I’m so afraid of the future that I can’t even enjoy the present. Basically every single guy I’ve been with has left me for someone else. The relationships may have been happy for months or even years, but eventually they find someone “better.” And I know I’m not gorgeous or thin or cool, but why does every single guy I meet seem to have one foot out the door? If I’m happy to be with a person — despite whatever his flaws or problems might be — why can’t someone feel the same about me? I don’t look at a guy’s superficial qualities or interests or tastes to determine his worth. I base my feelings for him on how I feel when I’m with him, and whatever’s going on in the rest of the world can fuck off because there are only two people in the relationship, not the whole damn world.

I guess I believe that the majority of guys I’m with or like don’t like me because of my outward appearance, although I have no idea if that’s realistic or not. I know the last one left me for the most part (I think) because I wasn’t physically there. I’ve just always felt that the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend was because I was overweight or not pretty enough or not cool or didn’t dress right or was weird. My friends have told me for years that I just don’t go out enough, but I’m so fucked up in the head about myself that that doesn’t sound like a good enough reason.

I also have a history of dating guys with fucking gorgeous ex-girlfriends. These are girls who ended up models, who have gorgeous hair and bodies and faces and lives, and I look like fucking Jabba the Hut in comparison. Not even Jabba the Hut ’cause at least he’s got some fucking character goin’ on in his face. The one adjective I get is “cute.” I am twenty-six years old, and all I can get is “cute.” Like I’m a fucking bunny or Powerpuff girl or something. I’ve gotten a few beautifuls and one or two hots, but usually it’s cute. And who wants cute when you can have gorgeous? Sure, I may be vaguely intelligent and occasionally funny and generous and caring and dedicated and kind, but goddamn it, leave that shit alone because she’s fucking cute.

Anyway. Before this last guy, I was happy with myself. I wasn’t anything I’m not now, but I was still pretty confident in who I was. And I was like that for about a year until he broke up with me. I was okay with myself before he liked me and when he liked me, but when his feelings wavered, it was more than just a rejection — it was like being told that I wasn’t good enough for him or to be in a relationship. For four months, we continued “talking,” meaning that we were still basically emotionally involved, just without the commitment. Even when we were officially dating, I started doing this thing I find myself doing in every single relationship I’ve been in. I started nagging him about how much he liked me, what did he think of me, was there someone else, etc. etc. I knew I was pushing him away by doing it, but my anxiety was so severe that I almost couldn’t stop myself. The only way to lessen my anxiety was to be reassured by him, but, here’s the thing — I was never reassured. No matter what he said or how he said it, it never made one bit of difference as to how I felt. Any relief I got was very, very temporary.

I don’t even know what I wanted to hear. All I know is that no words or commitment could have comforted me. And no guy is ever going to make me feel better about myself in the long run. Compliments are wonderful and amazing things, and declarations of like or love are even better, but they don’t determine my worth or fix me. I’ve intellectually known that all along, but I don’t feel it yet. I just know that there is some part of me from years upon years ago who wanted so desperately to feel love, and I still haven’t learned how to love myself without a man there to back me up. I’ve avoided relationships so I could take care of myself and love myself on my own, but I haven’t learned how to still be okay when someone leaves me or doesn’t give me exactly what I want or need.

But, honestly, I’m pretty okay with myself. I’m pretty okay with my life. And I’m still optimistic, and I still believe that things are the way they are for a reason, and that things will work out when they’re meant to.

 
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The Guy — out of nowhere — told me he was dating someone in the beginning of last month. One day it was “you’re the girl I care about,” and literally about a week later it was “I’ve been dating a girl from work.” I feel sick to my stomach even thinking about it. Not because I’m still in love with him, because I’m not, but because — once again — something like that could completely blindside me. And since I know that he never reads my blog (because he lost interest in anything I was doing online a long time ago), I will freely admit that I miss him. I mostly miss his friendship and our conversations, but some days I miss more. And it’s hard to move on when there’s nothing really to move on to.

I hadn’t had my period since early August due to ovarian cysts, so my doctor prescribed me something to make me start it. Now I have my period, and I am a massive mess of hormones and sadness and bloat. I feel like crying, but, of course, my old block has returned, trying to keep me from feeling anything but numb, trying to hold back tears that, for whatever reason, I keep myself from shedding.

I feel talentless and unmotivated. I feel like the odd one out in my family, the one who ended up with absolutely nothing to show for 26 years of living. And, seriously, how the fuck did I end up here? How I have I gone through hell, come out hopeful, and yet still feel utterly worthless? Why is that one day I believe in myself and the next believe in nothing? I’ve believed for so long that there’s a reason for all of the shit in my life, but now I can’t imagine what that reason would be. And if there is a reason, can I hold on long enough for my life to sort itself out? How long should I wait before giving up? A year? Five? Ten?

At eighteen, I would have told you emphatically that at twenty-six, I would have a college degree, a relationship, and happiness. Today I’d tell you almost as emphatically that I’d have those things at thirty-one. I’m not sure at this point if that’s optimism or just idiocy.

