Let’s take one more shot and go back to your place.
My half-eaten ramen bowl sat in front of me with a cocktail glass half full of a crushed lime and watered down Tito’s.
Two more tequila shots please! Rail’s fine.
Let’s take one more shot and go back to your place.
My half-eaten ramen bowl sat in front of me with a cocktail glass half full of a crushed lime and watered down Tito’s.
Two more tequila shots please! Rail’s fine.
I write this in a state of anxiety. Not quite a full-blown anxiety attack, but more of a well, low-key anxiety attack.
I’m a senior in high school. I’m ready to graduate and jet off to college. I’m over the rumors, the whispers in the hallway, the looks. I’m over the way I morphed myself into someone I didn’t recognize. As angry as I am at the way people looked at me my first day back to school, I know I did it to myself.
I never considered a myself a victim. I wanted to be — that was easier to come to terms with — the simple fact that I fell victim to a series of shitty occurrences in my life which were entirely to blame for the scars on my arms, slipping honor-student grades & a school that now labeled me as someone different.
I just want to leave.
I walk into the lobby my first day back. I clench my books close to my chest. Voices in the hallway are louder than usual. The stares linger. Tears start to stream down my face. I rush to the bathroom.
Wasn’t she tied down to a chair and put in a psych ward? Like in the movies?
I heard her mom’s a lesbian, that’s why she went crazy.
Is she going to have to stay back a grade?
I hear all of the rumors — even if no one thinks I do. I want to hate these people. They don’t understand. But I guess that’s why I never did hate them — they didn’t understand.
Maybe I’m not the talk of the senior class, but it sure feels like it.
My insides are crumbling.
I am holding the bottle of pills in my hand and locked the bathroom door of my house. My hand is shaking. There’s no practice drill for killing yourself.
My sister screams in the hallway as I drop the bottle in fear and watch the blue pills scatter on the floor.
The first time I was put into a mental hospital was the winter of my senior year of high school. I was depressed, suicidal & well, fucking miserable. To be honest, it’s like black hole for me at this point. I remember the events that led me to that state, but of course, we all have our shit. I just didn’t deal with mine particularly well.
I fought with my mom and counselor and begged them to let me stay at home. I knew I needed help, I knew there was something off that needed more attention but what would that look like? I felt the scratches on my inner arms and legs as the tears flooded down my face. By law, I had to go.
He visited me as much as he could. He’d drive on weekends, school nights. When I look back, he was probably the most supportive boyfriend I’ve ever had. I told I loved him, and I meant it. I just don’t think I was ready to love anyone…how could I? Never mind loving, I didn’t even like myself.
I have a post about him sitting in my drafts. I can’t publish it. Not yet.
With him, I was selfish. He loved me, took me in & was such an integral piece of my past who was unfortunately intertwined with perhaps the darkest part of my life thus far. I don’t know if I’ve ever properly thanked him. “Thank you,” doesn’t seem like enough. It’s not enough.
I didn’t deserve him.
I think about him a lot.
There were windows. An arts & crafts table. A bookshelf. No restraints. No one screaming. No padded walls. It was peaceful — in a fucked up, depressing kind of way — but it was an escape. One that I needed.
Go to all of the meetings and follow the schedule, that’s how you get of here.
So I did. I’m not sure how much healing I did, but it wasn’t enough.
A couple of months later, I find myself in the same spot. I don’t remember which time I was more miserable, all I remember was the nurse telling me to stop crying, that I was triggering to other patients.
I whimpered and went to sleep.
My OT hands me a piece of paper.
Write what you want to let go of.
I drop the magic paper in the water and watch it disintegrate along with the words written in black pen.
I grab another piece. And another.
My mom cried behind her sunglasses. My Jersey Shore poster hung surrounded by photos of friends and family. I was only a 2.5 hour drive away, but it felt longer. At least, I wanted it to feel that way. I’m convinced that this is a fresh start. A solution to all of my problems. I’m no longer depressed. I’m fine.
Two days in and I’m wearing a salmon sun dress. It’s a Thursday.
He told me I was pretty. And smart.
That was all I really needed. In a moment’s time I’m swept away.
He convinces me that I’m in love. I don’t need anyone else but him. Rather, I could never find anyone else better than him.
I’m too fat for him. We spend 1.5 hours in the gym 6 hours a week. I eat once a day and only eat foods approved by him. One “treat” a week. No yoga pants in front of other men. Am $8 box of black hair dye to hide my $120 highlights that didn’t look good. Well, I thought they looked ok.
I’m still sick. I come to terms with this moments after I slap him across the face after he insulted my mother. I forgive and take him back.
I love you too.
I’m not good enough.
Eventually, I am free. Free from him, but not from my sickness.
Girls are mean.
My sister was bullied in elementary school. I was too young to remember all of the details, I just remember that I never wanted to be bullied. I saw my sister’s tears and heard my mom and dad demand action.
Years later, I’m a senior in college living in a house with six other girls. Over the summer, I had felt distant from most of them, questioning my decision to sign the lease to live with them in a few short months. I didn’t really know what to expect. I’m anxious. I find relief in the fact that I had my best friend. My person, as we’d call each other.
After 20 years of avoiding what my sister went through, suddenly, I feel her pain.
There’s a bully in my house. I, the victim.
I cure my anxiety with continual weight loss. I track calories in a notebook that sits on my bed. For some reason, this adds fuel to the fire of young-adult bullying that I had been dealing with for several weeks at this point.
Did you see the notebook on her bed? She’s like a fat anorexic.
I hear whispers from down the hall. Name-calling, gossip & words that punched me right in the gut. This was my breaking point. I spend nights sleeping at my friend’s house and the front seat of my car, feeling unwelcome in my own home.
Cunt. Bitch. Fat anorexic.
I don’t expect my best friend to fight my battles. Well, I guess I sort of do. I try to justify it. Well, I wouldn’t wish her wrath upon anyone else. So maybe that’s why she doesn’t say anything to her.
In a moments time, I feel my relationship crumbling with one of the most important people in my life. I cry myself to sleep, counting down the days to the inevitable break up with my best friend. I wonder if she hears me from the other end of the room.
I lose her. My person.
This is just a little tiff, you guys will be fine.
I know we won’t be.
He told me he loved me. That I was beautiful and smart and everything you want to hear.
The toxicity tainted every word, yet I held onto them to give myself some sort of validity.
I didn’t want to tell you this, but he said your body wasn’t his type.
Did you say that? I ask him.
No, she’s trying to get into your head.
He picks her. My white shirt is stained with my black mascara.
I knew he was interested the moment he announced he’s “back on the market” loud enough for me to hear.
He sits next to me and puts the brown bottle of lager up to his lips. My drunk eyes are fixated on his tattoo sleeve. I want to ask about them, but I’m not sure if it’s too soon.
He tells me about his trip to Burning Man. I tell him about my time in South Africa. Our conversations are interesting and engaging. It’s refreshing.
Hours pass and it’s suddenly 4am. My watered down whiskey sits on his coffee table as we leave the couch and head up to his bedroom.
My alarm sounds. It’s 9am.
I slip out of bed and my hand reaches for his naked shoulder to say goodbye. I hesitate, pull my sweater over my head and quietly close the door behind me.
