I have a little executive in my brain who runs things even when my body is struggling.  My Fitbit has definitely been reprimanding me for several nights of 3 hour sleeps in the past 2 weeks.  I am not depressed.  Well, actually, that’s like a diabetic saying she’s not diabetic.  I have depression always but I’m not in an episode right now.  I just think the executive took a smoke break for a couple days and I needed to hit the pause button so I could take the tape out and wind it back up so all it’s functions are re-calibrated.

Bear with me in this blog as it may seem a little disjointed because I have a few concepts weaving in and out of one another.  First of all.  After a ton of hard work, I made it to the playoffs.  I have been skating in fits and starts for years with no big wins but this year, I got super disciplined and never missed a practice.  So, in my little bubble world I was winning every game and got to the playoffs….where I got slaughtered in my first game and completely eliminated within an hour of venturing outside my little bubble.  I am not depressed but  I am having a lot of depressing thoughts.  I feel defeated.  I am overwhelmed by the mountain towering over me as I try to decide if I want to start over again with a whole new season of getting checked into the boards for as many goals as I may score.

I have always known I am screwed up.  I have been speaking in analyst terms my whole life as I describe myself and other people.  I have been in therapy since I was at least 6.  It’s my second language.  You get very comfortable with accepting there is something wrong with you…something that sets you apart from all the other kids when you are in therapy during the times you really want to just play Barbies with your best friend and have to lie to her about where you are.

But what abruptly slapped me in the face this week was the concept of damage.  Real, tangible, car wreck damage waiting in a yard to be scrapped.  Saying it out loud takes the wind out a little bit.  When I was kid, one of the neighbor boys actually punched me in the stomach.  I struggled to breathe.  I couldn’t stand up straight but I wanted to play it off as not hurting that much.  Yet, 35ish years later, the sensation comes back to me when I describe myself as damaged.  To me, damage means unfixable or at least severely disfigured in ways very noticeable which cannot be hidden with a little spray paint or pounded out with a hammer.

How did I get this way?  I know I had some terrible experiences in childhood but I also had pretty great ones.  I had really good friends.  I wasnt being hit ( only once when I was in high school.). My parents were not divorced, not even unhappily married.  They have always been happily married. I grew up in a middle class life with upper class experiences.  I went to the best schools.  I wasn’t sexually abused by anyone, kidnapped or the product of a derelict foster system.  But I am severely damaged to the point I am starting to feel like I must be forgetting something really awful happening to me because the damage seems like it is way over sized in comparison to just growing up with emotionally challenged parents.

On the other hand, I guess when you are little, there is a certain age when your experiences start to cement themselves into your body composition and form what your personality will inevitably become even if you can train your mind to believe something else.   I was never good enough.  I was always too much of one thing and not enough of something else….both sides being that I lacked positive qualities in abundance.  It was clear my parents would have preferred someone a little more like the neighbors’ kids and more like their other two kids.  Being different wasn’t being unique.  Being different was a mental problem my parents had no inclination to address on their own and certainly nothing they felt they could have in any way contributed to.

What the big conflict I have now is that my parents are pretty amazing at this stage in my life.  I think they see the damage and feel pretty badly about it now.  Me being different now isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  It’s just something they wish were easier for me and whenever they can provide support, they do.  They listen a lot.  It’s sickening to me to have to re-process what they were like during my formative years.  I feel like a traitor when I think about those years in relation to where all this damage comes from.  And it’s shocking to see how much damage there actually is.  For everything they want for me in my life now, my little kid damage prevents it.  Yet, I forgave them a long time ago.  I guess forgiving doesn’t mean you can also forget when it’s become your DNA.

Most people will read this and want to “poo-poo” me with trying to tell me I am not damaged or it’s not as bad as it seems.  I get that.  That’s how I would want to respond to friends too.  You never want people you love to feel hopeless.  But I don’t feel hopeless.  It’s more that I am coming to a very hard realization about myself and trying to accept it.  The truth is, I don’t think I can ever get out of my own way or ever believe I am truly lovable and acceptable.  I am second choice, “wish she were more like someone else.”  Getting involved with men terrifies me because I know they can only go so far before they want to leave because I am too different, too difficult, too sensitive, not thin enough, not enough like “her.”  Therefore, I do what I can to accelerate the downgrade because it’s always coming and I’d rather it happen before I become emotionally attached enough for it to hurt like it did with my parents or with Bud in my 20s.

I am not upset about losing out on a recent guy.  I am upset with myself that I am still pushing them away with Herculean strength at this stage in my life and nearly 40 years of therapy.  My damage far outweighs any of my growth.  My damage is the strongest part of me….so strong I cannot out wrestle her.  I can’t therapy it out.  I can’t yoga it out.  I can’t bike it out.  I can’t diet it out.  I can’t Orange Theory it out.  I can’t meditate or spa it out.  I can’t Fergus it out.  Can’t beach it out.  Can’t travel it out.  Can’t write or drink it out.  Recognizing it and now trying to figure out how to accept it physically exhausted me to the point of sleeping almost the entire weekend.

