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An Exhausting Existence
I lead an exhausting existence.
Between the job search; the existing job; daily duties; staying sober; panic attacks at the grocery store; co-occurring depression and anxiety; running and trying to stay fit-ish; and watching this country burn down around me, it is no wonder I am so mentally and emotionally spent. I have absolutely no idea what the short-term solution is (other than getting as far away from Northern Hellville as possible).
I haven’t felt like writing lately and haven’t blogged in over a month. Cue the guilt and panic. When I started this blog, I had such grandiose plans to write every week and plan out posts and get the blog design/layout where I wanted it. Well, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything, let alone spending time on the blog. And I know when I don’t feel like writing is when I need to do it the most. I simply haven’t been able to motivate myself to write about my misery. It feels like complaining, which I suppose it is, but it is also incredibly therapeutic to get it all out there. And in doing so, maybe I will reach someone who can relate to this perpetual fatigue. I am so tired of the daily grind and the 24/7 noise pollution. The inbox sits, sad and empty, day after day, while I wait to hear back about job applications. I just want to scream and throw my laptop at the absurdity of it all. Money, this cruel commodity, rules our lives: more so now than ever, thanks to inflation. The word alone makes me cringe and furl my brow, she who is in need of another Botox injection from all the frowning and jaw-tightening.
I have half-finished cover letters galore; I never seem to be adequately caught up on laundry or to-do lists; and I have just about abandoned any hope of opening my mobile bakery anytime soon. This summer has not been too kind – and the heat and humidity (coupled with the bikers out for blood and the perpetual droning of the commercial lawn machinery) makes me think this MIGHT be actual hell. The dating drama has been ever present, yet I keep at it, as I am bound and determined not to be alone forever.
I truly want to be happier about my life. There is so much for which to be grateful, make no mistake. I feel like the luckiest person alive sometimes when I think about where I was a little over 22 months ago, compared to where I am now. In fact, I am so lucky to BE alive. I should be over the moon that I am coming up on TWO YEARS OF SOBRIETY. That is by far one of my greatest accomplishments and I should be shouting it from the rooftops every single day. But this existence just isn’t quite what I pictured for myself (then again, neither was becoming very, very addicted to alcohol…) I want a life that is quiet and devoid of disturbing and incessant noise pollution. A life where I can focus on writing; one that is creative and filled with fresh flowers and nature and enjoying my daily runs, rather than literally running away from people and bikers and three lawn mowers going at once. One that is gratifying, fulfilling, and smells like lemon poppy seed muffins on a Sunday morning. A life where I don’t dread the daily drudgery, with each week the same as the last. And one where I am able to carry out my passions and make a difference, ideally one where I can help people overcome their addictions, too. Instead, I am treading water – and running in pea soup.
It’s as though the past two years have just now caught up to me: all the efforts to try to get sober and then finally succeeding; then meeting my ex and subsequently getting left behind a year later as he went on to greener pastures; then attempting to deal with (and heal from) the breakup. Not to mention the wide array of health issues I had – and somehow managed to continue running through. I don’t know if I’ve felt much worse, in my current (sober) life, than when I had the kidney infection in December 2021 and was still picking up the pieces of my heart off the floor after Ben* smashed it to smithereens. It’s a lot for one person to go through, on their own, while still learning how to navigate life without the bottle. I’m often reminded of why I drank, particularly when the loneliness creeps in. Loneliness is probably the heartbreak of my life, romantic losses aside. I ask “why, why, why” all the time.
I’m insanely jealous of people who have someone to come home to, someone to help them out with errands, or take care of them when they’re sick. And people who live near their families or a relative? Oh, I am every shade of green with envy. I’m not an overly emotional person by any means but last Friday, when I was running a fever, I just sat in bed and cried about how unfair it is that I don’t have anyone to bring me tea or a cold washcloth. I’m thankful my family is alive and healthy but the fact that we have had to live an ocean apart for my entire adult life is unbelievably unfair. And the fact that no guy has ever stuck around? Yes, that’s really unfair, too. I don’t know if I believe that I will ever meet someone who won’t leave me.