Are you going to see him again?
I don’t know, I never got his number. I tell my friend.
I’d like to see him again, but I then ask myself. What’s the point?
I’ve taught myself to expect disappointment.
I hit my three year anniversary of living in a new city.
I have so many amazing things to be proud of. I’m not where I want to be, but are we ever?
I make a list of things that make me happy. The list is extensive. I’m proud of myself and the the life I’ve created. It’s not hard for me to be thankful for these people and things in my life.
Most of the time, I am fine. I am fine until I think about the toxic relationships I’ve engaged in. The people I’ve let define me and the decisions I’ve made that challenge my moral compass.
I grow angry at myself.
I look down and stare at the fat rolls that hang over my jeans. i envision myself as a much happier
skinnier human. Oftentimes I replace happier for skinnier. By accident.
While it hasn’t always been the forefront of my anxiety, it’s remained a constant the past 10+ years of my life.
I wish I could bring you into my brain. I recount my “happiness” list, mentally written in black Sharpie. I’m calm for a moment.
It’s like graffiti. Red paint wipes across the black marker making it difficult to read.
The red paint is all I see.
Am I making sense? I’m not sure.
My brain grows tired of continually trying to scrub it away, so I give up and let it be.
I accept who I don’t want to be and spiral into a fucked up mix of anxiety, anger & sadness.
I then find myself here. Starting from the beginning and trying to figure out a way to push through.
I take a deep breath.
Over the years, I have learned how to curb my anxiety far better than when I was 17. At times I wish I could go back and figure out how I moved past the challenges I once thought would never go away.
I find myself pondering if the stories listed above are a result or reason for my anxiety. Maybe both. I don’t know.
Part of me is almost positive my challenge with body image will go away, too. I have hope, but it really sucks. Then the other part of me firmly believes that it will never go away.
I’m not writing this post for sympathy or from the view point as someone who is a “victim.” Mental health is harder to combat than most things in life. Maintaining work, life, love, money, etc., all while maintaining a healthy brain is fucking hard. We all have a different story to tell, my experience is no better/worse than the other guy. It’s just my story.
I have accepted the fact that I can say thousands of positive affirmations in the mirror, read every self-help book on the shelf & meditate fifty times a day and STILL have my bad days. It’s just the way it is.
The way I manage these bad days has vastly improved over the years, but in no way shape or form am I “cured.”
How do I know? What used to be crying myself to sleep every night has now been replaced with other toxic habits: aka falling for narcissists.
One toxic behavior has replaced the other and at times I hate myself for it. What’s different this time around? I know I deserve better.
Like, you’d be so lucky to date me!!! Jk…but not really. But yet, I still find myself seeking for validation in men which leaves me vulnerable to falling for the wrong ones. This, in turn, certainly does not help with the whole body image/self-love thing I’m tryna work on.
Life comes and goes as it does. You can still love your life while being anxious all the damn time. You can be confident in your abilities, career decisions & overall self-worth and still feel like the world is out to get you. It’s a stressful dynamic at times, but it can happen.
I’ve been trying reaaalllyy hard to pinpoint my triggers and figure out what leads me to think the way I think which in turn may help me ameliorate my internal struggles. You may have to track back years and years to figure out where it all began, but as I always say, words are cool and super therapeutic.
I would tell you to love yourself and know your worth but I also understand that’s hard as fuck. But I will say this…
Write about it. Talk about it. Acknowledge it. Oh, and dealing with mental health issues in high school fucking BLOWS.
This goes without saying, but I, obviously, am in no way shape or form a licensed professional. If you are in crisis, or feeling suicidal, you should get in contact with a crisis line such as the Samaritans, your doctor, therapist or a hospital immediately. You may also try searching our database for contact details in your Local Area or, use a search engine to find emergency phone numbers.
It was the shortest relationship I’ve ever had.
I don’t like to put a timeline on my life. I don’t like to say you should arguing with your S/O over how many pillows you should have on your bed at age 27. Or you should be making x amount of money at the age of 30.
I don’t believe life should or can be lived that way.
Life comes and goes as it does. People enter and exit whether we want them to or not.
Men should be so lucky to date me. I tell my friend in full confidence over $10 vodka sodas at Union Market. I mean it, I really do.
And not in a “I’m too good for everyone which is why I’m single” sort of way. In a way that I’m aware of the qualities I posses and I know someday I’ll find someone who complements in a way that I see fit.
Sometimes I get impatient is all.
I wasn’t as self-aware a year ago. As I have talked about many times, I had been exiting a toxic thing, my career was in shit, I was lost living life in an endless fog and every one else was to blame for my problems.
From there, I started to take more control over my life and the decisions I made. I was more proactive instead of reactive. Thought with more logic and stopped putting my mental health in the hands of someone else. Life got exponentially better.
The story was so eerily similar and triggering I can’t explain why I stuck around.
Well, maybe that’s why I did. The story — the characters, the setting. It was practically the same.
Two men. Same occupation, covered with tattoos and realities they couldn’t face. Subconsciously, I wanted to fix the problems they had. And in retrospect, maybe I wanted them to fix mine too.
He was creative. Passionate. Edgy.
Two drinks in and his hand touched my thigh. I told him I didn’t like PDA. As we walked to the next bar, he pulled me to the side. I know you don’t like PDA, but this outside of the bar, so does it count? He put his hands around my neck as he kissed me. We’re awesome, he whispers in my ear.
The emotions were intense from the beginning — on both ends. He was vocal about how he felt, forward if you will.
I go away for a few days, our texts were frequent. He informs me of a “primary partner” in his life. I inquire further. He labels it as “progressive.” I’m skeptical and a bit taken aback but I don’t really know him all that well, who am I to judge?
We are so awesome together, Beth.
The red flags become brighter, but I’m already wrapped in. Besides the chemistry in the bedroom, there’s something more here too. I wasn’t sure I was looking for something serious, but he was insistent that this was where it was going.
It feels weird to bring this up on the second time we hangout, but I can really see this going somewhere Beth, I like you so much.
We’re outside. It’s 1:30am. The night is still warm, the ground wet from the rain fall. I tell him I feel the same way. Because I did. I did feel the same way. I rest my head on his shoulder. It feels right.
I ignore the hours and hours in between text messages. With our work schedules, it was inevitable. I didn’t need to text him all the time anyways. I ignore the times he “forgets” about our plans and the false promises to spend time together outside the confines of our apartment bedrooms. I ignore the verbal warnings from not one, but two women about his past behavior.
He passes them off as “crazy.” I nod.
I call him out for being a narcissist. I’m kidding, but like not really actually at all. I can practically sniff a narcissist from a mile away at this point.
I’ll spare you the countless bickering and back and forths we’d get into over him being sketchy. Gimme a break dude, I’m fucking working. Do you even work? How do you have this time to text? I ignore this blatant disrespect for my job and ignore. However, when I don’t answer him…y’all know how this game goes.
I confide him with details about my previous relationship to explain why communication is important to me. He seems to be completely understanding and supportive.
We progress. Or at least I pretend that we are. Our feelings for each other are intense. One moment we’re having this incredibly engaging conversation, the next moment we’re having mind-blowing sex and the next moment we want to rip each other’s heads off.