I know you want some resolution or self realization at the end of this blog- some wrapped up lesson I can share.  I can’t give you that.  I am always trying to give you peace of mind in relation to me so you aren’t worried.  All I can say is this isn’t something to worry about because I am okay.  I am just a bit mellow…paused, I guess, as I try to understand how I really got this damaged and what my next steps are while having to embrace it.  And instead of thinking that when I meet people I have to somehow hide and mitigate the damage to reel them in, I just wish one ( that I am equally attracted to physically and mentally; I need to qualify that even when I pray because people do come out of the woodwork but aren’t who I am looking for) would come along and accept me with the damage, love me despite it.

Remember all the times as a kid you were told never to put a plastic bag over your head because you might suffocate yourself?  No?  Well, maybe I have always been a little destructive.  It was something I remember being told.  But I was also told never to smoke cigarettes behind bushes – no sex talk, no period talk, never told not to drink, do drugs or put myself into illegal situations so I am not saying I ever experienced “normal” parental directions.

Every several years, I have a day where I feel the air around me getting thinner and the act of breathing narrowing…like I have a plastic bag tied around my head and slowly experience a dissipation of air, like trying to suck ice cream through a straw.  I am feeling it right now.

For context, one time my friends may remember is when I took a job in New Mexico – site unseen.  I was feeling lost and exasperated with how my life was turning out.  I had spent 3 years going back & forth with a guy I craved who sometimes craved me and sometimes wanted me dead.  We worked together so I had to suffer frequent humiliation quite publicly and had to be quiet about all the times when I actually won so as not to alert all the other women he was sleeping with or trying to sleep with that I was still in the picture.  My whole job was tied up in my personal life, including friendships.  I had no identity other than being Bud’s girlfriend or Bud’s ex-girlfriend or Bud’s other woman.  I was either crazy or pathetic.  I woke up one morning and couldn’t breathe.  I had the sensation of needing to just put sneakers on and run but I weighed 200 pounds so I couldn’t actually run.

I posted for a job 2300 miles away one day and a week later got the job.  I moved a month later not having even visited the state or having toured the place where I was going to live.  I had no friends there.  In fact, I only had what I knew to be “enemies” at the time because of him.  In a weekend’s time, I threw a bunch of stuff in boxes, left a ton of stuff behind, without regard for who would have to dispose of it, and got in the car and drove away with my dog to a place I would be initially hated and that was still better than what I was leaving behind.

Present day.  I have been turned down for 2 jobs I have applied for in the past 3 months.  One inside my company and one outside my company.  This is on top of the dream job I also got turned down for in August of last year.  It’s like a dating profile.  I have all the right bullet points and pedigree.  I interview well and am highly engaging in person.  But I don’t get the job.  I feel trapped.  I know what needs to be done but I can’t execute.

I met a really cool guy recently.  After 2 great dates, he texted me last weekend to tell me that, while he understood my situation, he really wished he could spend time with me on the weekends.  Fair.  I told him I would stay home the following weekend and we’d come up with date 3.  He said I made him happy and he could be dead in a week so this is what he wanted or something like that.   It was all very sweet, even though slightly much for this early on.  But I get the “dead in a week” thing more than most people so I ran with it.  He also told me I was to plan date 3.

I have no idea what I am supposed to do for a date 3 plan.  Date 3 has implications I didn’t want to emit or omit.  Plus, every time I was out doing stuff, he would ask me who I was with and then laugh it off when I would tell him I wasn’t on a date with anyone.  But he had been cheated on when married so I understood this even though it seemed a little early on to be answering this question.  Truth is, I did go on a date with someone else a few days after my first date with him.  But he had more potential so I shifted focus to date 2.  I stayed active on my dating profiles but was mainly just using the experience for writing purposes at that point.

Last week was date 3.  The Las Vegas shooting happened and that kind of thing sort of marinates in my mind for several days as I give out small spurts of reaction but nothing too overt.  I knew on Friday it was still there.  I considered trying to re-schedule because I knew I wasn’t on my A game.  But I worried he would think it was because of someone else, regardless of any explanation I might give.  And, I did want to see him.  But I was also so nervous.  In reality, we both could be dating other people which would be ok this early on.  But he could be dead in a week and I was 10 feet from being dead once so forget “could” and “should.”  Just roll with it.  And I make him happy.  How, really?  I have all this PTSD shit under the hood that I can’t always control.  I didn’t know if there were expectations or not and I was just super anxious.

I let him pick me up which is something I never do but I thought it would be a good time to loosen up on my control issues and give this thing a real chance.  We went out for drinks.  I had too many and imploded.  I was having flashbacks going into that night and then I was worried about him worrying I might not be interested or I might be seeing other people or I might someday cheat on him and that I would not always make him happy.  It was like having an intestine explode but it was my brain instead.  I shared that I liked him.  Big no-no.  You are not supposed to tell someone that.  You are supposed to let guys wonder, I guess.  I definitely overshared some things and spoke a great deal of random gibberish.  That is totally what 6 beers, anticipation, nerves and PTSD will do when combined in my mixer.  It’s like watching a really, really, really bad movie of yourself and not being able to yell “cut!”