The last guy I dated, Christian* aka “Bad Egg”, really threw me for a loop. For starters, I never should have believed him when he told me he was going to make this summer “bearable” for me. Fat chance of that. But things were going so well, I thought, and then it all changed in the span of 15 minutes. After a weekend trip with one of my girlfriends, I reached out to see if everything was okay, given that I hadn’t heard from him since the previous Thursday. Christian informed me that he expected ME to contact him when it was convenient to talk, citing my moods and misery as a deterrent for not texting me first. “I don’t think that’s how it works”, was the first thing I thought. I’ve been in enough one-sided relationships to know that’s very unhealthy and I don’t want that ever again. I love myself too much now. We didn’t get sober and realize our self-worth for nothing. I also saw right through his excuses: if you are truly interested in someone, you’re going to contact them to see how they’re doing. What it boiled down to was he didn’t care how I was doing. And that’s fine – but be man enough to tell me that.
Then, when he threw “Northern Happyville” in my face (friendly reminder: it’s Northern Hellville), I lost it. The last thing I needed was his patronizing sarcasm. After everything we talked about over the course of the previous two months, I was expecting more empathy from him and a little understanding about my current situation. Instead he rubbed my nose in the fact that he LOVES it here, while I am struggling and suffering in comparison. It’s really easy for someone with an Apple screen in every room of their house to tell you just how “great” life is. But for someone who has a full-blown panic attack every time they buy groceries, no, life is not that easy or great right now. However, I will say I have matured a lot more than I give myself credit for, because aside from blogging about it, I just let it go. His loss. Onwards and upwards.
I like to end my posts on somewhat of a positive note but I really am digging deep for this one. Something I’ve loved my whole life and found solace in is quotes, especially having a quote for every possible set of circumstances. I save every quote I come across that inspires me. And the one that I think so aptly fits this current situation is the following. I hope it resonates with you, too.
“When you get into a tight place, and everything goes against you till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.” – Harriet Beecher Stowe
*names have been changed
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Stuck in Suburbia
It’s 7:42 AM on a Saturday and someone is already mowing their stupid fucking lawn.
And it’s only the middle of June, which means there are a solid 3+ more months of this ahead. I have no idea how I’m going to survive yet another summer in Northern Hellville, comprised of insufferable 24/7 noise pollution; heat and humidity; dodging bikers + trying to stay out of jail; droves of humanity on all the nearby trails and pretty much everywhere; mosquitoes and spider bites (they love my blood). My own personal hell.
I roll onto my back, after turning on my white noise machine, but it’s too late: the drone, drone, droning is already in my brain and I won’t be able to go back to sleep now. In fact, I will be hearing lawn mowers all day, well into the night, even after they’ve finally ceased. I don’t know if that is caused by the anxiety or something else – I call it an auditory hallucination – but it’s horrible. Imagine your worst, most triggering noise, then imagine it gets stuck in your brain, and you hear it even as you’re trying to fall asleep. Hours after it stopped. Thank God for Ambien but that is not without its own problems. I’m at a loss here, because I am stuck, so very stuck, in a vicious and ruthless loop, without end, Monday through Sunday. And again and again and again. And there is truly no respite in sight. Even as I type this, hours after the initial rude awakening, there is another lawn mower going. And this is after suffering through commercial mowers all week long. How ANYONE’s yard still needs to be cut at this point in the week is beyond my literal comprehension!!!!!!