Have you forgotten about the primary partner yet? Ah yes, by this point he has completely ended things with her. For me…apparently. Similar to my previous relationship, she has mental problems too. However, she’s “supportive” of us. She wants him to be happy.
Here’s where things get good. Strap up ladies and gents.
We had just finished yet another night of arguing. He comes over before work, I’m crying. He knows he has me. A string of lies and false promises spill from his lips. We kiss goodbye.
I finish a spin class. I haven’t heard from him in a few hours, I’m assuming he’s busy. I go to the store and pick him up a coffee to surprise him at work. The establishment is empty. I walk to to the back where he works and I pause.
I’m horrible in awkward and tense situations. We all say nothing. I poke him. I know who she is and she knows who I am. My head sweats, I break the silence with a hello and a swift exit.
He races me to the front door, what’s up babe? no hug or kiss? I explain to him I’m upset but I’m not about to talk it in the middle of the sidewalk. He looks at me confused. Nothing is going on babe, you know we’re still friends, she came here to help me with work stuff.
I put my head down and walk away. I cry for a second time before the night falls.
I find a random alleyway and sit down and continue my cry sesh. I’m caught up in this shit again. Fuck. I think about the hell of the year I had and the progress I’ve made this far. My hands sit on my head. My mascara stains my white shirt. I think about the breakdowns I’d have in the corner of my room. Single stream tears erupt into never ending currents. Strong and forceful. You ok over there? A random passerby inquires. Yea, thanks.
I forgive him, because that’s just what I do with guys like this. I forgive. I forgive them without ever forgiving myself.
I can’t quite remember the timeline correctly, but within the next couple of days I am his girlfriend. I thought that may be the solution to all of our problems. Well, I knew it wasn’t but he asked me, and I said yes.
The term “girlfriend” holds some sort of validation to me, still. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t been someone’s “girlfriend” in years. Or perhaps when he said it, it held more weight because he had been convincing me since basically day one that I was the only one he wanted.
Or maybe I was just convincing myself.
I know what you’re thinking. Beth, he’s a fuckboy, why are you falling for this shit?
I said it earlier, I like to fix people. I think I can fix people. Ok, I know I can’t fix it all, but I get some sort of high from being the positive part of someone’s life. It’s selfish, really. It’s like I think I’m less fucked up then them, so being around them makes me feel better.
Yeah, I know it’s fucked up.
I tell my mom and sister about him, then my friends.
I could’ve predicted the next series of events if I really dug deep…I just didn’t know it would be so soon.
7-8 vodka sodas deep, I am drunk. I want my boyfriend to meet up with me, he’s being non-responsive and sketchy. I knew in my gut something was going on. In a sad, drunken slur I give him an ultimatum.
What is going on? Why are you always so sketchy? If you don’t meet up with me I’m never going to see you again!!!!
His ex picks up his phone. She knows about me and sounds sweet (I know this is weird). I’m silent. He’ll never give you what you need, Beth. I learned this very early with him. You’re not special.
Him and I meet outside in a public place. My make up is fucked up from the tears and my hair is a hot mess from the humidity. I want to change my shoes because I have been in heels for 6 hours. We sit down and start to talk.
Suddenly, his ex turns the corner. She sits down on the ground in between us as I stay silent. This situation is sobering me up REAL quick as I’m waiting for a camera to come out from the bushes with a producer screaming YOU’VE BEEN PUNKED!
They start to engage in a rather loud argument about their fucked up shit they have going on. I chime in. Apparently he had just asked her to be his girlfriend moments ago but is now denying it. He also claims we have been dating for a day (wrong, it had been approximately a week…to get technical). I call him out. I quickly find out he cheated on me. Twice. He’s confused. As am I.
The cigarette smoke blows from her mouth.
I told her I wanted to be with you, Beth. She acknowledges this. We’re on the same page for a very, very brief moment.
There were so many words happening at once. She claims to be on my side and stands up, for me. I don’t really know her and not totally understanding her intentions, but I also decide I’m too drunk for this shit. I stay silent. He asks her to let us talk, she stays.
I should have just gone home, but I wanted to talk to him, only him. I’m still attached. He gets up in anger, claims he’s going to pick up some other chick and leaves. I watch him go and sit in a whimpering, pathetic cry.
I call out for him (Jesus, this is more of a reality show than I thought), and she’s still there. I politely ask her to leave. She goes. I meet him down the road a bit of the ways. The drama continues. We talk about us briefly, but he realizes that she took all of his shit in her car with her to Maryland or somewhere…like, everything he needs for work the next day. I laugh internally and then let out a snort. I can’t help it.
He’s freaking out, I’m a drunk, well now a pretty sober, mess and so much shit just happened that I’m unsure what to do next. I should go home, I really should. But I also know that I need comfort. And I know for SURE my drunk ass does not have the will power to just go home in this state. For Christ’s sake, I had just exited a reality show stint.
We lie in bed and he tells me he is falling in love with me..I hesitate. He takes a swig of whisky and brushes the ash from his cigarette off the sheets onto the floor. It’s 4am. I tell him I’m no longer his girlfriend. We have sex. It’s meaningless. He sleeps past his alarm the next morning. Somehow, this is my fault.
I wish this was the end, I really do.
I leave his spot the next morning.
Your ex just walked into my spot. We’re about to take a shot together.
I freeze in the middle of the street. My phone lit up. Ok, ok, cameramen, where the HELL are you?
What? I respond.
He knows about our past. I expect him to be cordial and not fight my battles, but I am at a loss for words.
I expect him to act the way that any good person would, but then again I am understanding that he’s well, kind of a shitty person. Ok, I knew this all along…but we already went over this. I call him.
Why are you freaking out? Want me to fucking kick him in the balls? Like what the fuck Beth? I’ll call you back.
I’m at home. Writing this makes me realize how many times this man brought me to tears…fuck, man. The next text brings me to a full blown anxiety attack.
It’s a picture of him and my ex that he sent. To my phone. Followed by a *heart faced emoji*
Note: we’re talking about the same dude who told me he was falling in love with me like 12 hours before.
I slam my laptop I sit in the corner of my couch infested with dog hair that I had failed to vacuum this morning while covering my face. Hyperventilating. I grab my journal and start to write. It’s not working. I rip the journal page out and throw it on to my coffee table. My dog sits and watches this unfold and puts his head on my lap.
I find comfort in my friends.
He then sends me a string of texts attacking my character as laid out my ex boyfriend (a source worse than Wikipedia). I want to disengage. I want to block his number and not participate. I feel the need to protect my reputation to people who never actually mattered in the first place.
I’m protecting my reputation to two men who still, to this day, have yet to admit their faults in the situation. I’m protecting my reputation to two men to have such a false and narrow view of the world that they probably never will.
I’m protecting my reputation to essentially, two narcissists , two people who will never apologize, because to the world, they are superior. <–click for a link to a great article and perspective on narcissism.
Are you still hanging in there? We’re almost there.
Mmmmmmmk here’s where I get REAL pathetic. Yeah, I still talked to him after all this. He knew all the right things to say. I was still upset and had a glimmer of hope that I could open his eyes that I could be good for him…oh, Beth. You’re so cute.