I am so embarrassed by my adult diaper blow out but the nerves were not 100% my fault.  I felt some serious pressure based on things dropped in conversations too early on.  I felt responsible for someone’s happiness long before I could be ready to handle that.  I am an onion.  I add amazing flavor to meals which would be bland without me.  But peeling the layers is hard and uncomfortable work.  I wanted to do that quietly on my own and sting my own eyes in the safety of my own kitchen.

I knew the next day that everything had changed.  Quick, basic text responses which I was accused of previously.  I tested it by throwing out a new invite which was quickly rebuffed.  Next day, he deleted our dating profile chat – probably cos he was moving on to the next girl that fast and didn’t want me to see any profile updates or new pictures.  I bet there’s something in there today about looking for a girl who drinks but not too much.  I digress.  I’d give it another day and then call the moment.  Got through a busy work day and then a work dinner.  After the event, I sent a text that said “I screwed up, didn’t I?”  The response was “I wouldn’t say that.”  I was just waiting for the “but…”  Then I decided I just didn’t even want to hear it because I don’t think there is any way for the response to feel anything but patronizing.  I wasn’t going to grovel or point out his red flag issues (divorced, followed by an 8 year relationship which only just ended, wants to buy a house in NH, worries I am keeping secrets and thinks I make him happy while concerned he may die soon.)  I once walked out on a guy in the middle of one of these “corrective” conversations…like literally got off the couch, put my shoes on, said nothing and just left the apartment.

I can’t breathe.  I completely blew it with this guy.  My walls went up so fast I almost didn’t have time to pee first.  I am so angry with my PTSD.  I am so angry with my self-sabotage.  I am embarrassed I thought this could eventually be something.  I am exhausted at being thought a failure with low potential at work and not being able to remove myself from that toxicity.  I am in a very small room with no doors and there’s no way out.  Why on earth do people want to pay to experience escape rooms?  I freaking live in one.  It’s not fun!

If it weren’t for my commitment to the very small family I have, I would literally go to Century 21, hand them my house keys and tell them to sell the place.  I’d take the dog and just drive or, at this point, fly the hell out of this country and never look back.  I’d take the plastic bag off my head, basically.

But in this case, I can’t move.  I can’t quit.  I can’t make a relationship of any kind work with anyone.  I got rejected from a job today on top of realizing I can’t be with other humans ever and that I can’t make mistakes either because they are not to be tolerated or worked through in any way.  I have skills but no one wants me to work for them.  I have a mortgage I can barely pay.  I have a long road ahead of barely scraping by and doing it alone.  I know that even one mistake is something people can’t work with.  I’m supposed to take the plastic bag off my head but I can’t.  Oh, and I weigh less than 200 pounds now but can’t run because of my mangled feet and back problem.  So there.

…it’s a gigantic beast if you don’t know what it is.  It’s cultural.  It’s religious.  It’s etched into generational passages.  A family member doesn’t even need to implore it upon you in order for you to carry it.  It’s like it has its own DNA.  You don’t even have to go to church to be infected with it.  My entire brain is riddled with it.  It’s inoperable.

I was a bad kid.  I have been a bad adult.  No amount of good deeds can establish the confidence I would need to allow myself to move on from all the bad things I have done.  It doesn’t matter that someone else has done worse or that all kids act out at some point or that the things I have done as a grown up aren’t as bad as I think they are.  I have incredibly high standards and I fall short of them…so, so short.  Even when forgiven by others, I cannot forgive myself.

I don’t go to church.  I am not religious.  I don’t even know if God is real.  But I live off the terror that he might be and that, if so, I have a front row seat in Hell just waiting for me.  I am not flame retardant.  I go through life as a spark waiting for a little gasoline and then I ignite into a giant fireball and scorch everyone who tries to get close to me because deep down, I guess I believe I shouldn’t be loved.  Not that I can’t be loved.  I think I can be.  It’s that I shouldn’t be.

No amount of therapy, exercise, food control, medication, beach, travel can quell it.  I do a decent enough job getting by as a normal girl who can be loved.  But I will eventually have that one too many beers and ignite.

I have so much commentary about my first date woes because if the first date gets screwed up, that is definitely not on me.  I then deconstruct that person from my throne of emotional superiority and upper middle class sense of privilege…as though I am somehow better than someone because I have a Master’s Degree.  In truth, I am a college drop out who just happened to go back to school later in life.  That doesn’t match my pedigree so who I am to judge, well, that’s me being a bad adult.

