of it and I still desperately wanted him to like me. So I almost start crying during "This Is Us" commercials due to pure self-pity. I'm just so ashamed that I let myself be used that way and I'm so angry at people who didn't protect me even though I know the only person who allowed it happen was me.
I avoid going to his neighbors' apartment for all parties. I'm still trying to come up with an excuse to get out of their Oscars party and that's an entire month away. I'm just having so much anxiety over how to reject that invite without being an asshole that I might just tell them the truth. I met him at the Oscars party last year and I can barely like, think about the Oscars these days. I've barely watched the Oscar season movies because I don't want to think about the Oscars. And I sound insane, I know, because I've cared about awards season for as long as I remember, but I just can't deal with it right now.
And it's not about him. It's about me. It's about how everything made me feel. It made me feel dirty and stupid and gross. It made me feel disposable. It made me feel like I should never care about anything and never trust anyone because so much of it is bullshit and I always lose. I still feel all those things, every single fucking day. And it hurts like hell. And I think, most importantly, I'm just scared. And I don't want to be open and vulnerable anymore if it threatens my emotional security.
And it's also been hard. Everyone's just been so happy. People tell me it's not true, that it's all an act, but he seems to be happy. It was just so easy for him. He just asked her to dinner and now they have photos together on social media. I keep thinking about how everyone's lives are these goddamn life insurance commercials. They met at a party--BAM NOW THEY ARE MARRIED. He asked her out when she was still dating some other guy--BAM MARRIED. They met in class--GUESS WHAT THEY ARE ENGAGED. They met through friends--THEY ARE DATING. They matched on Tinder--THEY ARE ENGAGED AND WILL GET ANOTHER DOG TOGETHER. They were just hooking up for years but then went on a trip--THEY DEFINED THEIR RELATIONSHIP AND ARE NOW LONG DISTANCE. Yes, it's unfair because life's unfair, but why couldn't someone else's life be unfair? I feel like mine is just so unfair and I just wonder what I did wrong and who I have to apologize to and what I need to do to repent. I just feel like I'm an awful person and I just don't know how to change that.
I'm wildly jealous, I know, and it's an ugly look and I'm so sorry. I sometimes feel like that's why my life is so fucked up. I just want to be this version of myself who is just pleased with the journey and who is okay with just waiting for things to get better and who just feels happy for other people. But I'm not really that happy for other people's relationships! I mean, I'm truly happy for people when they get like, a paper published, but not for anyone's relationship. I try to be, I swear, but I just don't give a fuck these days. I just don't care. I feel so little that I pretend to be a decent human being about it by overcompensating. I'm sorry if all the times I've been nice lately has this mechanical quality to it. I want to be kind, but I just can't find myself to really mean it sometimes. I have a hard time being kind and compassionate without acting. And I know that sounds petty and I know that sounds horrible but I just can't bring myself to be actually invested in the status of anyone's relationship. Because I just feel like the most miserable person compared to all the people around me. I just feel so unloved and neglected. I hope this burning jealousy fades soon because I really hate that about myself.
I'm not even sure what this post was meant to do for me. I didn't even know who to say any of this to because I don't want to fuck up anyone's evening. I just feel so alone in all the things I'm feeling. I feel like my nose is pressed against this window and all my friends' lives are blossoming and are exciting and are filled with love and joy and I'm just...sitting here typing this sad girl manifesto and waiting for a reason that begs that persona to disappear.
For the longest time, I thought the solution was a boy, a relationship. But it's probably not. I'm just so unproductive when I'm emotionally invested in someone. I cried every day last summer. I felt so behind for someone who always wants to be ahead. I just can't have someone destabilizing my emotions and distracting me from my work. I know if that person is attentive and actually liked me, the story might be different, but I can't bear the burden of pursuing a person anymore. I'm sick and tired of trying to claw my way into the heart and soul of cultural validation. I don't want to seek approval anymore. You either approve of me or you get the hell out of my life.
I've been surrounding myself with people who like me and respect me. In general, it has been for the better. As my psychiatrist says, I'm playing to my strengths. As my therapist says, it's good that people who use me are mostly out of my life. Look, it takes a whole village to make me less fucked up, okay? Sometimes I feel like that's too much confirmation bias and I could probably use some guy telling me that I don't have enough Facebook notifications and that my Snapscore is too low. But life is too fucking short to feel like shit for yet another summer.
Eating alone at the Dane County Fair, I felt sad. I had gotten some food at a food stand and told the people I was with to go wherever they wanted to go and I'd meet them there.Â
At that moment, I missed my parents. We used to go to fairs all the time. We'd also go to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk most weekends, which resembles a permanent county fair. My mom would brag about how she was good at the hoops games. I remember I'd measure my height all the time to see if I could finally ride the bumper cars. When I was finally tall enough, I didn't know how to drive the car--the car just spun around and around until I cried. The second time, though, I knew how to drive it and drove it well. I felt undeniably cool.
I'm in a weird time in my life, I guess. I'm 26 goddamn years old. I have the life of a freshman in college. While many of my friends are married, I still feel like a child. I want to go to a county fair with my parents.
It sucks I'm not planning to go home until December. I was watching The Open this morning and wishing I was watching it with my dad.Â
The older I get, the more of an orphan I feel. I don't feel like I belong. I think a part of me yearns to be a part of a romantic relationship because then I'll feel like I'm part of a whole. It feels like everyone else out there is somehow part of a whole, and I'm just like, this atom spinning, spinning out of control, out in this big, unwinding universe.Â
I've been considering going on anti-depressants. While my therapist has not recommended that I take any and even agreed with my assessment that I probably don't need to be medicated, I feel like it might help me deal with being sad all the time.
I've been crying every day since I got home. I thought being home would be better, but it clearly feels all the same. It's been such a struggle to read the books I have to read or to drive to Target to shop for essentials. Every task feels so difficult.
I don't want to complain to my parents. I don't want to worry them. And I don't even know where to start. I'm not even quite sure why I feel as sad as I do. Or I do. I don't know. It doesn't really matter. I just don't know how to tame a hurricane of uncertainty and confusion. I just feel so miserable. I just feel like I don't want to feel this way and there's nothing to look forward to.
I don't even want to hang out with people, frankly. I doubt I'm even pleasant to hang out with. It's been difficult pretending to be fine in front of my grad school cohort. I constantly want to break down.
I feel like there's no one to talk to who will provide me any comfort. It's a goddamn Wednesday night and everyone is out there living their lives. People's lives are getting better and mine is only getting worse. I don't know if I can relate to people anymore. I don't know if people can relate to me anymore. I feel like such an anomaly.
I've seriously thought about ending my life this summer a couple of months ago. I'm not sure if I'll follow through with this because I have so many summer obligations, but I wish I could at least disappear for a few days. This past year has been really difficult and I just don't know how to deal with it anymore. I just don't feel like any amount of "talking" will make it any better. I'm done talking. It was kind that people offered to listen, but it just didn't really help. Now, I just want it all to end.
I was severely depressed from October 2016 to February 2017. After a series of disappointing romantic entanglements from online dating apps, I began a period of intense self-loathing. Every time I drove on the San Mateo Bridge or Dumbarton Bridge to and from work, I would fantasize about driving off the bridge. I would cry myself to sleep. I wrote a lengthy suicide note that is still in the Notes app on my phone. I felt unfocused at work, though my performance reviews certainly did not reflect that. I felt like I was unfocused when applying to grad schools, though my grad school options did not reflect that. I was a functional depressive, but still, depressed.
Eventually, I found solutions. I started attending therapy regularly in November 2016. I started calling my mother whenever I was driving to and from work. I started listening to podcasts before bed to get my mind off things.
It was not really the result of one person. Someone did trigger the depression, but it ultimately felt like a cumulation of a series of dashed romantic hopes. The feeling of, I don't think of myself as someone who deserves to be treated this way, but alas. The feeling of, I can't believe someone felt so little respect for my thoughts and feelings that they'd discard me this way. I think a part of me was very much in the mindset of, well, I'm not a slut--to put it roughly--I don't deserve to be treated this way. I now understand that no one should ever be treated the way many men treated me no matter what society-prescribed mold they fit in.
I became less depressed by February 2017, when I started getting grad school admittances and started dating M. I remember during my first grad school visit, I thought to myself, "I am glad I didn't kill myself, or else I wouldn't be at this cool grad school visit talking to cool people," which was sort of ridiculous, but there was that feeling of--ah, there are still things to come. I remember when M first held my hand as we were walking to the train station, I thought to myself, "I am glad I didn't kill myself because I feel so happy right now."