About a week later he brings up the reality-show pilot — Love Trifecta, I’m calling it. I’m at fault for the whole thing apparently. Jokes on me! Apparently there WERE people filming, I am now “the drunk chick screaming at *** in front of the ***.” I’m scolded for ruining his “brand.” I know this is not true. I snort out in laughter, because although I was drunk, this was simply another deflection tactic. Everything’s my fault, remember?
A) He’s not that important and this ain’t Hollywood. B) I wasn’t causing the scene. C) No mention of the whole cheating thing though!! Did they catch that on video!?!!?
Ok, ok, I’m not going to be petty, this was just one of the many things that has now turned into an “eye-roll” incident for me. Note: this was only brought up after the fact I suggest we talk about the fact that he cheated on me.
I call him out for being an ass. He says all the right things. I’m brought back in.
We feel so strong together.
What I’ve wanted has never changed. I want you. Just you.
Passing your building right now. Miss you!!! 😦
Ya know, generic shit that I continue to call him out for in a string of frustrating texts.
So, shit ended.
You guys are still here? Damn.
Per usual, I never know how people are going to react to these kinds of posts. If you’re an avid reader, you know not this is and will never be a “bash your ex” blog and I hate that I still give this disclaimer after all this time, it just feels necessary.
Writing helps me work through things, and you guys seem to like it. Life in the dating world as single-something is entertaining, and unfortunately, I think there are more people than you think who have been through similar shit.
As for me, I’m ok. Pretty great actually. It’s amazing what cutting toxic people out can do for ya! Although I’m not proud that I diverted back to old “habits,” if you will, I was able to catch on and detach myself much quicker than before. If there’s a silver lining to any of this, is that this relationship ONLY lasted for about a month (well, officially a week), as opposed to on and off for a year.
While things still lingered on a bit through text after it “ended” I was still doing my own thing. I knew how to exist without him. Ok, yeah, the entirety of “us” was about 90 days — but an intense 90 days!
That right there is important. Whether or not you have a significant other, ya gotta be your own person — have your own dreams, alone time, opinions, etc. etc. Yeah, its cliché, but you know how a cliché becomes a cliché?
I acknowledge that there are still things I need to fix about myself. I write all the time about self love and confidence, but here I am identifying all the red flags from the second date and still going for it. I know it’s problematic and it scares me too. It’s not a habit I want to fall into simply because I don’t like the type of person I become when I’m with toxic people. I don’t want to be the person who lets men get in the way of my own shit, but I recognize that I can be that person.
With this guy, I knew he wasn’t The One. He had “I have a lot problems I don’t want to deal with so I’m going make self-destructive decisions instead” written all over him. It mad me ask myself, “What things about myself do I not want to deal with? Is my ‘self destructive behavior’ men like this?” Possibly.
He was saying all this shit to have sex with you. You’re dumb.
Mmmmm. Maybe. But I did take him home on night one, and I think he knew he didn’t really have to try that hard. I even offered casual sex! To which he was “saddened and offended by.” Anyways, I could spend forever searching for these answers that I’m not even sure exist.
It was only 6 weeks, you crazy.
Maybe. But my story remains the same. I was crazy for him because he was crazy for me too..or so I thought. I’ll never know what was genuine and what was total bullshit. He claims it was all “real” but I think reality is still a fragmented construct he has created in his own head.
I find myself asking “Why?” a lot. I know the problem starts with me. I know that I need to identify exactly what in my life triggers me to fall weak to this manipulative behavior. While the sex was great and we had glimmers of happy moments together, that was sort of it. I don’t like drinking whiskey out of the bottle at 4am. I don’t like talking about all of his big career moments without one mention of mine. I don’t like waiting around, wondering when his text will come…if it ever does. Simply put, I don’t like the person he is.
I was more sad about the fact that I had fallen victim to yet another person like this rather than losing him. There are plenty of “hims” out there. I know this. In the same way that I wasn’t special to him, he wasn’t all that special to me.
I haven’t lost faith. If anything, it gives me more stories to tell you guys.
So, I’m just moving along. Swiping left and right (mostly left), having safe (and consensual!!!) sex with cute dudes, finally sorta kinda developing abs? Idk, life hasn’t been so bad to me.
Like I said, you’d be so lucky to date me.
Just ask my mom!
Do you get a weird source of inspiration from public transport? Like, I always feel like I’m at my peak of inspo wen I’m on a train, plane or bus. I’m not sure if this is a normal thing, but I always get my best thoughts out at the expense of a $3.65 metro ride…or $178 round trip flight.
I say this slightly intoxicated on my flight back to Boston. By slightly I mean 3 whiskey shots, 1 Sam Adams Summer and 2 vodka sodas deep. Sorry, mom.
I’ve had an interesting love life the past few months. Active, yet unactive. It’s strangely familiar. Guys have sorta sucked, but that’s nothing new. Again, it’s familiar.
I expressed my sentiments to my best friend, sober, “Why don’t guys wanna date me?” I felt desperate asking this question, yet I find myself genuinely curious. It sounds like plea from sad, single girl who is searching for love in all the wrong, yet seemingly right places. Yet, I don’t really give a shit. I’m just curious.
I see couples all of the time. Holding hands down 14th street or intensely making out at my bar, I replay my girlfriend qualifications.
-gets along with moms
-gets along with friends
I engage in an internal debate about casual sex. While I once was so confident in the fact that I, Beth Cormack, am SO ok with casually sleeping with men, recently I have began to question that notion. I feel like from a societal standpoint, my reaction towards casual sex should be, “This man’s penis entered me. We were safe and consensual. Welp, onto the next one! It’s cool!”
Am I allowed to feel there is something more to sex than just sex? Can I believe that I am able and willing to engage in “casual sex” yet still expect to feel some sort of way about it? Is there an in between on the sliding scale of a giving a fuck?
Names have been changed
Are you going to talk to me after we have sex? Drunk words slur from my dry mouth. He’s laying on top of me in my twin size bed. My phone lights up. “Want me to sleep at Kate’s and leave you two alone in there?” My roommate was good at casual sex. I told myself I didn’t like one night stands.
Because I didn’t.
Of course I’m going to talk to you. I just can’t really do girlfriends right now. Those words weren’t enough. In the moment, I pretended like they were. The next morning he was gone. I picked the red condom wrapper up from the floor and felt my eyes fill. I was ok with this. I can be cool. Days went by. A blank response to my “Hey how’s your week going text?” Crickets.
I saw him at the library the next week on campus. I smiled and looked his way. He burrowed his face in his book.
Hand jobs and blow jobs were fine. I let him touch my breasts and basically do everything but “go all of the way.” For a while anyway. When you have sex with a man right away, he’s going to view you as a slut and will therefore never date you.
I didn’t want to be a “slut.” Well, I didn’t want other men to label me as such.
It took a few weeks of drunken sleepovers before I let him enter me. I felt safe and comfortable. I didn’t feel like a slut. Nor did he make me feel like one.
We didn’t have “casual” sex for too long before I started to question where this was going. Late nights turned to longer mornings. Drunk sex turned into sober sex. Less casual sober sex.