But if I get past that first date, it’s because I have revealed a glimmer that I might be loveable.  Sober, I can  handle the responsibility of it.  I mean, it takes some pep talks from very close friends but I handle it.  Yet, I am incredibly secretive to my general public, broader friends and family because I dread the embarrassment of having to tell them I screwed up.  They expect that from me.  I would like to implode quietly and lick my wounds in secret while giving the appearance nothing is wrong or being able to blame my mood on something well known like PTSD or Depression.  Those things certainly do not help but they are not solely to blame.  For I am Irish Catholic and that hot, iron brand wins every time it singes my skin.

The 3rd date.  That’s upping the ante big time.  The nerves are on fire.  Should I keep seeing other people?  Are we going to have sex?  What if we don’t have sex?  What if I do go on other dates?  What if I am talking to other guys?  What if I should cancel because I know my mind is not strong after the Vegas shooting?  But I didn’t want him to think I was canceling because of not wanting to see him.  I did want to see him.  But it was a rough week.  How do I explain I just don’t trust myself with that tragedy simmering in my veins?  Would he believe it or think it was excuse to be on a date with someone else?   I thought I could pull it off.

Isn’t this PTSD crap scary enough?   I have handed over a decent amount of brutal honesty of some of my bigger sins.  These should be warning shots.  Men should know there’s more.  And there will always be more.  Even if I make mistakes in a relationship, I will likely put them in my growing tote of the “unforgiveable” and I will punish myself at some point.  It could be binge drinking, binge eating, a sacrifice or withdrawal of some sort.  They aren’t going to fight to hang onto me.  Might as well scorch the earth early on and at least I don’t get hurt in the ways I am not equipped to handle and I don’t hurt them in ways I am probably very capable of despite promising I am not.  I even have exes as friends who can be referenced to attest I should not be loved.

So it’s only fair that I dissect myself and splay open my shortcomings the way I do of very near strangers who sit across from me in a bar.  You may be thinking I have screwed up a potential relationship.  That’s the beauty of it.  I don’t even know that I have.  I highly suspect I have but I don’t know for sure.  I am actually too afraid to ask just yet because a small part of me is praying I can fix it.   But the outcome itself is irrelevant.  The behavior is still there.  The “you can’t love me, I’ve got something even worse than what I shared with you five minutes ago.”  I’ll keep going until I get my “ding” and then I know it’s working.  And I did get one “ding” that I know of.

I don’t consciously mean to slay my possibilities.  But once I’ve lit up my brain with alcohol, I can’t always control her.  An absolute beast takes over and just spews out all my nonsense and crazy.  “I don’t deserve to be loved.  I once blamed a kid for doing something he didn’t really do.  I bet I’ve had relationships you can’t stomach.  I bet you didn’t think I could drink this much.  I bet you think you’ve made a huge mistake with me.”

If it doesn’t work out.  I can’t be upset about it.  I did it to myself.  I deserve the shame.  Shame is the most familiar feeling I have ever known.  My body wears it as a shield.

I love this band.  Have loved them all the way back to “About Today” and “Without Permission.”  I had not gotten around to seeing them when they were doing smaller venues so I jumped at the Wang Center.

I have a pretty great seat.  But I am sitting here taking account of all the exits.  I am trying to figure out which side of the seats I should throw myself towards on the floor and how quickly I might be able to get myself behind a column if we were being shot at.

I wonder about the excitement of crowds at the Bataclan in Paris and in front of Mandalay Bay.  Just a bunch of people coming together to enjoy their favorite music.  Did they look like us?  How many other people here are thinking what I am?  Does the band ever worry before they go on stage?  Is everyone’s heart rate as elevated as mine?

Will I last the whole show or will I need to leave halfway through?  Would I even see an attack coming? This is what it’s like to go see your favorite bands.

For lack of a better title….

I saw a speaker today who is heading up a Mental Health Awareness campaign starting with the state of New Hampshire.  I was speechless.  His story was powerful and moving and is one of those things that could happen to anyone.

He was a lawyer and eventually a judge on the state Supreme Court.  He shared the story of his son who developed a severe drinking problem to the point of getting himself arrested and eventually incarcerated.  He told us about the environment he grew up in where no one talked about mental illness.  Mental hospitals were scary and referred to as the “nut house.”

He talked about different periods of time when his son wasn’t operating at full potential but making it through High School, College and Grad school ok enough.  He shared how often his son was drinking.  It got to the point he and his wife went to an alcohol counselor for advice.  They faced the fact their son was an alcoholic.

But it escalated.  They kicked him out for awhile and he lived on the street, ate at homeless shelters.  What they didn’t know was that underneath the drinking was mental illness.  They didn’t know anything about that.  Living in the streets exacerbated the illness.  They eventually let him move back home because they felt like horrible parents putting him out.  And then he beat his father up so badly one night, he was arrested while his father spent months in the hospital recovering.

Can you imagine being a Supreme Court judge and this happened to your kid?  You are loving and supportive parents but haven’t the slightest idea what mental illness looks like.  He’s a good person with a bad problem and was using the alcohol to soothe his pain.  It was the prison that discovered and began treating his mental illness.  Years later, he is happily married and a father doing well.  