Despite all of this, I feel so severely depressed right now. Despite knowing how liberating it can be to overcome depression, it feels like it doesn't matter very much right now. I know what the cause of this bout of depression is--I went on four dates with E, a guy who I felt a connection with, but texted me after the fourth date that he didn't feel "romantic chemistry" with me--and I can't help that it's a further cumulation of my romantic history. His claim, this lack of romantic chemistry, feels like this thundering indictment from the many men I've dated in the past year and a half. It feels like they all wanted to say precisely this, but only he had the courage to say it.
I think, for most of my life, I've always felt so insecure about not being able to drive men crazy. Not being desirable, attractive, datable, etc. I've always wanted to be Cute Fun Girl, the girl that guys like, have crushes on, pine over. I've never been that girl, and that has driven *me* crazy. And it sounds so dumb to admit this, but I will trade any characteristic I possess to be that girl.
I seriously contemplated suicide on Sunday night after I got the text. I called three friends--my ex, this guy in my program, my former roommate. They all had Nice Things to say, but I realized I could talk to a bunch of people and it won't change anything about what had happened. I wanted it to be fixable. I wanted things to be different from what they were. I was actually excited to tell my therapist good news for once. Then I realized the issue with committing suicide was that I have relatively little experience with it and became paranoid about the possibility of fucking it up--how would I tell my family, friends, professors, classmates? What if the doctors discourage me from going to classes? That's one thing I'd like to continue doing if I have to be alive: attending classes to finish the fucking program.
I've thought about going on medication. My therapist had suggested that, perhaps, anxiety meds might help. I personally just don't think they'll help. I don't want to consume anything that won't change what I actually want to be changed, which are all the things I don't have control over. Other people's feelings. Men's feelings (or lack thereof) towards me.
People are always so nice about things when it's hypothetical. "I think anyone would be lucky to have you as a partner," they say. Well, newsflash: when people can have me, they don't fucking want me. I keep going back to the feeling that there must be something so wrong with me--so broken, so awful about me--that repulses men I'm romantically interested in. Yes, I am worth being friends with--people have so many fucking friends! myself included! people are not selective with their friends!--but not worthy of being anyone's priority. No one really cares what I think about them because no one really wants to impress me.
Or, people like to tell me that things will get better. Well, what if they don't? What if this pattern of rejection continues? What if I simply don't possess the gene that makes men want to date me? I don't think things are getting better and I feel so fucking lonely in Wisconsin sometimes I want to explode.
I cried on-and-off most of Monday. I wasn't even sure how I was going to be able to make it through that day. I cried as I was waiting for the bus. I cried as I walked to stats class. I teared up during stats class. I cried in the basement of the education building between stats and classics. I held back tears during classics. I held back tears during a workshop. I cried in the crisis counselor's office for half an hour. I cried as I walked from the crisis counselor's office to game theory office hours, and I kept telling myself, "Please grow the fuck up and stop crying, you are fucking embarrassing yourself," as I was walking. I cried as I walked from the bus stop to my apartment. I cried after I shut the door to my bedroom.
I realized I wasn't even sad about E anymore. I was just sad. I wished I could quickly diagnose my sadness. Would it be fixed with a boy who reciprocates my feelings? Perhaps temporarily. Or perhaps permanently.
I woke up this morning, absolutely hating myself. I couldn't stand being in my body. I wanted to just disappear or explode. I also didn't think I could make it through the day. I didn't cry today, which was a plus, but I just couldn't help but feel so deeply worthless. I was scared that it was going to feel like this forever. Right now, I can't imagine a scenario where I think to myself, "I'm glad I didn't kill myself because..." I want to imagine it so badly, but I feel so dead inside right now.
There's really no happy ending here. I need to recover then dive into midterms week, so I obviously can't traumatize myself with more dating. My birthday is next week, and it's going to be the worst birthday. I'll have to pretend to be merry in hopes that it'll make me actually feel merry. I'll drink unlimited beer. Politely nod and laugh. Precisely the kind of birthday where I get to feel like fucking shit.
If I have to go on another date with another stranger, I'm going to kill myself.
That's how I constantly feel all the time. I started dating July 2016, at the late age of 24. I've been on dates with strange men I've connected with through Bumble, Tinder, OK Cupid, and Coffee Meets Bagel. I've been on Hinge, but none of my Hinge connections resulted in an actual date. I entered into a roughly six-month relationship in February 2017 with someone I met through a friend; the relationship ended when I moved to Wisconsin for grad school and, more importantly, when he returned to the ex-girlfriend he still had feelings for during our relationship.
I fucking hate dating. I just fucking hate it. I hate trying to keep their interest over text. I hate worrying about it. I hate making small talk over some meal or coffee. I hate trying to figure out what they want and whether they are lying to my face. I hate trying so hard to make a good impression, and not getting the next-day text. I hate the feeling of having to initiate the text and fearing that he won't respond. I hate the lack of accountability. I hate that dating makes me vulnerable to shit behavior from shit people. I hate the feeling that people have ex-girlfriends who might want them back. I hate feeling like shit. I hate dating. Dating should die.
To be honest, I still have a lot of PTSD from the summer of 2016. I don't think I can ever consider dating as a "safe" activity ever again. That sounds so ridiculously dramatic, but to this day, I literally cannot fall asleep without a podcast on because if it's dead silent, I start thinking about the summer of 2016, the people I'm still so angry at, the people who must think I am so fucking stupid and psychotic. I look in the bathroom mirror every day to see if the acne scar on my left cheek from the fall of 2016 has faded (it hasn't). I cried myself to sleep for a month. I called my mom during my drives home from work and cried the whole time until she came back from Taiwan because she was worried about me.
Dating as a twentysomething woman is difficult and scary. The men you encounter all have romantic histories. A lot of them are on dating apps, which give them the feeling of endless possibilities. A lot of men have this mentality of, hey, I've waited this long, I might as well hold out for the right girl. Or something! I have no fucking idea. And the worst part, many of them are dishonest and no one holds them fucking accountable. They just want to disappear so they don't have to give you any explanation. And I've been so hurt by that kind of disappearance. And my friends all think I'm so fucking stupid and immature for being so fixated and upset over that kind of stuff, but--okay, look, I got my first kiss from some guy on Tinder. I told him it was my first kiss and I really liked him and he was so sweet about it to my face, but a week later, he told me he has been "busy." I never heard from him again. Five months later, I found him on Facebook with this gorgeous European-looking girlfriend. I trust no one.
I don't know why I am revisiting the past. I mean, when I was watching The Americans for like 7 hours today in my sweats, I wondered to myself if I'll just be a fucking loser for the rest of my life. I hate feeling like there is something deeply wrong with me. I am just sick of dating. Dating is honestly the most degrading experience of my life. I felt more dignity at my last job because at least I was being paid. I feel more dignity as a GRAD STUDENT LOL. I hate constantly feeling like I am a contestant on the fucking Bachelor.
The natural question, I guess, is, well, why do you still do it? I want to have what other people have. I felt like I did everything right prior to the summer of 2016. I didn’t date anyone. I’ve been on like, one date, prior to the summer of 2016. I thought if I kept myself “pure,” the “right” men would like me. I thought being a “good girl” was going to help me through this. I was wrong. But now I am also a deeply fucked up person, yay!
I don't have anything eloquent or interesting to say. I wrote too much last semester. I just needed to unload.
I don't recommend going to a Ph.D. program because you're romantically unsatisfied. I'm afraid to admit this, but it's true: I went back to school because I felt like it was the easiest place to find a mate.
Sure, there were other reasons. As an undergraduate, I knew I wanted to be a researcher with the freedom to explore my own questions. It didn't really matter to me if I eventually get to do that in a public or private sector, I knew I needed to go to graduate school for it. I'm not that great of a student, but I'm easily amused by most school-related things, so why not? And also, mate-finding.
I applied and got into a couple of places. I went to the highest-ranked program I got into, which, hilariously, also offered me a fellowship. When I started getting into schools, I started dating M. M and I hit it off, and I absolutely adored him. He was great! He was great until he told me he was going to row the Atlantic Ocean in 2019 and he was going to do it to advocate for transgender rights. Why? Well, his ex-girlfriend is a transgender woman. So what? He wanted to let me know he needed to reach out to her for sponsorships and partnerships.