I love you, he muttered. I love you too. Maybe casual sex wasn’t so bad. Maybe men would still acknowledge me and want to date me after all.
I was excited to start swiping left and right in my new city. I sat on my bed in night one and scouted out my prospects. Different from Boston. More attractive, yet more douchey, it seemed like.
Hey, how are you? David messaged. Jack Rose was our first date spot. I, in a black mini dress paired with gold sandals and a long necklace. He, a suit with a pink tie. A consultant at Deloitte. Attentive via text before and after our date. Did I hit the jackpot within my first few weeks in DC?
I felt an instant disconnect after the first night we spent together. A not-serious relationship hanging on by threads. We sleep together a few more times. Texts less frequent. Sorry super busy at work. Can’t hang this weekend. Eventually leading to nothingness.
A few months went by. I hardly remember his existence. My phone lights up. It’s David. “Hey, I hear you work at Hawthorne. Any chance my friends and I can cut the line?”
A year goes by. I’m his bartender. Can I have a Tanqueray and tonic? Oh, wait, your name’s Beth right? I pour him Bowman’s. Your Tanqueray is going to be $11.00.
I wanted to say, yeah, it’s Beth. Your penis was inside me, remember? Same.
Harry. How do I explain Harry? He’s a guy that I had been on and off hooking up with for the past 2 years. Very very on and off. I consider him more than a late-night text even though 95% of our texts took place after 2am. Definitely didn’t “date” although when we were together, I considered what that would look like.There was a connection we acknowledged, sober and drunk.
A connection defined on our first “real” date after 2 years of nothing but late-night texts. Coffee followed by laying in bed fully clothed, reading the depths of each other’s personal essays. Silent yet intense. “I don’t meet many women like you.” “I keep you at an arms-length because I don’t want to hurt you.” Divorced with two kids, I guess I kept him at arms length, too. “Casual” sex that I’d label as something a little more than casual. Emotions were felt on both ends. At least I think so.
Things came to an unexplainable halt the week after he drunk called me spilling his feelings. I don’t know what could be. I’d be lying if I still don’t think about it.
I wonder if he does too.
I was intrigued by Luke within the first few moments of catching his glance. The bar was crowded, full of intoxicated fools on Sunday evening. The music was loud, the shots were cheap. Who’s that? I asked my friend. That’s Luke, she introduced me. We hit it off instantaneously, chatting at the bar for quite some time. Tall and handsome, we continued to show interest in the coming weeks. I noticed hints of jealousy on his end when he saw me with other men. Interest from both ends intensifies.
I call him out for being a minor fuckboy. In a joking way. I recommend him to a friend for a job. Thank you so much, this is really going to help me out. I’m happy to do it.
Sleeping together was inevitable, although the sex was less than decent. The flame was short lived. He has a way with words to get women into bed with him, perhaps that’s all he wanted from me. I can’t be sure. I still run into Luke on occasion — we pretend like the other doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t even pet my dog. I can’t explain this. Have you seen my dog?
My half-joking preconceptions of his fuckboy tendencies were accurate. Maybe he expected me to get attached — to give him attention or fit into the “clingy” mold.
It’s a strange juxtaposition. I care but I don’t really care.
My interest in him was short-lived even though I continued to sleep with him. I never cared to date him. Our feelings were clearly defined the last time we slept with each other. Afterwards, we laid in bed and talked about how much we missed our White Buffalos. Yet, I still sort of give a shit.
white buffalo: a term for “the one that got away” or “first love”
It was the initial spark that drew me in and the sudden disregard that keeps me engaged to some extent. This draws up a debate in my head. We had sex…a few times. Yet to him, I am no longer worth a hello. I am nothing. Is this worth mulling over? I don’t know.
I met up with John for coffee about 6 months ago. We both swiped right! He was in the midst of a 30-day alcohol detox, so he suggested Colada Shop. Coffee? Obviously I’m down. I had just re-downloaded Tinder and I was lucky to match with this attractive, down-to-earth, successful & super sweet guy.
The date was wonderful, so much so we made out a red light in his car. I felt like I was in high school again. Months went by and with our busy schedules it was hard to make something out of it although we occasionally kept in touch via text and Snapchat.
Our second date took place at the Kygo concert with his friends — an evening that I never wanted to end. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with this guy, although I wasn’t really thinking about it. It was a fun, spontaneous date. What happens would happen.
A week goes by and neither of us reach out.
In a sweet and genuine (and very long) text about a week later he informed me has been hooking up with another girl and apologizes for not reaching out sooner.
Is now the right time to tell him that I hooked up with someone else the night before the concert? I didn’t feel the need to share my sex life with him. Is that wrong?
I showed the text to my guy friends. They read it as “he totally wants to see you again but he’s just informing you of the situation.” I don’t really know how to read it, but it was a sure sign that I have grown numb to disappointment in the dating world as my initial reaction to his text was, “wait, lol, is it bad that I don’t care?” It wasn’t an I don’t care that actually meant I do care but I’m trying to pretend like I don’t care because I’m ~chill~. It was truly and I don’t care.
Wait, so am I ok with casual sex? Again, this confuses me.
I decide it is ok to give a shit when a man’s penis enters you.
I decide it is ok to expect some sort of respect from the other party.
I decide you can still engage in casual sex while also giving a shit.
I decide to expect respect. I decide that this is OK to expect.
I decide I give a shit when there is a lack of respect.
I don’t think I’ll ever be the woman to not feel some sort of pit in my stomach when I don’t hear from someone after spending the night together. Even if the sex is shitty.
I believe sex is a natural, liberating experience that should be enjoyed in a safe and consensual setting. I used to fear the word “slut.” Years later, I realize the ignorance behind labeling others as such.
I look back on my sexual encounters and the men involved. The debate over casual sex continues. I don’t quite know how to define “casual sex” but I also believe there’s no, single universal definition to it.
Most of the time, the pit in my stomach feels unwarranted for. I don’t expect nor want a relationship from most of these men, but I still expect something from them after the fact.
I fear falling into the “clingy, psycho girl” mold. A mold constructed by (mostly) men — I decide to be ~cool~ and not care.
Maybe I shouldn’t expect anything. Maybe that’s where my disappointment lies.
Maybe respect is too much to ask.
I’m moving to California, ma!
I was so certain of my future before it even began.
Senior year of college I spent hours at my laptop researching jobs out on the west coast. I dreamt of grazing the warm sand with my hands and touching the Pacific coast with my bare feet. Lips pursed against the large straw of my happy hour margarita surrounded by new friends and exciting beginnings. My skin, bleached with the indoor months of winter, would soon be glowing with an olive aura twelve months of the year.
I’d work in a boutique PR firm, wearing bright colors and statement necklaces paired with metallic sandals. Namaste-esque lunch breaks with a fresh acaï bowl waiting for me at my desk topped with blueberries and freshly shaved coconut.
I dreamt of paradise. I dreamt of a seamless transition from college to the unknown depths of the real world…preferably surrounded by palm trees and toned men. One that I knew would come with its inevitable difficulties but uncharted territory that I craved nonetheless.
I soon realized this “paradise” didn’t necessarily have to mean to sunsets on the beach and rollerblading along the boardwalk. This dream to move out west made a swift change spring of 2015 as graduation quickly approached.