Some days, my reality so closely mirrors that of my previous life, that it bends my brain – how can this be, I think? Most of the time, it is very triggering; the only difference between present and past being that I’m not
slowlypoisoning myself and numbing my existence – or creating a plethora of additional problems for myself. But the similarities are striking because I’m STILL stuck, where I’ve been for the past close to 10 years. (And I’m STILL dealing with round-the-clock noise pollution and dangerous run-ins with bikers and honking at people when they fly through a stop sign. Nothing’s changed). And I don’t know how to get out – literally or figuratively. In some ways, it’s almost worse because I’m finally awake to all of this bullshit and I’m not numbing it anymore or drinking myself into an oblivion in order to escape some of the (literal) noise. So I can see it for everything that it is and I’m SO TIRED of putting up with it! Where is the HOA and why aren’t they enforcing quiet hours? Where are all the cops when you need them? Why is the W&OD Trail a fucking free-for-all? Why can’t bikers respect the lane boundaries and give runners some space? I could go on and on. And summer is the worst of all, as it is not only my least favorite season no matter where I am, but because of the personal hell I went through trying to get sober in summer 2020. So when you add that to everything I mentioned above and then you light it on fire – I’m looking at you, August – yes, I dread this season yearly and always will. (But I am hopeful that eventually I will live somewhere where I can actually hear myself think, as bleak as that possibility seems now).Each day, I get a little closer to completely snapping. Sometimes I think I’ve already lost my mind. I will hand it to myself that I’ve been working tirelessly to be as resourceful as possible and make the most of the shituations (shitty situations). I’ve created new coping mechanisms for myself: trying to run really early and/or late – or in nearby neighborhoods versus on the W&OD; attempting to leave early enough to “avoid traffic” when I go to the grocery store or other errands and not go at peak hours; parking my car at a central location and then walking to finish errands, so as to avoid additional time on the road and in parking lots – more on that in the next paragraph, and so on and so forth. I certainly go to great lengths to avoid people, more than ever before, because I am so completely burned out and drained and incapable of dealing with any of this bullshit any longer. I am just one rude asshole away from slamming my car into theirs or who knows what else. Because, again, this is how it’s been for YEARS, with no break and none in sight. In many ways, my attempts to “avoid” people/traffic/etc. (though there is no way to avoid them altogether, unfortunately) is also self-preservation and protection, including trying to protect OTHERS from my rage and short fuse. It would be slightly more manageable (but just ever so slightly) if it was just ONE thing: if it was only the noise pollution and I had a quiet place to escape to on the weekends, maybe that dream cabin in the woods, I might be able to get through a few more months of this. If the crews only worked Monday through Friday and then it was quiet on the weekends, I could live with that, too, probably. But it’s not – and it bears repeating that this is years and years of the same incessant, round-the-clock “Lawn Locusts” plus absolute insanity on the road that is just getting worse (people need to stop moving here – and stop procreating) and nearly dying every time I set foot on the heavily, heavily trafficked W&OD, which seems to always be home to a Tour de France training session.
What irritates me the most about everything I have described to this point is the unfairness of it all. That inconsiderate asshole mowing his dumb grass that no one cares about except him: did he check the time before he revved up his noisy machine? I doubt for a second he did – just like no one seems to think twice before running a red light around here or cutting you off while switching lanes or plowing through a four-way intersection. And the bikers don’t care about the runners; in fact, I read somewhere that this year will be worse than ever before because they’re after that fresh, fresh runner blood. (No, not really, but a little humor helps me to refrain from throwing my laptop across the room). These supercilious suburbanites hire lawn companies and don’t give a crap that they frequently commence their yard work before 8 AM, which is still technically within the (completely disregarded) quiet hours. And those who don’t have a crew come Monday through Friday are the ones who start working in their yards before 8 AM on a Saturday. Tomorrow it will be something else: maybe another lawn mower or a leaf blower (the bane of my existence and truly deserving of its own post and for sure a letter to my congressman) or a power washer. Sunday should be observed as a day of rest and of quiet, religion aside, but it is not. Certainly not in Northern Hellville, the noisiest, most insufferable layer of Dante’s inferno. And then the traffic and parking lots: has anyone else noticed that people cut diagonally through parking lots more than ever before?! It doesn’t seem to happen at smaller lots such as Whole Foods but in larger strip malls (picture one with a Giant, a CVS, and a Michael’s), these idiots go flying through THE MIDDLE of the lot – I’m talking through actual parking spots – without so much as glancing to their left or right. It has gotten to the point where I am very afraid for my safety and I am almost always worried about getting hit or being involved in an accident.
I’m also afraid for the next few months: how am I going to survive YET ANOTHER miserable summer here in suburban purgatory?! I feel I have exhausted all of my options, save for physically leaving and moving away – but unfortunately that is not in the cards right now, so I am literally stuck. I’m at a complete loss – and I often wonder if anyone else struggles with this, too. I cannot be the only person in Northern Hellville that is fit to be tied over everything I just mentioned. (Or maybe everyone is just completely immune to it by this point, because it’s so normalized to almost die when you go to the grocery store or to suffer from constant ringing in your ears because the noise pollution never ceases. That is a little frightening). I know it could be worse – I’m not fearing for my life; well, sort of – and I will cling to the things that keep me somewhat sane-ish in the meantime, because it’s the only way to stay out of a mental institution – but could I PLEASE get a break?!? Just ONE DAY, one measly day, a week with no noise pollution. And PS – in case this wasn’t obvious – no one gives a SHIT about your stupid grass.
