***Authoress’ note: this barely makes sense three days after writing it. It’s rambling & ridiculous and frankly I’m too worn out to edit it***
I look like shit. I got a little bit irrational & upset Friday night and I’m supposed to go to the gym now and I can’t think of anything else but wrapping up in my down comforter like a burrito.
Date #3 with Cookie. It didn’t quite turn out like it was supposed to. Or like I wanted it to. He’d accidentally double-booked so our sushi dinner. So that got turned into poster/typography art show and dive bar with coworkers/friends. The dive bar was a hipster dive bar, and I was worried about a pearl earring/cashmere sweater induced ostracization, but it had surprisingly good food and great drinks. I tend to get along with pretty much anyone and luckily his friends were hilarious.
We took pictures in an old photo booth. The first ones were a little ridiculous so he wanted a second set for “nostalgia”. Sounds great right? Sounds like a fun date to me. Granted, he got a little tipsy, but nothing that wasn’t just cute & funny.
So we all left the bar and got to the show. And then he vanished. For the rest of the time there I sort of wandered around this hipster art show by myself. I stuck out like a sore thumb and there was only so many things I could say about some posters.
From there we walked to some other bar. Which was really NOT CLOSE to the other bars and I was already cranky over nearly walking by myself while he joked & walked with his friends. He asked what I wanted to drink and then disappeared outside. I think he was just waiting for some other friends he’d invited but by then the camel’s back was broken. I got fed up and left. I told him I was heading home and he seemed confused by this but he hailed me a cab and kissed me on the cheek.
What in the hell fucking happened here??
It’s not really a second part of the date, but it’s a part of things that fits in nicely with the above. Fair warning, I’m about to get really bitchy, whiny and all sorts of other things in here. Please know, I am not talking about YOUR relationship (you know who you are).
You want to know what I’m sick of? I’m sick of reading blog posts with happy endings. Fuck you and your goddamn happy endings. Fuck you and you’re “reunited and it feels so good” or your “I’ve found my soul mate and LOOK NOW I’VE STARTING SHITTING SPARKLES.”
Show me in this fabric of life thing where it says I don’t get to be happy. SHOW ME. I want to read the part where it says, “Whoops, sorry…you survived a brain tumor. That’s all you get Sweetcheeks. You wanted more? Bwhahaaa.”
Why shouldn’t I want, shouldn’t deserve more? I work my fucking ass off in therapy trying to be a better me. Trying to be the me that feels best to me AND makes men want to be with me (yes, men…not people. I love my friends and you all know that).
Why does it feel like the Universe is just warming me up for some lackluster version of what everyone else seems to just luck into?
Why them? Why these other people?
I was always taught that if you wanted something, you do all you can to make those things happen. Thankfully, I’ve learned (again, through absurd amounts of self realization & therapy) that not all things in life happen just because you work to have them happen. But shouldn’t I at least get a little help?? A little extra credit as it were?
I was 30 by the time a man had told me he loved me. THIRTY. I don’t even want to explore what in the hell that means about the choices I’ve made.
At any rate…I’m glad that people are happy. I’m glad people have found love. Now, if they’d kindly shut the fuck up about it, I’d be much less pissy.
Here’s my dirty little secret.
I’m vulnerable. Painfully, depressingly so.
I hate even saying those words out loud, let alone typing them for the internet to see. Though, few are reading these words these days. My close friends and many of you I don’t know as well would argue with me. Sure, I’ve made it through a lot. I’ve got titanium plates to prove it. Here’s the thing, strong and weak are not the same thing as vulnerable and unsure.
I walked across the Chicago river yesterday, sun streaming through the bright fall sky and wept. I couldn’t even stop. I didn’t even try.
I’m honestly loving the work I’m doing with my psychologist. I am. But I’m examining things I never even knew existed and re-evaluating things I was sure were one thing and now I’m sure of NOTHING. He’s right and observes (correctly) that my sarcasm and wit doesn’t equate with what I’m feeling.
I’m so terrified of being invisible, of never mattering to anyone and I thought I’d learned so much from Nice Boy only to feel like I achieved nothing. And it all hurts. It drains my spirit and I find I have little energy for more than one task at a time. I’m never sure of the right action and I’m so sick of feeling like I always take the wrong one that I’m driven to embrace inaction.
I’m starting to think J.D. Salinger was onto something other than literature.
Obviously I am aware that you all know this. It’s pretty plain to see. I probably have several in fact. But there’s one that been poking at me a lot lately.
I have a Julia Child complex.
Stick with me here.
I don’t want to be famous, and I don’t particularly want to cook for a living or make television or really do any of the things she did. But I’m stumbling lately. And I’m floundering to find something I love and something I’m good at.
And let’s be honest, I’m a little odd like her. She was quirky and a little outside of the norm and goddamn if Paul Child didn’t love her. I want someone to find all of my weird shit extraordinary.
I feel like it’s not too much to ask and yet everything to ask. It’s part of the reason I’m in therapy twice a week. I’m searching on multiple fronts and I’m not yet ok with that.
At any rate, there it is. I want to be Julia Child. I said it.