What was paradise? To me, paradise meant adventure. A blank canvas soon to be spattered with colors of the future that was soon to come.
I craved a masterpiece. But, like, not the perfect-looking masterpiece. I want the kind that doesn’t make sense but also makes so much sense at the same time. Like, the ones that make you think. The ones that make you step back, tilt your head and think “hmm…”
Ones that weren’t created as a result of a single experience but ones that have been through some shit. Some really really good shit but also some really really bad shit. And maybe some average shit too.
When I decided to move to DC, I knew the opportunities down here were endless. The President lives here. Finding a job would be easy. And it was.
DC would be my new idea of paradise, I decided.
My life is hard to keep up with. I know this. You know this. My parents know this. I’m always scrounging for the next opportunity, bopping around from thing to thing, keeping myself and other people on their toes.
I think about my dream back in college. Moving to California, working for a boutique PR firm in bright colors and statement necklaces and just think…holy shit. How did I get here?
I think about my first job in DC. Running events and marketing for one of the most popular bars on U St — portraying that I had it all but in reality craving something more. Then applying to grad school in the midst of bartending full time feeling miserable and confused for not knowing what I wanted. Landing my “dream” job only to realize that, still, there was something more out there for me. Deciding that maybe I should have a steady 9-5 while diving into the unknown of launching a business. Feeling uncertain with a fuck ton of new responsibilities I didn’t know how to handle.
How did that last paragraph read? Confusing, right? It was.
What am I supposed to do? I plead to my career management professor. To her, I admitted defeat.
I was working full time, bartending 25+ hours a week, going to class 2x a week while attempting to run a business and freelancing. Oh, and I also need to eat and sleep. And go to the gym. And sometimes have a social life. And maybe some time for myself too.
I was torn between the “safe” option and well, the risky one.
I knew the ~office life~ wasn’t for me. Am I only saying this because I’m an ignorant millennial who claims she’s “above” sitting in a chair 40 hours a week? Am I another cliché?
I didn’t want to be a cliché. I’m not cliché.
I expressed these concerns to my professor. Weighing the pros and cons. 38% of my brain telling me to just suck it up and deal with a job you’re not thrilled with in your early twenties and just do your time. The other 62% said something totally different.
I envisioned the “masterpiece” I wanted to create for myself. The messy paint strokes that evokes a spectrum of emotions and and a healthy mixture of the good shit and bad shit that comes with life.
I think you answered your own question, she acknowledged. I don’t say this often, and I usually tell students to go with the “safer” option, but I think that you can do something with this.
At this point, my company was about 2 months old. I had a couple of clients, but it was definitely more of a side hustle — one that wouldn’t survive much longer with the schedule I was attempting to upkeep.
So I had a choice. A big one.
Do I go balls deep in this shit?
I had the connections, talent and the means to make something out if it. I just had to do it.
I took the holiday to think about it. I stayed at my Dad’s and spent a lot of time on my own. Scribbling ideas in Nora (the name of my journal, after the OG badass Nora Ephron), writing what exactly this would mean for my future. Accepting the difficulties that were sure to come, but trying to figure out if it would be worth it.
I scanned LinkedIn for some potential job opportunities but nothing that made me as excited as the ideas I outlined in Nora. Nothing even remotely close.
I sat in my Dad’s living room on Christmas Eve and started developing a rough business plan from a random template I found online. Something that people usually do before launching a business, but like, I’m still learning, ok?!
I then started to sketch out a brand sheet. Asking myself, what do I want this to look like? What are my selling points? What is Socially Attractive by Beth‘s brand? What voice am I going to use? What’s the story I’m going to tell?
I started at a blank page for quite sometime. Attempting to create something that was a separate entity rather than a extension of myself.
I thought of why I started the business in the first place. How my clientele started to build. Where I noticed the demand and how I capitalized on it. Thinking but trying not to overthink.
I then started interviewing myself the same way that I interview my clients during a brand session.
How’d you get started?
Well, I landed my first client while pouring a Jack and Coke while wearing a guacamole-stained shirt, ripped jeans and a nose ring.
That was it. That was my story. That was literally the day that I decided to make a reality out something that I had been thinking of for so long.
So that would be the brand. Why work with me?
Work with me and you get professional services with a kickass personality behind it. I might have a guacamole stain on my shirt but I also have my shit together.
I started writing out adjectives on this brand sheet.
Creative, passionate, edgy, high-energy…
My hand started to cramp as I started to feel the right and left sides of my brain co-mingle in a beautiful, imperfectly perfect harmony.
So, yeah, I decided to go balls deep.
Fast foward about a month later and shits still all over the place. But like, in the best way.
I don’t mind the mess that surrounds me because it’s something that I created.
The hustle is stressful, but its equally as comforting to finally feel like I’m doing what I’ve known I’ve always dreamt of doing.
People see the good side of my life — aka what I put on social media. Through my blog, I try and be real with you guys and outline both the beautifully amazing and terribly horrible parts of my life.
As my business grows, I’m running into things that I don’t have the slightest clue of how to deal with. I thank Google, friends and even some exes who have helped me figure shit out, but it’s not easy.
One thing I noticed right away was that I had to be OK with working for free. Keeping the end goal in mind, but knowing that it’s going to take thousands of hours to get to the point I want to be at. I’m not even close. While I might not have office job, I’m still attending grad school and bartending ~30 hours a week to make ends meet.
I’ve run into some pitfalls and dead ends that I don’t know how to deal with quite yet. I have zero business experience and I’ve spent tons of time attempting to understand the jargon that comes with it.
I’ve learned that I’m not “above” any type of project that comes my way. A small non-profit with a tiny budget wants social media consulting? Ok. I’ll do it. And I’ll discount the price.
Why? I’m new at this. With every client leads to new opportunities and learning experiences. My niche is food, but I’ve also learned to not limit myself. To take on things that might scare me, but nonetheless things that I know I can create into something totally badass.
An example? I just landed a new client. He is restaurant owner that is developing an app on the side that he wants help marketing. I won’t go into TOO much detail. But basically, I have zero experience in app development and have no idea what any of that language even means. While the app is connected to the DC food industry, it’s still something that I initially viewed as a project that was much bigger than me.
We met and I was petrified. I did the research and came prepared, but still felt like I wasn’t going to impress him. He’s a hardcore business man. Running restaurants while developing apps and other ventures on the side.
I’m just a 24 year old with a 6 month old business.
I then went back to my brand sheet. He reached out to me for a reason.
I was myself and openly admitted that I had no experience in the software development field.
I reached out to you after reading your blog and look at your website. You’re a go-getter. I want to work with a hustler like myself.
I left that meeting with not one, but two more clients.
I’m not saying this shit to brag or put myself on a high horse. I’m telling you this because I think our generation is brilliant as fuck with skills that have never been seen before. With that, I also think that a lot of millennials see the good stuff and crave it but don’t want to go through the mud to get there.
On the outside, I’m a 24 year old entrepreneur who goes to Georgetown while running a small business. Oh, you fancy huh?