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Starting Again Sober
It’s no secret that I spent the entirety of my 20’s self-medicating in order to cope with every possible emotion: sadness, anger, stress, loneliness, frustration, disappointment, the whole gamut. Drinking wasn’t just something I did to manage all of the aforementioned feelings, though: it was also the center of my social life. Dates were at bars and weekend afternoons with girlfriends were spent at local wineries. When one of my best friends and I went on our annual beach trip, we could have opened our own shoreside sip shack with all the Rosé and hard seltzer we packed. Even work centered around alcohol, especially my last job in corporate before I left for the non-profit sector, which will be relatable to those of you who work in the corporate world and know all too well how it is. In my Admin role, I was responsible for planning events and Happy Hours – and guess who was often given some of the leftover wine to take home? It makes me cringe reliving this; what did I expect would happen? And so, reflecting on this chapter of my life, it is not at all surprising that I got as sick as I did, given that alcohol was everywhere I turned. When I traveled overseas, I drank to celebrate that I would see my family within hours, and when I arrived, I drank because I was on vacation. (It should also be noted that I drank to even get on an airplane: I get stressed just thinking about airports and my fear of flying has always been out of hand. Up until roughly 2019, it had never been addressed by a doctor. Now I am armed with Ativan and so thankful for its existence, as that tiny white pill has enabled me to stay sober through one of my least favorite, most stress-inducing activities.)
As the curtain drew to close on this booze-saturated decade, I was so caught up in the vicious cycle of drink –> experience hangxiety + shame + panic –> rinse and repeat, that I don’t think I really enjoyed it anymore. It was something I was programmed to do and by that point, I did it just to feel “okay”. By the end of the work day (frankly, at the end of any day that ended in -y), I felt that I had “earned” my multiple glasses of wine. Of course, capping off a stressful day with alcohol was just making everything worse but I was too far gone to realize this. I was in such a habit of drinking that I couldn’t imagine doing anything else at the end of the day. (Fast forward to the present, I am so busy that I barely ever think about wine in the evenings – and for that I am so grateful. I also am delighted about all of the alcohol-free (AF) beverages that are on the market now. What a time to be
alivesober! I will be sharing some of my favorites on the blog in a future post). At the height of the pandemic and subsequently the depths of my drinking despair, I felt absolutely horrible 24/7 – and every day felt the same as the day before (reference previously mentioned vicious cycle). I was physically, emotionally, and mentally as unwell as a person can be, while still managing to hold a job, take care of their cat, and keep everything together – but just by a thread. Looking back, I am certain that it never even occurred to me that I could or would break free from this vicious cycle. I was stuck in the center of a hurricane of my own doing and I had no idea how to break through the eyewall to better weather. It took a seemingly anticlimactic moment of realizing I was absolutely 100% done with my own bullshit for me to finally put down the bottle for good. There were a multitude of events that led up to this moment; there were countless other occasions after which I could have said “enough is enough!”, more stories than there are hours in the day. And there were certainly many instances when I tried to cut back or moderate. But I think some small voice of reason in my head managed to break through and speak to me that night. It was simultaneously the quietest, seemingly insignificant moment – and yet also a pivotal turning point, a perfect paradox. And it was truly a miracle.On October 12, 2020, I stood in my kitchen staring at the clock on the microwave. The amount of anxiety cursing through my body could have easily powered a plane across the Atlantic Ocean. I had the day off for Columbus Day and was already fretting about work and how I was going to get through what I knew I needed to do, i.e. get and stay sober. I remember feeling like I could just curl up in a ball and die – and that would be fine with me. It was 10:15 PM when I had my last drink, ironically a German beer. In the days that followed, I experienced withdrawal symptoms that rivaled the worst flu bugs I’d had in my life, and getting through one task to the next was at times nearly impossible. I was in complete survival mode. But somehow I muddled through and found little things to look forward to, as I slowly started to feel human again, as the anhedonia faded, and as the shakes and nausea dissipated.