I frequently share how difficult it was to grow up with my parents.  Some might assume them emotionally distant or cold.  In fact, that’s probably the only way I have been able to describe it but that makes it sound like malice.  There was nothing at all malicious about them.  They had terrible parents and vowed to be better parents themselves.  And they absolutely were, by far.  It’s just the bar wasn’t that high either.  I choose to call them emotionally inexperienced.  The good news is after 40 years, they are doing considerably better.

What I don’t often think about is what it’s like raising a child like me.  Listening to this man speak felt like it could have been one of my parents telling our story.  I worry all the time that if my parents call or text me it’s because one of them is in the hospital.  I bet they worry every day that they could get a phone call about me.  And they have.  I’ve called in the middle of the night from the hospital with my head split open.  I’ve called to tell them I needed a lawyer.  Luckily, they knew the booze were a symptom of depression and PTSD because those things came first.  I didn’t have to suffer any judgment.  But sometimes I think it would be easier to suffer their judgment over their worry.  I hate myself every day…every single day for what my family goes through because of me.  Yet, if I had cancer I probably wouldn’t hate myself for them needing to help me.  

Coincidentally, I came across this quote today before the meeting and it summed up the last 5 years quite perfectly for me:

“Before you pass judgment on one who is self destructing, it’s important to remember they usually aren’t trying to destroy themselves.  They’re trying to destroy something inside that doesn’t belong.”

The final point this speaker made quite powerfully was how pervasive smoking was when he was a kid.  Every room in houses, every table at restaurants had ash trays.  He figured there would never be a time when an ash tray would be obsolete.  And yet, they are now.  He shared how when he first had television he would see news of African Americans being beaten in the streets which deeply disturbed him.  He didn’t see how we could ever overcome that and yet, he got to go to Washington to see Obama get sworn in.  He said that growing up, no one admitted to having mental illness and decades later we still don’t.  How can we be past ash trays and have an African American for President and still place stigma on mental illness?

He said what I have said before “You don’t tell your friend with diabetes to get over it.  Why would you tell a mental illness sufferer that?  Yet we do.  How ridiculous is that?”

This gentleman has been doing a number of talks in schools and so many of your children are beginning their experiences with mental illness.  Some of you know and are getting them the support they need.  Some of you don’t believe in mental illness and tell your kids to toughen up instead.  Some of you just think your kids are moody or hormonal or just different when, in fact, it could be something more troubling.

We stigmatize it in places of business.  We make fun of our “different” co-workers.  We take advantage of their slips to step over them and self-promote.  We use their “moments” as lunch table fodder.  But we don’t realize the billions of dollars in productivity lost when they are out of the office or in the office but not functioning on all cylinders.  We don’t think about what our jokes, rumors and self-promoting do to hurt them further.  

I know from firsthand experience.  I have been bullied for years.  I can’t hide my PTSD.  Everyone I work with knew I was at the Marathon and some of them were trying to help me get out of the city that day.  Many of them are incredibly supportive and give me some runway to not be perfect.  But not all of them.  Some of them took advantage of my bad days which is why I can’t afford my mortgage right now.  That needs to change.  It needs to change in schools.  It needs to change in businesses.  It needs to change in our homes, our communities.  

I am incredibly grateful to have gone to this presentation today.  I feel hopeful that a real movement could happen if we talk about this stuff.  That’s why I am open about my struggles.  It’s not for attention or pity.  It’s horribly embarrassing and shameful what I carry with me.  It would be so much easier to go back to the days when I couldn’t even tell my best friend where I had to go Saturday mornings after sleepovers at her house.   It’s much easier to just have my Thursday appointments  without explaining that’s my bi-weekly therapy without which I wouldn’t be alive or capable of dealing with bullying.  My issues have held me back professionally on many occasions because it’s easier just to let people think I can be an asshole or limited rather than explain there are just better approaches which work for me mentally; in which case I would thrive.   It kept me from graduating college the first time around and having to do it later while working full time.  

But somebody has to start the dialogue and I have never shied away from that responsibility.

The Extra Confident

“Devoted father of 2.  Sports fan.  Good job. What more could you want?

No hookups you little vixens.”

Translation:

“I want you to think women are teeming outside my door looking for sex even though that scenario pretty much exists nowhere in real life.”

The Dick

“…no jealous or woman who needs meds to make them happy please.”

Translation:

“I’m a cheater, liar and potential wife beater.”

The Cryptic

“I am looking for a woman to spend time with and get to know.  A woman that is loving and willing to give as well as receive.”

Translation:

“Basically, I want blow jobs, lots of them.  My last girlfriend didn’t give them but I didn’t want to just come out and say it.”

Silence of the Lambs

“If you think I’m cute, hit me up and let’s have some fun.  I am easy going, funny, vegetarian & great kisser.  I also have baby soft young skin &5’9.  In my free time I workout at the gym & keep in great shape.”