Step into my apartment and you’ll see half of the avocado that I forgot to put back in the fridge and a bunch of random shit stacked on my work desk wondering how the F I’m going to pay 40k in grad school loans in a couple of years. Open my inbox and you’ll see hundreds of pitch emails sent to businesses with a ~2% response rate. You’ll see Nora sitting there, scribbled with goals and ideas but also filled with pages soaked in tear stains and uncertain thoughts.
This post isn’t saying “hey, quit your job and dive right into the career of your dreams!” Who the fuck knows what that even looks like at this point in your life? If you do, congrats! Teach me your ways.
I guess I’m trying to put my story out there in the hopes that it might inspire people to do more things that they care about.
It doesn’t have to be a total career switch or some monumental “ah-ha!” moment, but all I’m trying to say is that things are possible – but the journey isn’t some bunny hill. It’s a double black diamond on a snowboard for the first time (speaking from real life experience).
If you want to see things happen, make hustling a habit and accept that life is not one perfectly ripe avocado. Sometimes, it can be the half that you leave out on the counter than quickly turns brown and gross. And that’s ok! Just try another damn avocado!
Do you ever read my shit and think like, wtf is she talking about? Because same.
I used to be so scared of sharing my blog on my LinkedIn and including it on my resume. Did I want people to see this side of me?
After going back and forth with it for some quite time, I decided it was time to stop being ashamed of who I was and start embracing every part of me that makes, well, me.
People want work with me because they see a real person behind it all. Do I show up to meetings in a green sports bra and undone hair? Of course not. But I also won’t put my Instagram on private out of fear that they will see that side of me.
What’s the point?
Own your personal brand and don’t apologize for it either.
People have asked me, “How do I get started?” I am by no means a model citizen when it comes to this, because I still don’t really know what I’m doing BUT you have to accept that it’s just a part of the process.
However, there won’t even be a process if you don’t take the leap. It doesn’t even have to be leap. Maybe you just wanna take a step. Or a hop. Or maybe just a peak over the edge.
Just know that you have the option. It’s there. You just have to act on it.
DC was never my idea of “paradise.” Fast forward 2.5 years later, and I’m not sure I’ll ever leave. This city has given me endless opportunities and a chance to grow something that I never even thought about creating.
I just had to take the leap.
About a month ago I wrote a blog about how I wasn’t ready to date.
A simple claim that I had recently come to grips with at the time. I received a lot of feedback from people who shared their stories with me. It was a roughly a 70/30 split between people who have experienced similar situations versus people who were encouraging me to put myself out there.
Someone will come around when you least expect it.
I semi-believe this but also believe that things sort of align with the place you are in your life. The right person might come along, but maybe you’re at a point where you’re setting for the wrong guys. Idk. It’s a process.
Dating in 2018. Have you tried it? It’s weird.
One moment I’m aggressively swiping through apps cramping my thumb from the abundance of leftward motions and the next moment I say fuck it and just hope Prince Charming will be sitting at my bar.
You’ve gotta kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.
If that’s the case, there’s an serious overpopulation problem. Like China except Toad Land. Kidding, sort of. I’m not bitter. I swear.
But yeah, it’s just so weird and complicated. Half of the time I blame myself and the other times I blame the toad pool. I don’t know who are the “right” people to date for me versus the totally wrong people. Or if there even is a right or wrong way of doing things. Ya feel me?
With each ending relationship, I learn something new about what I want and certainly what I don’t want — but will this just be an ongoing learning experience rather than actually finding the right right guy? On paper, I know who I want. Or, rather, who I should want. I’ve had a few instances with guys where I’ve mentally gone through the checklist and they are seemingly the perfect person for me.
Then I lose interest. Or they do. Whichever comes first.
And most of the time, I don’t know why. But I’m also at a point where I don’t really care. Like, I feel like I’ve sort of expected things to be doomed from the beginning which sounds so depressing, negative and pathetic but in my head it’s really not. It’s just simple statistics. And I don’t mind it.
I used to care a lot more about what men thought of me. I would meet a guy that I was remotely interested in and suddenly I’d start planning my future with him. You’re lying if you didn’t go through a similar phase. It was like every guy I made out had to be my boyfriend at some point or else I’d feel a pit of rejection in my stomach that wouldn’t go away until the next potential suitor came along.
Hey Beth, what are you doing tonight? GUYS OMFG HE TEXTED ME. PAUSE EVERYTHING YOU’RE DOING AND TELL ME WHAT TO REPLY. HOW LONG SHOULD I WAIT TO TEXT BACK? LIKE 8 MINUTES YOU THINK?
*48 seconds later*
Hey! Not much, just hanging with friends. And you?
It was as if waiting 8 minutes would make me seem less psycho and eager. I don’t know. It was college. Times were different, I guess.
Now, tbh I don’t really give a shit. I’ve sort of gotten over letting guys judge my “crazy-ness level — whatever that means these days. If I’m interested in someone, I talk to them. If they fail to put the effort in on their end, I lose interest pretty quickly. I don’t overthink a double text and I certainly don’t wait 27 minutes to text back if they took 21.
I take 18.
In a sense, I’ve made dating less complicated, but I also don’t think about it as much. Well, like, guys are quite often ~on the brain~, but so are the thousand of over things going in my life — things that are usually more important.
I’m busy and I need coffee, always. My ideal relationship would be with someone who is equally as busy but makes time to bring me coffee and call me pretty. But I’m also OK with doing those things on my own.
So, um, I guess I’m actively dating again. But it wasn’t because one day I was like Ya know what, Beth?! Pull your Tinder bootstraps up and get back on the dating train!!!
Tinder bootstraps? What?
It more just sorta happened? I stopped putting pressure on myself to move on and decided to just rise above what happened and be better. He’s not the reason why I wasn’t ready to date. It was me. I guess I started being open to new possibilities.
I’ve chosen to spend my time with people who are simply worth my time. If it turns into something more, great. But if not, that’s cool too.
Recently, a guy asked what I was looking for. Relationship-wise, of course.
At first I was sorta taken aback. Like, wooaaaah how dare you ask a super valid question before we go on our first date? I showed my friend, how am I supposed to answer this?
Um, idk Beth, maybe you just be honest? There’s a thought!
I told him I didn’t know. It sounded like a cop out answer, but I don’t really think I’m in a place where I want or should put a pretense on someone or something that may turn out to be just another toad in the toad pool. I’m not saying all toads are bad people, I’m justing saying that most toads won’t be the right toad for me.
How many times can I use this metaphor without exhausting it? The limit does not exist.
It would be a lie to tell him that I’m actively searching for a committed relationship but it would also be a lie to tell him I wasn’t. I just like, don’t know, ya know?
My last relationship made me second guess everything. I always felt like I was being too needy. Too emotional. Too psycho. Too everything. It was exhausting. I really hate that I keep talking about the same dude, but like, whatever man. Feeling all that shit sucked and I continue to learn more about how it impacted me. And I guess I can thank him for giving me some solid content to chat about with you guys.
Point is, I don’t want to second guess anything when it comes to relationships, platonic or romantic. Wishful thinking, I know. I just want things to, like, be. You know, just some dude who likes a gal enough to bring her coffee and call her pretty without being a shithead.
Sorry, that last part was aggressive. Just keepin’ it 💯!