They met up. She told him she still had feelings for him. He told me he still had feelings for her too. He asked me if I would be okay with an open relationship. I told him if he wanted to stay with me, I wanted the relationship to be exclusive. He said that he was upset that I was leaving in August. How did I think that made him feel? I said he should be elated that two girls are fighting over him. And once I leave in August, he can date whoever he wants.
Now it's almost December. M and his ex-girlfriend--well, I guess his now-girlfriend--are dating. I am stuck in fucking Wisconsin where people are literally trying to figure out alternative universe 2016 voter turnout using 2012 voter turnout as a proxy. Because sure. I feel so lonely and isolated and sad. I don't think I've ever been so unhappy in my life.
I suppose I can move back to California, get my old job back, live at home, etc. But I can't have M back. So I almost feel like it's not worthwhile to move back to California if I can't have him back. And I just can't believe I didn't try harder to make it work. I wonder if I had just not told him about grad school, and just stayed in California and made it work, perhaps he wouldn't have reached out to his ex, confessed his feelings to his ex, etc. I just wonder if anything would have turned out differently. I used to be so judgmental about women who choose their partners over their careers, but I did just that and it feels like fucking shit. I hate my life so much that I feel lightheaded just thinking about it. I feel like I made the wrong choice. I keep telling myself, "This is what you wanted since you were 20." Well, guess what? I'm not 20 anymore. This is bullshit.
And the worst part is, my hyper-boiling hatred has nothing to do with the work. I like the work--in fact, I almost love the work. It's gross, but it's true. I just think the work would be so much easier if I get to be someone I adore at the end of the day. The work is all-consuming and awful if you don't have that kind of constant support. The work feels like it's all you have-- all you have to legitimate yourself as a fucking human being.
I cried myself to sleep last night and I cried all morning, as I tried to read a book for tomorrow's seminar. I just can't believe this is my life now. I hate it so much. I just hate it. I am so angry at myself. I am so angry how I haven't met anyone here. I am so angry that I somehow thought that if I just moved to Wisconsin, a place that has even fewer people and more racists than in California, I would find someone. I am so stupid, I deserve to be this angry. I just hate myself so much, and my mind can't even express this fast enough or often enough.
I miss M so much. I haven't spoken to him since we last saw each other in November. No texts, no email, nothing. I just miss talking to him. Sometimes I see something and I want to send it to him, but I stop myself. We said we'd remain friends, but now it feels awkward. He's stopped reaching out, and I wonder if I should stop too. I wonder if he thought I was weird when he last saw me. I just feel so replaceable and disposable and worthless.
This has just been my experience with guys: I'm never enough. There's always someone better out there--an ex, some girl on the dating app, that girl in class. I'm the girl who doesn't get the guy. I'm the other girl. And I feel that I deserve it. I deserve it for being so selfish, egotistical, and stupid. I deserve this.
I was accepted into graduate school. I turned in a resignation letter early and lazed around on the Internet for a solid month. I had a boyfriend who seemed to care about me enough. I had friends in the area. I watched copious amounts of television. Things felt good. Things felt right.
The thing about getting accepted to graduate school was that, eventually, I had to actually go to graduate school. Compromises had to be made: I had to leave a job where I made too much money doing too little. I had to break up with my boyfriend. I had to leave my friends behind. I had to stop watching too much television. Things were about to feel deeply uncertain.
I've been trying to make the most of this sweet Midwestern college town. People are nice, people are friendly. My roommate made me a goodie box with salted caramels, pistachios, a granola bar, and chocolate bars. She gifted me a spider plant she potted with her boyfriend. She and her boyfriend took me to the Wisconsin Terrace for beers and fried cheese curds. Her dog is cute.
My cohort is nice and friendly, too. Most of the married and international students don't come out to socialize too often, so I've been spending a lot of time with people who are mostly straight out of undergrad. They're fine. I find some of their banter objectively irritating, but I can't help but enjoy some of it. I once graduated college and went to work with actual adults, and envied my friends who worked with a cohort of recent grads. I feel like I'm trying to redeem what I thought was lost.
School is starting next week, which is daunting. I don't know if I remember how to learn, how to do well on tests and papers. It's a scary thought to feel like learning is somehow completely foreign, yet the reason why I wanted to return to school. I sometimes think about my dismal job prospects and my dismal salary as an over-educated person, and it scares me. It scares me that I'll be 30 when I get out of grad school, and I'll have to rebuild my personal life because there was nothing really quite there to begin with.
Yet, I want the work to consume me. I want to be distracted from everything that causes me paranoia, anxiety, and depression. Work doesn't really do that to me and even when it kind of does, the anguish will only last at most a week. I like to work because it's transactional and impersonal. I like to work because I feel like it can be contained and controlled.
Anyway, I'm not sure what my point is. I guess my point is that I'm an anxious mess right now. Despite enjoying the work, I'm worried that, one day, it won't be enjoyable anymore. Everyone will have their lives together--they'll have a family of their own, they'll be happy, they'll have something to live for. I'll be working like a madwoman somewhere, all alone, with nothing to live for but my work. That's sort of dramatic, but that's how I feel right now--people will inevitably move on, live full lives, and I'll just be someone they check-in on once in a while.
Sometimes I evaluate the person I am and wonder why my personal life hasn't fallen into place yet. That should be the easy part. I should be the one in a stable, long-term relationship, yet I'm not. And it makes me sad and frustrated and it feels all very unfair all the time. It sounds whiny, I know, but it's the kind of fatal life flaw that has made me feel entitled to everything else in life--having a well-paying job, getting into grad school, having friends and family who think I'm all right. People tell me that, even if your personal life is in place, it doesn't get any easier. But the thing is, for me, this has always been the most difficult part, and it scares me that it might never happen, or I'll need to work very hard to establish such a thing in my thirties and risk being hurt to achieve it. I hate that. I hate the kind of pain that feels startingly personal when it really shouldn't.
So the night is closing in. Some of the young folks in my cohort are going to watch the football game at some bar. I got a text about it, but I wished they had posted on the Facebook group because what else did I create it for? To be young and to want to be around people all the time. I bet that's wonderful. I'll see them at the potluck that I'm hosting at my apartment tomorrow, so there's no need to see them tonight.
Now I'm heading to the campus movie theater to see a random free screening of Kiki's Delivery Service, my favorite Miyazaki film, all by myself. On a football game night. Because I'm old and anxious and need to get used to being alone just in case my personal prophecy comes true.
It's pretty late and I can't stop thinking of something that's not really a big deal, but I can't help but dwell on it like a lunatic and let it just grow and implode in my head.
I've been helping a friend to apply for a position at Company X. I know a few people who work there, so I sent Facebook messages to them, asking them if they have any tips, or can offer some insight into the application process, etc. One of the girls read the message but didn't reply. It's been nearly a week.
I've just been...so impossibly furious about it. I know, I know, it sounds so ridiculous. I'm just so angry that she's read the message and hasn't responded. Maybe she’s busy and forgot! NOPE. She has since changed her profile photo and added some long-ass caption to accompany it.
I honestly don't understand why people aren't excited about the opportunity to be kind and compassionate towards others. If people are coming to you for help, you are, for a moment, in a position of power and influence over a person, over a situation. It means you're still useful--to others, to society! Why isn't that something to just jump at the chance over? And even if she had nothing to say, why couldn't she have just responded politely? Why do people always choose evasion and apathy over action and empathy?
I'm just so fucking angry at her that I just hate the thought that I'll never be able to hurt her as much as she's hurt me. I just keep thinking about how she'll never need me, how perfect her life is, how fit she is, how cute her pets are, how smart and cool and well-liked she is, and how people actually want to work at her company. I know this sounds so over-dramatic, but I just can't stop feeling this way right now and I had to get it out of my system before I go to sleep tonight.
I saw one of those "Why are millennials leaving the church?" articles on my Facebook feed again (because that's what you get for having spent your past life in Christian communities) and so felt compelled to offer my dime (yes, a whole DIME) on the matter. Not that my thoughts and feelings *actually* matter, as they haven't really mattered in any millennial-based Christian community for YEARS, but as all my Tumblr writings go, this is actually just free therapy for me.
Sure, yes, millennials are leaving the church for all the reasons that Relevant Magazine (aka the Christian Thought Catalog) have probably listed in their archives: the antiquated values, lack of political, social, and cultural progressiveness, cliquey-ness, lack of a social justice message in trying times, and so on. Those are all good and real reasons, and the church can certainly improve on all of them.