There’s still a twinge of hope in me, though. I said recently that I’d rather die trying than just giving up because I’m going to die either way. At least with the former, I can die knowing that at least I tried, even if nothing worked.

FB group: If Emily is in a Longterm Relationship Within 5 Years, Drinks are on Her

The guy I was dating and I broke up. The main reason is that — as I said — we live 1,000 miles apart, and that was straining the relationship. We’re both still going to try to make things work between us, just not under the boyfriend/girlfriend label. I feel like a loser and a failure, even though I know this is the right decision. Knowing and feeling are two different things, and although my brain may be fine with this, it doesn’t mean my heart isn’t a little bit broken. Like I said, we’re still both going to make this work, but I can’t help being sad right now. I think I have every right to be sad. I don’t have a necessarily good track record with relationships.

My first real boyfriend cheated on me with at least three different girls. The first time he dumped me was about a week after I lost my virginity to him, because he had met someone else. Though he and I ended up getting back together (I was young, and my feelings were focused on how much I “loved” this guy, and not about how a guy who fucks you and then dumps you for someone else should be fucking kicked in the nuts), that initial devastation of being broken up with has haunted me since. It was out of the blue, I didn’t expect it, and I felt torn apart inside. I have no doubt that a big reason I’m upset right now is because those feelings and memories have been stirred up.

My longest relationship was four years long — all four years of high school. He was the first guy I was truly in love with, and although a good deal of the relationship was volatile, he was my best friend and the person I wanted to spend most of my time with. It ended abrubtly — we just quit talking — and when I found out severeal years later from the girl he dated after me that he had cheated on me several times with at least two girls, I was, again, devastated.

There have been other guys, other relationships, other times I felt completely attached to someone, but those were the two that have shaped my life thus far. My younger sister told me once that every relationship you’re in is going to fail until one doesn’t.

So this current one has taken a step backwards or a hiatus or whatever this is. The truth is that I’m okay with waiting because he’s a good guy, and I don’t want to destroy what’s between us because neither of us is ready to make a certain step, but we try to make it anyway.

I have Rivanna Junction on repeat — especially “Wait At Milano” — and it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

“Perhaps they were right in putting love into books… Perhaps it could not live anywhere else”

- William Faulkner

My tagline – “The Semi-Daily Lifelog of a Twenty-Something Spinster” – is meant to be a joke, mainly at myself. I will fully admit to previously being Bridget-ish in the past – crying over Valentine’s Days alone, wanting to smack everyone I heard was getting married, looking over my shoulder every time I went out in case THE ONE was around. For years and years all that amounted to absolutely nothing, and I came to the conclusion that I was horribly flawed, emotionally deformed, and physically repulsive.

So, there I was, beating the shit out of myself for years while everyone else got degrees and husbands and babies. Since I had none of the above, it stood to reason that I was a failure. And repeating to myself that I was one didn’t make me wake up one day and think, “Gee, I better get off my ass and quit this failing shit.” I just assumed failure was a permanent part of my personality and life.

At some point last year I realized that success is subjective. And along with that thought came the idea that perhaps not being in a relationship wasn’t a failure, either. I had always thought that if I had a boyfriend, it somehow validated my self-worth or would prove in some way that I was important or desirable or whatever adjective I felt I was lacking at the time. But I dated guys, and I never got my happiness or confidence just by being with them. (Plus – because I just wanted to not be alone – I would date the first guy interested in me, and I can tell you how many times that worked out – exactly zero.)

At the ripe old age of twenty-three I had this epiphany and realized I was a walking “before” commercial for eHarmony. I kept looking around me like a crazy woman, like THE ONE was going to walk past me, that would have been my one chance, and I would NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN. I’ve always heard that you always find someone when you stop looking, and I remember asking people, “How do I stop looking when that’s what I want?”

The thing is, it’s not about the looking. Looking takes time and energy, and you lose sight of reality and the present. And if your idea of THE ONE is very specific, you miss out on everyone else who doesn’t fit in that picture. And if it doesn’t, you pick up every piece of dirt just in case one of them turns out not to be an asshole after all. What I realized is that it’s about simply letting things happen. Whether it’s God or karma or fate or simply being in the same place in your life as someone else, eventually someone will show up. It hasn’t happened to me yet, but seeing as I’m not twenty-five yet, I doubt that if I live to eighty that I will spend the next fifty-five years listening to “One Is The Loneliest Number” and crying over bridal magazines.

One day I’ll be married, and I’ll have kids screaming and debt and fights and be overworked and I’ll think, “Fuck. I miss the days back in my twenties when I was single and went to shows and bought fifty dollars shirts.” And being in that place right now may be a little bit lonely, but it’s still pretty awesome.

It was like a special message from God himself, telling me, “Aha, woman. Get yourself a cat and a pint of ice cream.” Either that or God has an awesome sense of humor.

The Spinster at Mass

Beneath the Moses of the incense,
drowsing.

Bull eyes observe you.
Your rosary raining.

In that dress of silk so dense,
never stir, Virginia.

Give the black melons of your breasts
to the murmur of the mass.