Translation:

“Put the lotion in the basket.”

Does Spelling Count?

“Looking for a sole mate.”

Translation

“I am missing a shoe.”

Matchmaker

….literally the next profile after the last one…

“I’m a loving person looking for a sole mate.  I love outdoors, camping, fishing, hunting, hiking and the beach to name a few.  I love to cook, chicken & Italian leads the list.  I do have children and hoping you do too.  I can’t have anymore (insert scissors emoji.)

Translation:

…so much material in this one.  First, Looking for a sole mate – see the guy above.

“I have named all outdoor activities known to the state of New Hampshire.  I think it’s cute to use vasectomy emojis.  At least I am being up front about it.  And, I too am looking for a shoe.”

When people try to deal with me on an emotional level, it is assumed I have been hurt by many, many men over the years.  There actually haven’t been that many, in all honesty.   I mean not many that I have been close to.  Lots of strangers and non-traditional episodes, yes.  Intimacy, no.  Hardly any.

It really only ever takes one person, one sentence, one word to scare you into believing something is wrong with you.  

My father was very emotionally abusive when I was a kid.  He made it quite apparent I was incredibly damaged and unlovable.  I was too sensitive.  I talked too much.  I was too emotional.  I was argumentative.  I wasn’t happy enough.  I wasn’t obedient enough.  I wasn’t athletic enough.  I wasn’t thin enough.  And my mother wasn’t too much better.  She believed that even though I was a child, I was responsible for what my father did to me because I was somehow supposed to know he was damaged and therefore, adjust myself.  Because my brother and sister seemed to be able to manage was just the proof my mother needed to validate her beliefs.  Even now, she blames me for who I was and my inability to control myself at a young age.  I still have to correct her and explain that children don’t have that kind of power.  

I only had one boyfriend tell me I was crazy.  Too in love.  More into him than I should be.  That me buying him a coffee was me trying to have another go at a relationship with him.  I was too loud.  We weren’t in a relationship.  I was delusional.   He could see himself married to me some day but not then and then he married someone else.  He hated me but came back.  Hated me and came back.  Said I was crazy and then took it back.  Called me crazy again but still came back.  That’s all it took.  It wasn’t 10 boyfriends that made me feel like me was garbage.  It only took the one.

I am terrified of liking someone more than they might like me.  I want to make sure the balance is never off.   If I am happy I think it’s because there is something I haven’t discovered yet.  I am terrified of being embarrassed or being naive.  I don’t even want to tell anyone when I start seeing someone because I figure it will be over so fast, it’s not worth it and people will think I am stupid to have thought anyone I meet might have potential.  I only talk about dates after the fact when I know it’s not going to work out.  Notice how all the stories I tell are about things very quickly shelved in my past.  I only talk about what I have scorched. 

Strangers are easy.  They have nothing on me, nothing they can use against me.  I am just a fun night out and I am in control of all those situations.  When they want more, I don’t respond.  I don’t want to find out about my pretty face which would be beautiful if I just lost some weight.  I don’t want to hear about my sensitivity as though it’s dirty and shameful.  I don’t want his friends knowing I’m crazy but being nice to my face.  I don’t want to find out he is sleeping with my friends on the nights he isn’t with me.  Or that he’s worried what his friends will think if they see me and see I am not a “10.”

When I meet guys now, I am rigid about my time.  I am very clear that if they screw up my time I will walk away.  I don’t want the embarrassment of telling my friends or family I can’t make plans because I have a date and then that date cancels or never shows up.  If I even sense that could happen, I freeze them out really fast.  And, yet, they always act surprised like I didn’t warn them up front.  What is really sad is that my wall is like Game of Thrones ice wall with no zombie dragons in sight.  When I erect that sucker, you are never getting back in.  Because I don’t want to be made a fool.  That happened to me with one man and it stays with me like it was this morning.  Not 10 guys.  Just one.

Another guy dated me for a short time and it didn’t work out.  Went our separate ways.  Found each other on Facebook years later after I had lost 80 pounds.  He was suddenly very interested in seeing me again.  He actually came by the house just to see me thinner and then asked me to dinner.  We tried dating again but I still had the same expectations such as if he told me we had plans, then I think we had plans.  And there was something wrong with me when I was disappointed that he decided to play golf instead at the last minute.  Or that he let me give him a blow job before telling me it wasn’t going to work.  Actually, he didn’t even have the decency to tell me.  He ghosted and I had to be the one to confront and scorch it.  So yeah, I don’t want to give something without knowing it’s the last time.  And I don’t want to be the one who has to quietly deduce something is wrong and have to tie it up myself without another participating adult.  10 guys haven’t done this to me.  Just the one.