But the problem with all these articles is that they are written by people who are happily Christian. The only people who think seriously about the topic of bringing more young people to church and are compelled to write Internet think pieces about it are the people who believe the church can improve a young person's life. And that may very well be true! Or, it could trigger a lifetime of psychological trauma. You just got to be lucky.
So many of the articles miss the point. And the point is, Christians who work with young people (in some capacity) and their millennial counterparts are the fucking worst. I'm sorry, but it just had to be said. Yes, I understand it's a generalization, but nearly all millennial Christians are at least six degrees away from this sad fact. The Millennial Christian Church Community is a horrifying, project-based landscape that glorifies hierarchy, reputation, and validation.
I was first introduced to this culture in high school via a church youth group. During junior year of high school, I was struggling academically and socially and felt depressed all the time (nothing changed, yay!), so my mom, after a pleasant conversation with the youth pastor, thought it'd be a good idea to get me plugged in. I joined the youth group, was not very social within the group (I *hate* church games), and got a few new Facebook friends.
That said, I did develop a personal relationship with the youth pastor. We'd hang out one-on-one and chat, and it was nice to talk to a person who was too young to be a parent but old enough to be an adult about my issues and ask a few of my spiritual questions. I really valued our friendship, so it was heartbreaking that, once I moved to Davis, I saw her post on our youth group's worship leader's Facebook wall that she was visiting Davis and wanted to hang out. For MONTHS, I kept trying to figure out why she didn't reach out to me. Did she forget that I also attended? Did she not like me as much? I think the definitive answer is that, at the end of the day, someone who was a high school youth group worship leader has so much more spiritual potential than the girl who barely said anything in youth group. I get it. Well, the last time I checked, he joined a fraternity and was smoking a joint in his Facebook profile picture. So much for the good ol' Christian discipleship. I know that sounded a bit vindictive, but I can't HELP but note that the guy was no longer the model Christian. Yes, I'm petty.
As time went on, the youth pastor and I did hang out whenever I was home. I tried not to take the incident so personally. Â I volunteered at her church plant's summer retreat one year in college. When I became employed, her church plant was one of the first few organizations I wanted to tithe to. I believed in what she was doing. I was even invited to her wedding. I wanted to feel validated by her because it would have meant I was validated by someone I (and other people) deemed as spiritually significant.
A few months later, I texted her about all my silly relationship issues, which is well-documented on this blog. She called me. I cried for 20 minutes because I was so miserable. We talked. She invited me over to her new house and we had lunch with her new husband. She recommended that I read Joshua Harris's Boy Meets Girl and told me that she'll check in on me in three months. I bought the book off of Amazon and opened the book up to a page where the writer seemed to be slut shaming women*, so I didn't bother to read it. Â She never checked in on me. I went on living a life that Joshua Harris would have undoubtedly slut shamed, but I went about that life in a much wiser fashion.
Months later now, it's her wedding anniversary. And somehow, she's found the time to post retrospectives on Facebook, but not, I don't know, shoot me a text and ask if I've read the book she told me she'd hold me accountable to read. THIS is the reason why I don't believe in the millennial church. It's full of false accountability for people they don't mind falling through the cracks. It's a very "let me know" culture when you're not perceived as the next charismatic big thing. I am a fucking depressed human. Why would I ever want to reach out to you? Why would I even be charismatic? I often feel neglected. I want to be reached out to. I want people to initiate with me. I want people to give a shit about me. Sure, that's selfish, but it's like, I can't even get a text that takes about five seconds to compose, but all her Facebook followers get 50,000 posts about her one-year wedding anniversary.
Look, I'm sorry if I sound like an asshole. I know I was lucky that she picked up the phone when I texted, meaning that I had someone to talk to in a time of emotional crisis. But it sounded like she just happened to have some free time, and why not? I know I can call her, but that’s beside the point. And it’s funny, because most people who defend the actions of the Millennial Christian Church always end up telling you that all that really matters is God, BUT they also encourage you to be part of a Christian community. I tried the latter, and it sucked. For years, I've felt like I wasn't worth investing in as part of the Millennial Christian Church. I spent most of my college career in a Christian fellowship that didn't provide me any serious guidance or disciplining or anything that would have made me feel like I was part of a spiritually nutritious Christian community. I've honestly just felt ignored because I wasn’t worth the time. The Millennial Christian Church had a "type" (cheerful, charismatic, attention whoring), in the same way that all the guys in my freshman year dorm floor had a "type" (thin, white, blond). I wasn't their type, so it felt like the Millennial Christian Church just wanted me to fuck off.
So fuck off, I did.
*I have a low tolerance for white male writers who warn women that she shouldn't get ~intimate~ with guys and it's somehow the woman's fault if she gets hurt by the guy. The guy (or girl!) who hurt you is an asshole. That's all you need to believe in, and all you need to know. You're not dumb if someone hurt you. They are BAD PEOPLE and we need to STOP teaching young women (or young men!) that "they should've known better" or they are "too sensitive" or they "took things too seriously." That is all bullshit. If we continue blaming people who are hurt/got hurt for being hurt, we are creating an unempathetic space. I went through MONTHS believing that I was stupid, and people told me I was taking things too personally and that the people who ghosted me weren't actually bad people, but you know what: They ARE bad people. They are dishonest. They are hurtful. They caused me MONTHS of pain, and are causing me, what could be YEARS of depression-induced paranoia and anxiety. They could have been kind and compassionate, but they weren't. Â They are bad people. They can go to hell. And yeah, I feel better for getting to a point in my life where I can say all of this. It makes me feel like I've forgiven myself.
I think it's a result of overanalyzing everything. I constantly feel like I'm trapped in this web of conspiracy. A web where people constantly avoid hanging out with me because I'm not cool enough, or there's always "something better" out there. I just feel like I'll never be a priority for anyone, and it scares me.
I feel like I always have to live my life on someone else's terms. If I want to hang out with you? I don't have a choice. We can't negotiate. I'll just have to go along with whatever you dictate, even though you let other people dictate your schedule. There's no room for negotiation or coordination when it comes to me. I'm not Important Enough for that kind of concerted effort. My feelings don't matter. The pendulum never swings my way.
And it's just made me incredibly sad. I've just felt extremely devalued recently. And I think I'm also just extremely paranoid all the time. I think people are lying, or hiding something from me, or I wonder if there's any subtext I'm missing. I always ask myself, "Is this person orchestrating this GRAND PLOT to end our friendship, and I'm just not seeing it?" Partially, I suppose, it has a lot to do the fact that I've been self-destructive. And partially, I guess, it has a lot to do with the ghosts who ghosted me.
In retrospect, there were a lot of "signs" that the ghosts were about to fade. I just didn't get the memo. I kept pursuing. I kept thinking that it was all going to work out. But there were signs and I chose not to see them because I was so devastated about the past ghosts, that I just felt like, through brute force, I could make it work. I held on hope that they will know me for who I really am and love me as much as my mom loves me. Or something. I was naive. I didn't know millennials were a shit generation. Or, I did, I just didn't want to believe it.
Anyway, the paranoia and the anxiety have seeped into my Real Life. I think everyone is doing it to me now. I think everyone is about to ghost me. Because they hate me. Because their cool friends don't like me. Because I am lame, I dress lame, I have a lame job, I am going to have a lame job someday, I am going to a lame school, I have lame taste in lame things. I don't know! The possibilities are endless when it comes to how lame I think people think I am. When people reassure me that that's not the case, I don't believe them. I don't feel valued. I just feel like shit.
I just don't think people are happy around me. Maybe they don't think I'm fun. I certainly wish I was. I just want to be fun. I want people to like me. I usually hate people because I think they hate me, not anything about them in particular. I don't know what I'm trying to get at, but I know I want to be fun. I don't know how that looks like, but it seems like a good thing to be.
Anyway, I just felt incredibly sad this week. For a lot of reasons, or probably for no real reason at all. I wanted to write something down to feel a little better. In the end, none of this will actually matter.
So the last time I was in Davis, I dropped a gingham-wearing boy off at church before driving away.
That was August 2014. So much has changed since then, but all the best things have remained the same.
The night before I visited Davis this week, I was at a college friend's condo to get together with her and the same gingham-wearing boy (who was literally still wearing a gingham shirt, I shit you not). We had burgers and sweet potato fries and watched Game 7 of the World Series (go Cubs!) and hung out with her geriatric foster cat.