I know that the future is uncertain and the possibility of relapse will always loom, but I am steadfast in my decision to stay sober and to continue learning how to cope without the crutch of alcohol. One of my favorite mantras on difficult days, when I have a project or a task that I’m overwhelmed by, is “If you can get sober, you can do anything.” And I believe this to be true for others, too: overcoming addiction has to be one of the greatest struggles in this life, especially when you are on your own. But no one is going to do it for you. That is something I learned along the way, in many of my first attempts to moderate, get healthier, and ultimately, cut alcohol out of my life altogether. In 2019, in my first (failed) foray into sobriety, I thought someone was going to save me from myself, that they would magically appear and say all of the right things and it would somehow inspire me to eschew this poison for good.
Adjusting to life without alcohol has been a wild ride, friends. In a society that is saturated with alcohol and every single event centers around booze, it is quite easy to remember how I got so dependent upon the bottle to begin with – and why it was so difficult to quit. But it’s not always a challenge: the easy days are better than I can describe and often effortless, to the point where I sometimes forget that my previous life was MY life; it feels like it was a bad movie I watched or a terrible nightmare that stuck with me. And the bad days, well, they are very draining, frustrating, and require a lot of “doing the next right thing.” I have been incredibly fortunate, however, to have been able to manage and navigate most of early sobriety and recovery on my own. I have never been a proponent of Alcoholics Anonymous for myself, though I applaud those who are active in AA and who have found it to be integral to their sobriety. I am aware that it is a lifeline for many people. So what’s worked for me? Therapy was an enormous help in the early days, something I would recommend for anyone, regardless of whether they are struggling with addiction or not. Life is HARD and we are all products of every single thing that has happened to us in our lives up to this point. Having an unbiased third party to use as a sounding board and with whom to work on developing new coping mechanisms is absolutely invaluable. And exercise – I cannot possibly stress the importance of that. Running has always been part of my life, but in early recovery, it became the new center of my existence. As my priorities changed, my focus shifted to my running and setting related goals: a one-year running streak (currently in progress!) and an eventual Boston Qualifying (BQ) marathon time, among others. I PR’ed in November 2021, running my fastest marathon time and crushing my goal of a sub 3:50. Knowing that I will run every single day has given me something to anticipate and to look forward to, that doesn’t threaten to take everything from me and isn’t dangerous or laden with guilt. There is far more to be said about coping mechanisms and sobriety “tools” or resources, which I intend to explicate in a future post.
This is, in many ways, just the beginning. I hope that by telling my story, I can inspire others to share their struggles and perhaps I might even encourage someone who is caught up in the vicious cycle that I once was. I can tell you this, without a shadow of doubt: a life free of alcohol is infinitely better than I could ever have imagined. I get to be fully present for all of the beautiful moments: sunsets on an evening run; stealthy fox sightings; belly laughter with good friends; Basil jumping into bed to snuggle; a first kiss; celebrating some good news. In the last 20 months, I have found much clarity and (some) peace. I have grown tremendously as a person and learned a great deal about myself. I have set new goals and realized dreams and aspirations. I now live a life that is full of things I enjoy doing, none of which are shrouded in shame: running; baking; cleaning (yes, I do enjoy this immensely!); spending time with friends in a setting where alcohol is not the focus; crying with laughter on the phone with my sibling – to name a few. I don’t think I would have started writing or blogging again if I was still actively addicted – and I don’t think I would have nailed down what I want in life. I certainly never would have found the words or had the courage to share my story with you. I am so grateful for the chance to start again sober – it is truly the greatest gift.
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The Reality of Rejection
The content of this post has been weighing heavily on me for the past few nights. I finally decided it was time to sit down and JUST WRITE IT. I don’t know why I agonize over writing so much. I’m a writer; it’s what I do for a living and what I believe is my gift. Sigh. Procrastination is such an odd thing, friends.