I am feeling pretty good about things in my life right now.  I have been happy for awhile.  I have gotten phenomenal writing material this summer as I amped up the dating plan.  While infuriating at times, it can be fun too.  I have learned a lot about myself and have lightened up a bit.   But I still have to face all these little “too muches” and “not enoughs” while potentials assume I have been treated like trash for decades by volumes of men.  In reality, it’s the sheer volume of all the things I have only had to hear once that have made it really scary and vulnerable to be me.    But I’m doing it.  I’m being me and I am trudging through, cutting away branches with my machete as I make a clearing and search for what beauty and possibility I believe is on the other side of this jungle.  

I am re-writing dating profiles to indicate what the person is really saying.  Also, I am leaving all typos and grammatical errors in just so you know they aren’t mine.  I think preserving them gives a richer picture.  No names or personally identifying information will be relayed.

The Conservative

“Confident, world traveler, ex-military, ocean lover, successful, spontaneous, witty, intelligent, humble, adventurous, fit and healthy lifestyle, loves a good challenge, tough mudder runner, highly active & energetic.”

Translation:

“Confident, world traveler, Trump voter and old-fashioned, ocean lover, I have money, I hope you don’t have children, witty, intelligent, basically not at all humble, adventurous, not fat and don’t want you to be fat, will not sit on a couch ever, no Netflix and chill, I repeat, no Netflix & chill, if you even own sweatpants don’t swipe right, I am not fat and I hate fat women.”

The Stoner

“420 friendly…not sure what to put here.  Up for anything, see what happens.  I have custody of my 11 year old daughter.  Fishing, walks, anything outdoors.  Netflix.  Anything else, just ask.”

Translation:

“I am hoping you will pay for the pot because I put in minimal effort at life.  Baby mom is a drug addict and attracts high drama.  I like a minimal, low effort life & spend a lot of time at home doing very little.  Hoping you will take charge of this as I like to do very little and really hope you bring some pot.”

The Spurned

“Life’s way to short for playing games! It doesn’t matter to me if you’re the most beautiful woman on here, if you’re ugly on the inside I’ll keep on my way!  I work hard and live a very happy life!  I’m too old for lies, fake people and dishonesty!  Laughter, friendship, optimism build foundations.”

(All typos & grammatical errors kept in place.)

Translation:

“I just met a woman who decided she wasn’t attracted to me so she moved on.”

The Insecure

“I wish there was a better option to meeting someone, but here I am.  Does what I say even matter?  Cause, I’m sure you’ve already made a decision.  Look forward to talking with you if you decided right.”

Translation:

” I am insecure & hoping guilt will make you talk to me…kind of like a homeless man sitting in front of Starbucks hoping you will give me change.”

The Embarrassed

“My friend bullied me into doing this and I’m not happy about it!”

Translation:

“I actually do want to do this but am too embarrassed to just accept I am online dating even though it’s been pretty acceptable for awhile.  I am just behind the times.  But it’s working out for my friend so I am giving it a shot.  I just want you to think I have no problem meeting girls in real life, even though I am not meeting girls in real life anymore.”

The Uneducated

“Educated fun outgoing, . enjoy the outdoors…if your a Communist or socialist theorist immediately swipe left”

Translation:

“I’m educated but less educated than you most likely – see all my typos and fancy words that sub for liberal which I just picked up from Breitbart.”

The Dad

“Huge heart.  Passionate.  Love kissing.  Love camping, sports, friends and most of all I love my number 1 girl! Sorry ladies, you will never be first place over this girl…my Daughter!  But if you’re lucky, you’ll be right up there with her!”

Translation:

“An old high school girlfriend once told me I am a great kisser.  I’m from New Hampshire and only listen to country music.  I feel the need to make sure you know my child is my first priority as though any woman would expect differently.  I picture myself on stage surrounded by women cheering for me and trying to date me – so many women, I just can’t keep up with all of you ladies.”

The Enigma

“I don’t have dead animal pictures, fish pictures or pictures of me with a tiger.”

Translation:

“Yet, I am wearing camouflage pants in my profile.  I am full of surprises.”

The Exaggerator

“Out doors guy fun time hung like a horse never serious spontaneous horse hung hiking fishing hunting.”

Translation:

“First, I am from New Hampshire.  Beyond that, I have nothing to offer you but my big dick and am hoping you aren’t looking for someone with more sexual experience beyond doing the jackhammer.”

The answer is “no, I do not like motorcycles.”

I had been going back and forth with a guy about setting up a time to meet but we just haven’t been able to coordinate yet.  I met him on one dating site which doesn’t give too much profile space so you get the basics…job, kids, tough mudders, camping, hiking, vegetarian, etc.  He was living in the town where I grew up so we had some things in common.

Last week, he popped up on another site I am on.  That site asks very detailed questions about dating, lifestyle, ethics, sex, religion.  It’s never going to be perfect but at least you can rule out the big stuff which can cause alarm down the road….likes to draw blood, likes being gagged, wants to get plugged, enjoys rape fantasies, hates gay people, tells racist jokes…you know, the stuff you don’t want to find out about 6 months in after he has eaten dinner with your parents and you really like him.  It’s just easier to know up front and swipe left.