When I drove into Davis this week to visit a former professor who has agreed to write a letter of recommendation for me, I was elated. I got cheaper gas. I parked by my old apartment complex. I walked from downtown to campus. It was a glorious Davis autumn day where you could just smell the upcoming chill in the air, but the sun still pierced through the leafy trees. It would have been better on a bike, but that mid-morning walk sufficed.
I stepped onto campus and it felt that nothing has really changed. Sure, the MU was under construction (I had tried to get into the Coho through the MU, only to realize it was locked) and the Coho looks like it has undergone a few changes, but the setting felt like it was still very familiar.
Then I stepped onto the quad. I sat there--thinking, watching, observing. The students--so happy, and so full of hope, so full of possibilities! I fell in love with them. There is nothing like the noon rush on the quad--nothing like it. I suddenly understood why so many people chose to stay in Davis after graduation--this is the kind of nostalgia you could never get elsewhere, the kind where all your former hopes and dreams are reflected on the casual ecstasy of the younger versions of you. The late fall quarter thrill. I haven't heard the phrase "pass time" in years.
After my meeting with the professor, I walked around campus (I had to stay in Davis to meet a friend for dinner and to avoid traffic). I visited my freshman year dorm building and felt a pang of bittersweet sadness. I observed the other students, wondering if they're enjoying their time there yet, if they feel homesick, if they're going to have the friendships I was lucky enough to form in those dorms--
I wanted to cry.
And let's talk about the friendships I was lucky enough to find at Davis. Those friendships towered like a giant shadow as I toured campus. Those friendships that manifested itself in years of tears, blood, laughter, beers, and cookies. My professor pretty much recognized that my friend group was awesome (sorry, but it really is the best friend group) and asked me about how they were doing. It made me sad when I walked around the Coho and I recognized no one. It made me sad when I sat in the arboretum and there was no way I could randomly bump into one or two of my friends. I wish I was there with them again, at that time and that place. I can't really find an articulate way to say any of this. I missed them, I still miss them!
I sat in the library for a bulk of the day. And it made me sad I didn't appreciate Davis more when I was a student there. What a great place to spend four years of your life. What a great place to learn, to study, to form your best friendships, to grow into the kind of person you want to be.
I hope that the younger versions of me will realize that before it's too late.
Ah, here is the natural sequel to "Bullshit Summer."
I talked a bit about R2 in "Bullshit Summer: Part II" but he is a main character in "Bullshit Autumn." I'm just going to say that, of all the boys featured in the "Bullshit" series, R2 hurt me the most. Because I really, really liked R2, with all the hopes and dreams and romance of a fragile, naive soul.
I started talking to R2 on Tinder three days after R unexpectedly canceled on the day of our fourth date. Though I kept telling myself I was "done" with Tinder after R, I was tempted to see what else was out there. I wanted a rebound. I told myself I didn't want anything serious, I just wanted to have a meal with a nice guy, though I wasn't sure why I still thought Tinder was the place to meet a nice guy. Alas, I'm a fool. But keep in mind that I just ended a three-week dating stint with R, who was really a nice guy, and in retrospect, perhaps one of the best human beings one could conceivably meet on Tinder and in the world. For those who want to know what happened with R, I recommend that you read "Bullshit Summer: Part II," where he ghosted, but subsequently provided me with a thoughtful conciliatory text. R is great, and I only wish him the best. I wish we could be friends (because I would love to be friends with a Seinfeld fan and classic film buff and a Harry and Hermione shipper) but my therapist is against it.
R2 messaged me. I was immediately bored with the conversation. He was nowhere as articulate as R, and I was sort of done talking to someone who texted in bullet points. He told me he was trying to find a new job. I said good luck, hoping he'd realize that I was bored with the conversation. Then he went for the kill--we both work on the Peninsula, why don't we get lunch together? Sure, I guess--I'm down for a free lunch.
The night before we had lunch, we texted for two hours. It was a nice conversation--we talked about our jobs, sports, food, and so on. I wasn't totally sold, but I did enjoy talking to him and was looking forward to meeting him.
When I did meet him for lunch, I thought he was so much fun. There was a lot of chemistry. He was so charming, so charismatic, and in retrospective, almost TOO charming and TOO charismatic. But the conversation just carried itself--we talked about our jobs, local restaurants, Davis. After that lunch ended, we hugged, and he said, "See you soon." I knew I had this in the bag. I wasn't even anxious: I knew he was going to text me again.
Later that night, he sent me a text. He asked me if I arrived home yet (in Chinese). I immediately texted him back. He talked about the tennis match he just won, I talked about traffic (lol). He asked me if I was doing anything that night. I told him I was probably just going to veg out. He invited me over to his place. I was initially hesitant--I had committed to a phone bank stint the following morning. I asked him when I was going to see him again, if not that night. He said probably in two weeks because he had a birthday to attend in SF on Saturday and his friend from China was visiting for two weeks starting Sunday and he was going to be busy at work with end-of-the-month finance reports. I thought about it for a bit and decided, well, I want to see this person again because I want to get to know him better--I'll go ahead and see him that night.
I went to his house last night (he's housesitting for his parents) and we talked and watched golf for two hours then we made out. It was fun! He told me about living and working in China for a year, his dreams and ambitions, his fantasy sports teams, his family, where he lived in Davis. He told me about the things we could do together--watch all the golf majors, go play golf, go to this or that restaurant, and so on. He spoke some Chinese to me and his Chinese was very impressive--I told him I admired him for taking on that challenge. Some of my friends think he has an Asian fetish; to be honest, I kind of appreciate the fact that he likes my culture more than I do, and I am okay if he likes "Asian food" and likes to speak Chinese. I am sympathetic to my Asian friends who may find his objectification of Asian culture offensive, but I am personally not offended by it.
I told him a bit about myself. I think what really won me over that night was the way he handled the fact that both my father and my grandmother have Parkinson's--instead of pitying me (which is a common theme whenever you tell people that your family is suffering from a degenerative disease and you, someday, may suffer the same fate), he told me about the clinical trials they're doing that will likely eradicate Parkinson's. That was such a refreshing response to, well, illness. It was hopeful.
He begged me to stay the night. I told him I couldn't--I had to go. Before I left, my office name badge slipped out of my purse. As I was about to stuff it into my purse, he asked me if he could take a look at it. He walked me out to my car in barefoot. He laughed at my broken door handle on my 2000 Toyota Camry. We hugged and said our good nights. I said, "See you in two weeks." I drove away that night, thinking that I've met this awesome guy.
The next morning, I didn't get a text from him. So I thought I'd shoot him a text, letting him I know I had a great night and can't wait to see him again. Three hours later--nothing. I sent him another text, telling him that I hope he has a good time in SF. He texted back, "Will do! Have a good weekend" and that was that.
Nearly a week went by and still no word from him. I understood that he was probably busy with work and busy with his friend, but this was getting kind of ridiculous. I sent him a text on Friday morning, asking him how he's doing, how he's holding up as a tour guide. No response. It drove me insane. I texted him a photo of the U.S. winning Ryder Cup score two days later, and got a response, "USA USA." And that was it.
A week went by--nothing from him. I think, at this point, a lot of my friends thought this was futile and didn't understand why I couldn't just move on. I had this gut feeling that he was great, though, and I argued with myself that it was simply because they never met him and they didn't feel what I felt around him. Perhaps he was just not a very articulate texter.
I texted him Saturday morning, asking him if he wanted to hang out. He responded that he'll get back to me. I was happy that he acknowledged my text and told me that he was going to get back to me. I felt hopeful. Two days later, he actually did get back to me on his own accord, but it wasn't good news: he told me he was busy with work and his mother was visiting from Europe. Probably another week, he said. I texted him, aw, okay, but "go Giants!!" No response.
I didn't want to overthink the situation. He was probably busy at work, his mother was visiting him, and he probably did want to hang out in another week. I texted him the next week. He was under the impression I was going to cook Chinese food for him. I went along with it because I can cook, and I did want to see him again. He seemed open to it: he said he can probably do a weekend--probably that Saturday--but he'll confirm on Thursday. We chatted for a bit afterward--I asked him how he was doing and he said he was busy with work, he asked me how I was doing, we talked a bit about baseball.