Given my tendency to make everything about our childhoods, this story probably begins years ago, but for the sake of efficiency, we’ll start with the recent past. And to fully understand why the latest turn of events stings so badly, I will give you some
quickbackground info: I was in a serious relationship for over a year, that ended very suddenly at the end of September 2021. My ex, Ben* (aka “The 180”), got a new job in his hometown of St. Louis and moved away A WEEK after accepting the job, with (false) promises to move me there, too, then told me on FaceTime after I visited that he “didn’t want to live with me”, which truly broke my heart, honestly more than anything else that followed – and then a few days later, he ended a ONE-YEAR relationship via text. I know: what a great guy (sarcasm on steroids). Naturally what followed was what I have dubbed “heartbreak hell”: months of pining after Ben and reliving every moment of the relationship, wondering where I had gone wrong (you know, aside from dating him in the first place…); trying to keep in touch with him but realizing I was losing him more each time we texted, because he had already somehow moved on (how heartless can you be, Ben?), though I don’t actually have any concrete proof of said new girlfriend; getting incredibly sick which eventually led to a kidney infection; successfully finishing two marathons; running two 200+ mileage months; eating more ice cream and sour gummies than I can possibly describe; tears on tears on tears – and I am not normally a crier; reevaluating my life goals (chief among these: I had the grand epiphannie that I absolutely do not want kids and wow, am I ever grateful that I didn’t accidentally procreate with Ben!); going back to the drawing board and reexamining my standards and criteria for a significant other; and of course, getting back out there to date again. And my goodness, that alone has been quite an adventure, friends. More on that in forthcoming posts. You’ll want to bring a bowl of popcorn.The next part of our Cliffs Notes run-down involves a man I met in January, Eric*, who checked all of my new and existing criteria: he was much older; very successful; incredibly handsome; he smelled amazing; he was thoughtful and sweet and generous; we had easy conversations that just flowed, with plenty of laughter. Simply put: we were having a lot of fun. We dated until March, when – while eating lasagna that I had made for him, of course, because really, what else would you cook for someone when they’re about to dump you…? – he told me he was leaving me for his alcoholic ex. Who, by the way, is in her late, late 40’s. This was my initial reaction: “So you’re leaving me, she who has her sober ducks in the same pond, for someone who is more than 15 years older than me? And still struggling to get sober? Seriously?!” Now, I should add, I have the utmost empathy for this poor woman, given what I went through myself and I am not at all judging her (how could I?!). I simply include this detail to show that it was indeed very baffling that he was running back to someone who needed to focus first on her own health, before getting back together with her ex-boyfriend. Needless to say, since I was really into Eric and loved our dates and our time together, I was pretty fucking bummed, disappointed, and mad that he would choose someone else over me, not to mention go back to this person. I would never go back to an ex so I cannot understand why people do that. I’m of the mind, “It didn’t work. Why on earth try again? Spoiler alert: it’s not going to be different this time…” Plus, he ended things with me in my own damn kitchen! I just sat at the table for a minute, head in my hands, and then eventually he left. I’ll spare you the rest of the drama. To summarize, we had “The Ultimate Betrayal” aka “Really Rough Rejection” in September, followed by the “Heartbreak Hell” rollercoaster of trying to move on and getting physically healthy after the array of illnesses and being knocked on my ass by the antibiotics and balancing the day-to-day demands of being an adult and getting back in the dating saddle, AND THEN yet another very unideal rejection, aka “Lasagna Letdown”, mere months later. I think you know where this is heading, which is yes, a “Rejection Pile-On”.
So, now that you’re all caught up… I met a guy, Sven*, in late April who was incredibly charismatic, tall, handsome, interesting, successful, confident, generous, and most importantly, we had a kind of familiarity that I haven’t experienced with anyone before, certainly not right off the bat. I truly felt like we had known each other before. To say the least, I was instantly drawn to him and immediately quite smitten. We talked on the phone and texted constantly (he was such an ideal correspondent and conversationalist), and went on a series of interesting, enjoyable, and downright funny dates. Sven definitely had “boyfriend material” written all over him. He was one of the most thoughtful guys I’ve ever known, which is one of the aspects I loved the most about him. He was always bringing me little gifts and snacks – he even showed up with two slices of (still warm) Whole Foods pizza without being asked. Mega swoon – because we all know the way to my heart is with carbs and sweets. And he bought me BioFreeze wraps for my injured hamstring. Please tell me what’s more sweet and thoughtful than THAT. I’ll wait. Then, he jokingly said on what turned out to be our last date that he thought we should just be friends. I was exhausted and had a migraine, so I didn’t fight him on it and just assumed it was, like most things he said, merely him messing around. But in the days that followed, he started texting me less and we stopped talking on the phone. I could feel him icing me out. Finally, about five days after his initial “I’m beginning to think we should just be friends” statement, I went ahead and texted him about it, because I was losing both sleep and concentration over the fact that I could tell something was amiss. His response really cut deep: he said, while we “connected on many levels”, I was “not his person”, but that he “wanted to stay friends”. My initial thought upon reading his text was, “BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE FRIENDS!”