Mr. Natick likes golden showers, wants to gag me (or any said sleeping partner), wants a butt plug and I just can’t recall the rest.  He had me at golden showers ….swiping left.  All I could picture was that episode of Sex and The City with Carrie’s politician boyfriend….the guy who played Roger Sterling on Mad Men…trying to convince her to pee on him.  Perfect boyfriend until that.

Got a little fun break over the weeekend.  Stepped out and had a couple beers while waiting for takeout.  Got hit on by a 20 something, had fun dancing a little with his friends and it was nice to just meet some local people I may see again.  I also met an artist from the Congo in Africa.  For some reason he is living in Harwich which seems hardly exotic.  But he spoke French and broken English.  I speak English and minimal French.  I did manage to get across several times that there were 2 dogs at home….”deux chiens a la maison.”  We had a lovely but very simple conversation.  He showed me some of his work and it’s very beautiful and chaotic.  He wanted to buy me a beer but I had 2 dogs at the house and had to drive….picture me pretending to steer a car as that is how I conveyed it.  I mimed because I lost my French for that one.

Throughout this, I was going back and forth with a new prospect who found me online.  He lives in Chatham on the weekends.  Great conversation throughout the day.  Plenty in common. He is well spoken, loves the beach and dogs.  And he is a bigger guy who isn’t going to make me body audition to see if I am good enough to date in front of friends.  Yes, boys.  You do it all the time.  Just sit on a beach.  How many fat girls do you see with skinny guys vs. how many fat guys have skinny girls?  Tally it up next time.  You cause eating disorders with that behavior.  Anyway, it would be a relief to just be beautiful the way I am.

He was thinking about walking down to the bar but his dog had been sick that day so he was sticking close to home.  As a dog owner who had to have her dog’s stomach pumped for eating a holly berry, I believe this.  Plus, he didn’t know I was down the street when he told me about the dog.  But I said another time because the dog can’t be left alone.   Next morning he checked in to see about my plans for the day in case we could meet up.  I was already on the beach and not leaving it early for a 3rd boy.

Kept a great conversation going into today.  He seems very cool.  Great job, travels a ton and does weekends at the Cape.  We grew up in side by side towns.  This guy is in my orbit.  Definitely looking forward to meeting up at the Cape this weekend.

He mentioned I was so open about myself on the website.   Basically, he knows I am not going to pee on him, that I think prostitution should be legal and regulated, I don’t tolerate racist jokes, hate wasting time, think sex issues end a lot of marriages-so it’s a front and center issue for me from the beginning, think morals are relative rather than universal and that nuclear war would not be exciting.  Oh and that I think people should smell good.

Since I was so open about myself, he wanted to tell me a little about himself.  The email started by telling me not to open it on a work computer.  Great, another dick pic.  I am sorry to say this but guys, has anyone had the courage to tell you that dicks are ugly?  They do decent work and we love them, but they are ugly.  In fact, the naked male form doesn’t hold the beauty the naked female form does and no, I am not a lesbian.  Every time I say women’s bodies are beautiful I get asked that redneck, ignorant question.

I knew I didn’t want to click on the attachment but I also wanted to be respectful because there was something he wanted to share with me.  I braced myself for a dick pic, women’s under garments, orgy picks.  Nope.  It was a description of a gadget that can be fitted under the seat of a motorcycle where your woman sits and it vibrates so she can orgasm while riding behind him. How about starting with “do you like motorcycles?”  Even better, how about starting with ordering me a drink and then asking if I like motorcycles? Maybe we get to the vibrator part of the conversation, maybe we don’t.

I am not a vanilla girl.  I don’t want to be peed on but I respect that others do.  We all have our things.  I happen to have a keen interest in voyeurism which may make me a freak by other’s standards.  I am ok with that.   There isn’t much in the way of sex I won’t talk about and I haven’t encountered anything that has offended me….yet.   But this?  This made me very uncomfortable.  First of all, it’s fucking weird.  I’m sorry.  But it is.  It’s also fucking weird to use that as a pick up for a girl in a conversation where we had only minutes before been talking about barbecue ribs.  At first I thought he was showing me a link to a business he runs and I thought it was an odd business to own but if it has an audience and earns him profit, Why not?  But no, he corrected me to tell me he is a consumer and not a distributor.

Ewwwww!!!!   I can’t even!  Done.

About a month ago it was a timid guy with a cat and a bunny who wouldn’t stalk out a seat at the bar so we could move in and grab it which I do all the time.  Now, it’s a dude who wants to drive me around Chatham on a vibrating motorcycle while families pour in and out of Candy Manor for fudge.  I don’t even go on mopeds.  I just got back on a bike last summer after 3 decades of being off them.  And my dad wants a motorcycle. How does that dinner conversation go when the boyfriend mentions the bike and dad wants to see it.   Ewwwww!!!!

I would very much like to find someone in the middle of timid bunny owner and dirty motorcycle.  Is there anyone in the middle who doesn’t want to be peed on?