Thursday rolled around. No confirmation. I freaked out and texted him Thursday night. No response. I woke up on Friday morning and explained the situation to him: I needed to carve out time to go grocery shopping and do prep if he was still interested. He responded, explaining that he had friends who were visiting from Davis and they haven't responded to him. I responded that he should keep me in the loop, but I am visiting a friend on Saturday too, and might only be free in the evening--or we should just try next weekend. He agreed--let's just try another weekend.
I impulse-texted him the following Sunday. I asked him if he'll be free on Sunday night for a home-cooked Chinese meal. He responded that he'll be in SF that night. I asked him when he'll be free, I'd love to see him again. No response. Two days later, I poured my heart out to him--I told him I really liked him, I wanted to know if he was still interested, or if my persistence is futile. I told him that I'm sorry that I am so neurotic, but I get anxious when it comes to dating and boys. No response. I texted again (sorry dear reader if you're friends with me, I am actually a really fucking annoying person), telling him that I enjoyed driving down the highway he took on his way home (which I drove that day to visit a friend) and I was glad the Cubs won, and I really wished he would text me back and I was open to being friends with him and I appreciated how he reacted to my family's affinity to Parkinson's. No response. The next morning, I asked him to just respond because it'd be nice to know if he's alive. A few hours later, I asked his opinion on Davis's Coffee House coffee (because I was in Davis that day) and provided him a recommendation as to how to respond to my texts (e.g., "Thanks for your kind words, but I am not interested in you, and CAN YOU PLEASE STOP TEXTING MEEEE?").
I know how this looks like, and I know it looks pathetic. But it was liberating. After a summer of over-analyzing, over-strategizing texts and timing, it felt good to just text spam a ghoster. Sure, I am pathetic, but he also deserves this. He is a 26-year-old adult, he can surely text with his two fucking thumbs, "I am not interested in you, sorry, have a nice life." That would be fantastic! But NOPE, he prefers to stroke his ego with my texts, apparently. Or whatever he's feeling when he sees my texts. Perhaps flattery, I guess. I can't imagine why you wouldn't want to put an end to a two-day harassment spree by just responding like a fucking adult.
I called him this morning. I wanted to see if he had blocked my number. And it had a normal number of rings! So he's probably read all the texts. I hope he has at least found them entertaining.
I understand the verdict here is that he sucks and he's not worth my time and you can't believe I spent five, six weeks obsessed with this person who never really wanted to see me again and you can't believe I sent a billion texts to him. I get it. I think if I were an outsider, I would feel the same way and say the same things. But I'm truly heartbroken. He strung me along for weeks and he now doesn't have the guts (guts? balls? human decency?) to tell me that he's not interested. And that drives me absolutely insane. What I did to him is definitely not as horrible as what he did to me. Right? Right. I am just so angry at him, more so than I was at J and R for ghosting me (but REMEMBER, R redeemed himself, and I forgive him).
I just wonder what I could have done differently. Was it something I said? Should I have not gone to his house? Should I have played harder to get? Should I not have been so eager about asking him out again? Should I not have text spammed him? Should I have stayed over that night? Should I have rejected his offer for the lunch date? Should I have ignored his Friday night text? What should I have done, or what should I have not done?
I know that I'm a fucking loser, and I know I was stupid for using Tinder again to make myself feel better, post-R. I've removed all dating apps from my phone now. But I've also spent the past week sulking--I've lost my appetite, I've lost weight, I've been going to bed pretty early, I've been miserable at pretty much every social activity, I don't really want to see people or talk to people all that much. The only things that have brought me joy this week have been my Davis visit and the Cubs win.
This R2 ordeal has impacted me in very negative ways and I am just so angry at him. I would love nothing more than to confront him, but apparently that's just not socially acceptable. But you know what else is should not be socially acceptable? Stringing a girl along for weeks, only to drop her cold. Society is awful and rough and full of double standards where "chill" is the ultimate maxim, but it's a shitty, unfair maxim for people who have been hurt.
Then again, I feel like I can't stop apologizing. Like, I'm sorry for not being chill about this. I'm sorry that I text spammed this person. I'm sorry that I kept trying to initiate dates with him when he was no longer interested. I'm sorry that I believed all the things he said we were going to do together because I'm an idiot. I'm sorry that I demand closure. I'm sorry that I am no fun to be around. I'm so sorry, but I'm not even sure who I'm saying sorry to. I'm sorry that I was honest? I'm sorry that I said what I wanted to say? It just seems so silly to apologize, but I feel like I broke some sort of social code for being exactly the person I wanted to be and asking for exactly what I wanted. And I'm so sorry!
This one hurts a lot, and I'm sorry if you had to hear me talk about it in any capacity. I don't think I'll ever get over it, to be honest. I feel better writing about it, but I am sorry that you had to read it.
I just wanted to thank everyone who reached out to me about my last post. I'm very touched, and I'm sorry if my responses seemed impersonal or stilted. I felt like I put a lot out there, and I was afraid that people would pity me, but instead, a lot of people seemed to relate and connect to my frustrations about modern-day courtship, so that was a lovely surprise!
The reason I'm writing this post is that I actually experienced closure with R, and I wanted to write about it. This is a sequel of sorts.
A day after R canceled our Sunday date, I jumped back on Tinder again. I was sad and upset and wanted a rebound date. I didn't want to take it too seriously, but I did feel lonely. It was dumb of me to do so, but I am not a very smart or disciplined person by any means when it comes to craving male validation. I barely had any male validation in high school or college, and I think I have this part of me that is constantly and unwisely chasing after it now, and perhaps I should stop.
After a few days, I stopped the conversation with one of the guys I was talking to. I actually told that guy that I didn't want to pursue this any further and I wished him the best of luck, which I will start doing from now on. However, I started and continued chatting with R2, who was really no R. R2 messaged me in bullet points. I was actually bored with our conversation and was going to be okay if he decided to end it at any time. However, he ended up asking me to a lunch date. I took him up on it as our offices were near each other. In person, he was cheerful, energetic, and charming, very much unlike the other sad, young men I’ve gone out with.
Later that evening, he invited me over to his house. I was initially hesitant, but he mentioned that he'd be busy for two weeks (his friend was visiting, work was going to be busy), so we wouldn't be able to see each other in two weeks. And, at that point, I thought--what the hell, I wanted to get to know him more, and I was more than happy to make the trip. I drove over, we talked, watched Golf Channel, and made out. It was fun! I enjoyed hanging out with him. The next morning, I texted him, told him I had a good time, couldn't wait to see him again in two weeks, and hope he has a good time in SF (he was going to his friend's birthday that day). He texted me back, "Will do! Have a good weekend" and that was that.
After days of wondering when he'll text me again, I decided to make the first move on Friday morning. I asked him how he was doing, and whether or not he was holding up as a tour guide. Hours went by, no response. I actually cried in my office and my co-worker walked in on me and it was embarrassing. In fact, I'm still waiting for his response, which may or may never come. I’m deleting Tinder from my phone after I officially deem things are over with this guy.
Friday evening, I got home from a 3-mile run. I was pumped with anger. I decided to send texts to J and R from the previous post. They were confrontational texts: I told J that he really hurt me and I hope he doesn't do that to some other girl. I asked R how I fucked it up. I placed my phone on the stool in the corner of my room so I'd feel less tempted to check it. I was glad to get the anger off my chest. I almost didn't want them to reply. I logged on to my computer with the solace that iMessage on my Mac does not receive texts from Android phones.
Later in the evening, I had to go over and check my phone. I turned it on--R had texted me back. I threw the phone on my bed and stepped away like it was a bomb. I almost felt embarrassed that he even acknowledged my text at all. I told my friends--R texted me back, what should I do? They wanted to know what he said. I explained to them--I threw the phone on my bed and stepped back, I have no idea what he texted me. After a few deep breaths, I summoned the courage to read R's message.
R actually took the time to explain things, which, in and of itself was already overly generous in the sense that he really didn't have to. He said he was sorry and should have told me earlier, but the truth was, he had gotten back with his ex the day before our fourth date. It was a nice, thoughtful text from someone who I barely knew addressed to someone he barely knew.
At first, I was elated. I was glad he got back with his ex-girlfriend who he still had feelings for and made him happy. Let me emphasize: I was actually very, very happy that he got back with his ex-girlfriend. That was my immediate reaction. If you don't believe me, well, fuck off. I really was/am happy for him.
Of course, I was also glad that he took the time and treated me like an actual human being who deserved an explanation as to why he canceled and why it didn't work out between us. It was very brave and considerate for a millennial. I understand that I'm setting the bar pretty low, but you all have yourselves to blame on that one.