Given that I am a deeply sensitive and introspective person, who is cursed with crippling anxiety, I thought about this text FOR DAYS. I read it about 100 times and I thought. about. every. little. thing. that. I. said. and. did. Because, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, that is just how I am and how I process any sort of rejection or change in the status quo of a relationship. And I hate it about myself. Finally, I realized, “You absolutely have to write about this” – because, let’s face it, I’ve been sleeping at the switch when it comes to blogging again and I clearly needed
a kick in the asssome motivation.And then I had a few ephiphannies – not all at once, of course. First, there was much moping and sighing and more moping and more sighing.
But these takeaways are as follows:
Rejection hurts worse right now because you haven’t healed from the previous rejections. I know it is going to take time to get over my ex, but more importantly, how careless and cavalier he was about throwing our relationship away. Ben abandoned me, although he doesn’t see it that way, and getting past that and forgiving him is not going to happen overnight. In the meantime, I think my best bet is to lower my dating expectations because, while I clearly WANT to find something serious again, I think I will continue to run the risk of getting burned over and over again until I can finally, truly let go of some of this hurt and anger. One of my absolute favorite quotes fits perfectly here: “If you never heal from what hurt you, you’ll bleed on people who didn’t cut you.” And friends, I am bleeding all over, metaphorically speaking.
You have to be enough for yourself. Annie, you have a damn “enough” tattoo on your ring finger, girl. BE ENOUGH FOR YOURSELF. And to anyone reading this, that’s my advice and direct order for you, as well. A significant other (a man in this case) is not going to complete you or make your life better. Sure, you’ll be less lonely perhaps – but you first have to be enough for yourself. I know, it’s freaking hard. There are Friday evenings when I’ll come back from a late run and it’s just me and Basil and it’s so quiet in the Bachelorette Pad, and I think, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” (No offense, Baize – but you know what I mean). However, it’s in those moments I have to remind myself how much I’ve grown as a person over the last 19 months, as I’ve navigated my sobriety and racked up all of the milestones, doing things like getting on an airplane sober, something that I NEVER imagined would be possible, and how much I make myself laugh and how much I truly love the person I’m becoming. Even if she is still a piece of work most days. And it is in those moments that I think, “I am enough for myself.”
It isn’t personal. This one is a little difficult for me to fully believe – because how can you NOT take rejection personally? Then I started thinking about the times I’ve had to turn a guy down because I just wasn’t that into him or I didn’t think we would be a good fit. Perfect example: in early January, a mere day after returning from Terra Germania for Christmas with the Z Clan, I made the mistake of going out with a guy without first asking the important questions such as, “So who did you vote for? And are you vaccinated?” You know, the questions you realize YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ASK after falling for the wrong person, who – oh, you know, just happened to be anti-COVID vaccines. To cut to the chase, this poor guy did not make it past the first date – and I remember how bummed he was, even texting me a few weeks later to “check in”. The point is, I have had to remind myself that I, too, have rejected people before – and I am certain that I have hurt someone’s feelings in the process. And it was most certainly not personal any of those times (well, with the Trumper it was, not sorry to say). Similarly, I have to believe it was not personal with these two most recent rejections. I do, however, believe that it was very personal with Ben, but that’s a story for another day.
The bottom line: rejection is rough – but it’s also unavoidable, as it is a reality both of dating and of life. And if I am going to insist on continuing to date, which clearly I am, then I have to accept that it’s just a part of the process, as unfortunate and painful as it might be. But I consider this most recent rejection a major win: because it finally inspired me to write again. So I can thank Sven for that – and also the pizza.
*names have been changed