Then Friday night dragged on. The smile initially plastered on my face faded. I realized: I was still ultimately alone. I didn't have an ex who was going to take me back. Sure, I had friends who I love and hopefully love me, but I was just so stupidly focused on the fact that I couldn't get a guy to even text me back a response to a simple inquiry.
I know people will tell me to focus on other things, do other activities, etc. People will tell me I'm troubled and tell me I need to value myself more. Trust me, I have a shitload of things to do and I've spent my entire adolescence and college years "valuing" myself. I can afford to make the mistakes I’ve never made before.
There’s just a part of me that wants to find a cute boy who I share interests with and want to hang out with on weekends and who I can drop coffee/boba/lunch off for on the weekdays. I know this sounds so stupid, but that's kind of all I want for the next ten months. And it has to be a person that I want, not someone who just wants me. I know that gets difficult, but that's kind of how I feel right now. And all of that requires me to be vulnerable.
Sorry, I am just dangerously close to over-sharing these days, and this is probably the last time I will ever over-share in this capacity, but I think I just wanted people to know that I think R is a good person for being honest with me and I hope more people will follow his example of treating others like human beings.
Sometimes I write just to see whether or not I can still write. It’s like revisiting an old party trick. There is still this perpetual hunger in me to confirm that all the high school accolades were justified, that it wasn't all a joke laughed away as the growing pains of young adulthood came to an end.
As a teenager, I used to write with the goal of holding an audience hostage. I loved to write, anything, really--class essays, stories, film reviews--because I desperately hoped that people would read them and understand me better than they would by talking to me. I wasn't captivating in person, but I was at least able to convey myself in a somewhat interesting way on paper.
And now, I write once again, because I fear that I'm not charming or enchanting in person. Writing is both my solace and my crutch. Right now, I'm hoping that I'll be likable on paper, though, to be honest, college, and now work, I guess, strongly discouraged me from writing because I now understand how many Very Good Writers are out there, and I don't count myself as one of them anymore. And it's both funny and frightening to even admit that I once did back when I was a very silly seventeen-year-old girl.
Writing is a skill that needs to be seriously honed, and I haven't attempted to seriously hone that skill for years. I've convinced myself that if I really wanted it, I would work harder at it, but alas--I read The New Yorker now, in star-struck awe, as I witness writers who gracefully commit words on paper with a fascist vigor and I desperately wish I could write that way someday, or now. Preferably now, as we enter this culture of instant gratification. Now, now, now--
Which brings me to my story. My tweets. They're concerning, I know. I really don't mean them to be, but I need an outlet and what's a better outlet than the Twitter account I've had since 2009? I've told so many people about it already, and I've exhausted everything I could say directly to a person, and people have exhausted their very kind contributions. I'm thankful for having friends who are willing to be honest, patient, and loving towards me in the midst of my pathetic, juvenile petulance. I'm sorry I'm so fucked up, and I'm sorry none of my stories ever have happy endings and no one ever wants to marry me and I haven't won the lottery (yet). My job is dysfunctional, my grad school apps are a dump, and I'm a whiny loser who can't get her life off the ground. I'm sorry we're friends. You all deserve a better friend.
You all deserve friends who don't go on Tinder. Really, you all deserve at least that much. Because in the past month, I've done things that are stupid because I was desperate. I don't want to say I regret any of it, but I know the more disciplined version of me would have regretted all of it, and that's the version of me I love the most--the one in college with the awesome friends and without the shitty job that drove one employee to rage quit and drove another into therapy. That's the person who had some self-respect, who declared that she didn't care about the money and didn't need a boy. That's a great version of me and I miss her.
I started trying out online dating in early July. I was sad because I shared an office with two girls my age who were in relationships, and who talked about said relationships, and I've always yearned for a relationship. I'm a romantic, but I've always been such a loser when it came to romance.
My grandfather nailed it a few years ago when I visited him in the nursing home after his stint with pneumonia--"Do you like boys but they don't like you back? Is that why you don't have a boyfriend?" That's it, grandpops, you're right on the fucking money, and I hate you, even though you're recovering from pneumonia and I came here to be a Nice Granddaughter. That's exactly it--I pine after boys who don't like me back, who reject me, who start dating other people, and so on. Do I have a type? You betcha: boys who don't like me back.
I initially signed up for Bumble and went on a few dates with guys who ghosted me after a week. Being ghosted for the first time was devastating, to say the least, but in retrospect, I didn't really care for either of them. It was the silence that was startling and condescending and new. I expected closure, for some reason, because I'm naive and dumb and refined my understanding of relationships from the Disney Channel. Then I moved on. I moved on to Tinder.
It was a dumb decision. It was a hot summer Saturday afternoon and I was probably watching golf, but I got bored (as one does when watching golf, and as one does when it's no longer the season of Spieth), and I decided to download Tinder. I don't know what I was looking for, but I quickly matched with a few boys, and started talking to two of them. One seemed nice, but I decided I wasn't too attracted to him. The other seemed nice as well, and I was attracted to him, so I kept talking to him. This is shallow, I know, but I was also on fucking Tinder, a deep bastion of shallow. The conversation with J--the second boy--culminated into us agreeing to go get ice cream later that night. As for the other guy? I told him I was busy and I didn't know why I was on Tinder anyway.
J turned out to be even cuter in person. Brunette and bearded, he looked like the kind of twentysomething TA that I often crushed on in college, but obviously, didn't get to date. He was fairly conversational, politely laughed at my jokes, and talked a lot about space. He seemed interested in me, as people you match on a dating app often seemed to be, and though I kind of forgot his name, I also felt so attracted to him. The ice cream shop was closing up for the night, and we moved our conversation to the parking lot where we talked for another 10-15 minutes. As the conversation dwindled down, he said, "I don’t mean to be too forward, but do you want to come over and watch a movie? You expressed interest in seeing Europa Report...and I have Netflix."
I was uncomfortable with the offer and needed to think about it. I told him I had to get up early the next day, but how about tomorrow afternoon? I knew what I was getting myself into, but I needed to buy some time to think about it. Because there is this really cute guy who seemed interested in me and who I enjoyed talking to in that parking lot and I wanted to give him a chance. This kind of thing never happens to me, and I wanted to give it a shot. I felt flattered. I went home and debriefed with my friends, many who warned me he probably just wants to bang. But I didn't care! At that point, I was a twenty-four-year-old girl who had no boy experience and was jealous of her coworkers, and I finally found a guy who wanted *something* to do with me and who was so, so cute.
Yes, I was a fucking idiot, but I didn't care! I met him on Sunday at a sushi place and we ended up at his place afterward, where we cracked open a bottle of wine and started watching a movie on his bed. At this point, without going into too much detail, I knew he expected something, so I explained to him: I've never done anything with a guy before, I haven't even been kissed, I've never had a boyfriend, and so on. I apologized to him--I'm sorry that you expected anything, but I really liked you and wanted to hang out with you. I suggested that we cuddle. We talked--he told me he wasn't looking for anything serious and he felt like he would know when he meets "the one." I almost felt like I should have been more offended, but I wasn't. And after an hour of talking and cuddling, he asked me, "Do you want to try anything?" The guy had a near-castrato-like voice, so it was sort of creepy, but also, sort of, I don't know, endearing to me.
I had my first kiss that night, and I felt empowered and feminist and modern. For the first time in my life, I felt truly beautiful and desired. I drove home, victorious, feeling the high of a successful hookup. I've always been attracted to low-key sleaze and I got to experience it: *it* was exciting and new and cool and I finally felt my age for once.
We saw each other again the next week, and a similar night entailed. I texted him in the middle of the week and didn't get a response until nearly 12 hours later. Then I immediately followed up with another text, asking him about his weekend plans. Two days elapsed, he didn't respond. I was furious and scared and sad and suicidal (possibly accurate) because I knew what was about to happen: He was about to ghost me. I sent another follow-up text, playing it cool, asking if everything was okay. He responded, telling me he has been "very busy :/". And that was that: it was over. That Saturday, he revamped his Tinder profile to include some new photos, and despite the fact that it is/was clearly 2016, he threw a mirror selfie in there, perhaps for posterity's sake.
During Week 2 of "seeing" J, I was also chatting with another guy on Tinder, who I'll call R. When I first matched with R, I didn't message him, though I was intrigued--his profile mentioned that he liked to read and watch classic film, all top quality shit, as far as I'm concerned. I really wanted to message him, but I was already seeing J and decided that one guy was enough for me. Then, one day, R messaged me, and I was excited. And R turned out to be articulate, funny, witty, and just really great.
So of course, when I noticed that J was basically renovating his entire Tinder profile, I asked R what he was doing this weekend. At that point, we've been talking for almost a week, and I wanted to meet him. He asked me to brunch, then rescheduled for a weekday dinner. We had a nice, albeit awkward, dinner date and walked around the downtown area. I enjoyed talking to him! He revealed that he also liked Seinfeld, and I didn't have to explain to him my guilt when it came to liking Woody Allen and Roman Polanski.
When I got home, I noticed that, unlike the other boys I've gone on dating app dates with, he didn't text me. The next morning rolled around and still--nothing. So, I thought, I am going to thank him for dinner. I think there was a part of me that thought he wouldn't respond. But he did! He responded in a way that indicated that he wanted to push the conversation forward. And that week, we exchanged some thoughtful texts, and I just--well, I just thought he was really, really great. If there is anything that I find really charming about a boy is his ability to string sentences together and man, can this boy write well.
We had a brunch date the next weekend and ended up talking for five hours. He was so great! I know I am getting repetitive here, but I really, really liked him. I was developing a fucking crush on him. He was fun to talk to, he had a bunch of films on the Criterion Collection--I don't know, he was just an excellent human being. I'm still gushing here, but this is all objectively true.
We texted a bit following the brunch date, but on Tuesday afternoon, the texting stopped. I asked a question, but was left hanging. Silence. I felt like I was being ghosted. I was devasted, so I panicked. Then, out of the blue, Thursday night, he texted--apologized, said he was busy, asked me how I've been doing. I asked him out immediately. All my friends rejoiced.
On our third date, we went to an old-time theatre and saw a double feature and had dinner and walked around and had, what I thought, a great conversation. At the end of the date, I mentioned that I was interested in his offer in seeing Criterion movies at his place, and he brought up that he could show me his home bar, and I was just--I don't know, I was delighted. That night, I texted him an article I mentioned that he said he was interested in reading. I wasn't interested in playing games. If I wanted to text him an article, I was going to do it as soon as I got home.
Four days--yes, four fucking days went by, if there ever was a sign--and no response. I was freaking out. My friends told me the article was great and he'll respond. But he didn't. I drafted a text and got it peer reviewed--I indicated that I was still interested in seeing Criterion movies at his place and having cocktails at his place. He gave an enthusiastic response. I pushed it--how about Sunday, I'll bring dinner? A day later, he responded--yes, here's my address, how's your week going? It was going so fucking well.
I sent a confirmation text on Sunday morning, pressing for logistics. That afternoon, he canceled--something has come up, he's sorry for being a flake (tear emoji). I panicked. I've been telling people--this is my dream boy, who reads books, who loves classic films, who went to an excellent university, who has a good job--he was out of my league but still voluntarily went on three dates with me. I would stay in California and abandon my grad school dreams for such a boy, if necessary. I texted him--do you want to reschedule? I didn't need my token straight white male friend to tell me that his excuse was blatantly generic because I already knew the answer to my question--
Silence.
And it's been that way for over a day now. I feel like a great burden has been lifted off my shoulders, in the sense that I am no longer worried about whether or not he will ever respond to me, and can focus on wondering why I am such a shitty person. I keep wondering what went wrong, and it’s frustrating that I’ll never know, I’ll never get the fucking report. I must have fucked it up somehow, I just don’t know how I fucked it up. I am still that girl who can't trap anyone's attention unless I write everything down and hold my audience hostage.
I watched the Emmys last night with my father--who abandoned me at the two-hour mark--in a near-catatonic state. I love award shows, but I couldn't pay attention and thought it was so long. I was fidgety. I think a part of me was hoping he would text me back--yes, let's reschedule--but the realistic part of me knew that would never happen. It was over, and I wasn't willing to accept it. All that potential just vanished the moment the fourth date was canceled.
Now I'm trying to accept it, drowning in the typical self-hatred. And I could hear people--why don't you work on yourself, why don't you meet people in real life, why don't you join a church and meet a nice boy there, why do you do this or that because everything you've been doing has been so fucking wrong. And it's like, guys, do you know what I've been doing for the past twenty-four years? I've been trying to do exactly that: work on myself, meet people in real life, meet a nice boy at church. And if any of that had worked, I wouldn't be writing this post right now.
There are a lot of things people can say to me right now, or not say to me. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to write about it for my own sanity. If I don't write about it, I'll be talking to someone about it over sporadic text messages, and I won’t feel any better. But writing about it--that's the cane to my crippled soul, the shelter from the inclement bullshit.
I used wake up in the morning and just lie there. My mind was already running wild, but everyone’s was still asleep--exhausted from yesterdays past, and likely felt ambivalent about the present and future. In those early morning hours, I would stare at the plain white walls in my room. My eyes would fixate on a spot and I would promise myself, “I am going to remember this moment.” I was always sort of attracted to insignificance, in the sense I desperately wanted to give every second its proper due.
For a while, I thought I was the only person who did this. Who wanted to capture a moment that meant nothing to me and meant even less to everyone else. Then, this classmate I admired in my high school creative writing class said to me--recalling all of this feels like a hazy dream sequence and I’m forced to paraphrase here--”Do you ever tell yourself that you’re going to remember a moment, even though nothing is happening during that moment?” I was so shocked that someone else did this, that all I could do was say, yes, I do do that. It was such a precious moment of solidarity. I still wonder if he really said that, or if he still does that.
I was on BART today, listening to three Ed Sheeran songs from his “+” album on a loop because my home WiFi neglected to download all the Amazon Prime songs I selected for download, and I was already so over listening to the Masters-centric golf podcasts from earlier this week that had incorrectly predicted Bubba Watson, Adam Scott, Kevin Kisner, and so on, as winners.
I sat across this couple who were sharing ice cream cones--cones! with sprinkles, even!--and there was a young man who was just staring at them. I wonder if that young man was jealous, or just craved ice cream. And I wonder if that young man would remember today--today, on BART, when he was just staring at a young couple sharing each other’s ice cream cones, when he either craved love, or ice cream.
Then, there’s tomorrow. I hinted at it earlier, but I’ve been salivating at the idea of the Masters all week. Hell, I’ve only been watching golf for a year, but I think I buy all the pomp around the Masters--it’s a tradition unlike any other--so damn you, Jim Nantz, for selling this to me, out of all people. Me, who pretty much only started watching sports during the 2014 World Series. And more importantly, me, who fell in love with golf on the Sunday round at the 2015 Masters.
When Jordan Spieth won. I think I am going to tell my children about him, and he’s not even my favorite golfer or golf personality. I’ve grown to be more fascinated with Rory McIlroy, Jason Day, Bubba Watson, and even Sergio Garcia. But Spieth was the kind of narrative that was able to capture my imagination--for golf--on that very specific Sunday afternoon. Hearing Jim Nantz talk about him--here’s this young man who, as a 20 year old wunderkind, at the same tournament, had lost his lead on Sunday, only to return as a 21 year old who was going wire-to-wire and will eventually tie the course record (at one point, almost beating the course record). That was the precise moment that I just fell in love with the game. What a great game; it allows its players to get so much credit for something so damn human.
Later that afternoon, I remember retweeting an article about Jordan Spieth’s win at the Masters. I was proud of him, I guess, but I was sort of proud of myself: That was the first time I watched golf and asked my dad about what the negative numbers meant and understood what I was watching and was genuinely excited about it. I didn’t tell myself to remember that moment, but I do.
Not that I would have known this a year ago, but I don’t think I have been as excited about anything since I was 13, which was around the time when I first realized that I was really obsessed with the movies.
I often think my life is in this limbo, that I’m not really at the point where I want to be quite yet. I tell myself that there is another step, as there is still another place I’d still rather be. Until I’m at the final destination, everything is sort of at a halt. But I suppose that’s not really true. Even now, I’m still learning, growing, wondering, developing new interests and relationships. I have to keep reminding myself that, even though I feel like my life is at a standstill, things are still happening.
The moments are still forming, many of which may even be important enough to remember a year or two or 50 from now.
That student in my high school creative writing class added me on Goodreads today. I guess that’s why I’m remembering that moment when he asked me the question. I hope he’s not disappointed that he has probably forgotten all those moments he had promised himself to remember.
Because they’re certainly not as important as all the moments he does remember without ever really having to try.