Speaking of aggressive, I called a dude a jackass recently. Like, last night. We had been sorta on and off for quite some time and it wasn’t a complicated thing…until it was. Sure, I was a few vodka sodas deep and maybe I should’ve just let things go naturally. But also, it’s how I felt. Simply put.
I tried coming up with a nicer noun, but I guess that was the first thing that came to mind. Nobody’s perfect, and I’m sure there has been points in my life where I’ve acted like a jackass, but at this point in my life, I’m just kinda over the what is this? banter. Long story. Possibly might get into it at another time.
As humans, we naturally complicate things. We take a scenario and twist it into some convoluted mess that can’t really be explained to anybody not involved in the mess itself. Usually this doesn’t end so well, but we continue to do it anyways.
I’m about to sound soooo basic and soooo pathetically single and sorta aggressive. Ready for it? I simply just don’t have time for stupid shit. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
That’s not to say I won’t continue to deal with stupid shit, but hopefully it’s stupid shit that I can’t control. Ya feel me? I’m also not quite sure how I define “stupid shit” but I think we all know what constitutes as “stupid shit.”
Per usual, I don’t really know where this blog post was supposed to go. I guess it’s just refreshing to say that I’m at a point where I’m equally as comfortable dating as I am not. It’s refreshing to say that I can confidently call someone a jackass and not later label myself “crazy” for it. If it’s deserved, of course.
I used to think that if you were engulfed in the dating scene, it had to be a main focal point in your life. Like, you had to actively make it a part of your day to find the right toad.
I’ve been on 4-5 dates this past month with different guys. Sure, they took up the small amount of free time I had, but they were dates that I wanted to go on. Some were better than others, but there was no pressure to make it something more. No pretense that it had to be something more. Just two people who showed a genuine interest in each other and wanted to act on it.
The best part?
All Most of them didn’t turn out to be a convoluted, complicated mess! It’s great!
I’m not naïve and I won’t say relationships aren’t ever complicated, because they are. That’s just howwww the cookie crumbles. But, I suppose there’s a spectrum of complications and I’m just out here tryna fall on the right side of it while also trying to to avoid the spectrum entirely.
I have really cool stuff going on in my life — stuff that I am so damn proud of. It’s crazy to think how much I was holding myself back when I was with someone who took up literally all of who I was. I knew there something more out there for me, but I was so consumed in this “relationship” that I never acted on it. I don’t want to be at that point in my life again.
I don’t know the type of person I need to be with. I don’t where he is either, but he’s out there somewhere.
I can wait. Hopefully he can to.
While you’re waiting, FYI I usually drink hot coffee with almond milk. It’s an easy order to remember. You’re welcome.
This time was different.
The giant tower stood before me. “WELCOME, UMASS CLASS OF 2015” the banner read in bold crimson letters. 15th floor. Corner room. A lofted bed. My mother’s fight to hold back her tears. We had already unloaded my father’s truck of Rubbermaid plastic drawers, a $12.99 bright blue desk lamp from Target, over a hundred photos of my high school friends and a Jersey Shore poster. A new chapter.
My items were scattered around my living room. Socks and underwear tied in a plastic bag sitting next to my hiking boots and cork wedges. “I’m going to put your passport in this pocket,” my mom said. 2 large suitcases and a carry-on. A blank journal and a journey with unwritten adventures. Mom lifted her sunglasses from her eyes at the airport, “You know you have to come home at some point. Don’t fall in love and leave me for Cape Town forever.” Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Love you.
Blue and red flashing lights filled my rear-view. 3am. 5 more hours on the road. “Why are you on this level? Do you realize how dangerous this is? What is in the back of your van?” Um, a bed and some clothes. “Next time, don’t drive on the compact car level of the George Washington bridge when you’re a large U-Haul van.” Sorry, officer.
I looked to my right as my mom dozed back off. I peaked out the window and looked at the sky. Life as I knew it was currently packed away in black trash bags and a saran wrapped mattress in the back of a 10′ van driving atop a bridge we weren’t supposed to be on.
We reached our destination just as the sun started to rise. An unfamiliar territory painted with light pinks and oranges on the horizon and one too many Starbucks. My new life. My new life was…here. Here. Here for as long as I wanted it to be here.
I’ve grown accustomed to moving. “Home” has taken on a new meaning ever since my parents sold my childhood home. To me, home used to mean the tangible aspects of a house. The familiar stain on the carpet that mom could never seem to wash out. The seconds it took for the upstairs shower to warm up. The stack of DVDs collecting dust you promised your parents you’d watch all of the time. You know, the little things that could just be expected. They were just, well, there.
I recently left the place that I’ve called “home” in DC the past 2.5 years (has it really been that long?). I moved roughly a 6 minute walk away so you’re probably like why you gotta be so emotional???
I didn’t expect to be either.
The morning my application went through I was practically skipping around town. “I’m going to THRIVE in my own bachelorette pad!!!” I texted all of my friends. I had done the whole roommate thing for the past 6 or so years of my life and while I’ve lived with some of the best (and worst) girls of my life, I’m just at a point in my life where I’m just like, over it. Just ready to be on my own. Ya feel me?
The next thing I knew I was staring at my empty bedroom in Dorchester House fighting back unexpected tears. This was my home. But, like, not the kind of home I used to call home. The kind of home that I made for myself. This apartment has seen every facet of my life since I moved here — the best moments and the worst.
Empty pizza boxes, stained coffee mugs & a broken blind that never got fixed. New friends, random hookups & people who didn’t turn out to be who I wanted them to be. Stacks of training manuals from restaurant jobs and freelance contracts. Times of pure joy jumping on my bed in a sports bra and plaid pajama shorts following a grad school acceptance and times of tear-soaked pillow cases following a string of lies and vulnerability.
Late nights sitting cross-legged in my bed, candles lit with a journal and pen in hand. Early mornings of pinks and orange painted sunrises through my window. Afternoons of sitting at the dining room table hitting “submit application” hundreds of times.
It’s been a journey with a familiar narrative to some.
A young twenty-something attempting to navigate through messy twists and turns, trying to please everyone by making all the right choices yet not really knowing if the right choices for those other people are the right choices for yourself. Blissfully lost. Frustrated yet hopeful. Tired yet resilient.
Wordy, but familiar. Right?
My friend and I packed the UHaul van* last Thursday evening not knowing how much shit I actually had (isn’t that how it always works?) and drove approx 2 blocks to my new home (lolz). Two large iced coffess, one free pizza and many ‘OMFG my back hurts’ later, we finally finished the moving process at 2am. Did I mention how fabulous my friends are?
Shit was everywhere, the couch was in pieces scattered across my living room and my new kitchen was blocked by an influx of trash bags filled with more of my random shit. I knocked out on my bare mattress shortly after and rolled out of bed the next morning for work.
Welp, I was moved in. I had a new home and I don’t have a roommate. Weird.
*This was an extremely abridged version of what actually happened. The studio I thought I was moving into all month got ripped from under me the afternoon before Thanksgiving as I was on my way to drop off my signed lease and I didn’t find an alternative until 3 days before I had to be out of my old apartment. LOL LIFE MAN
One week later, my couch is assembled and the place is slowly coming together. I honestly haven’t had much time to be all ~zen~ and reflect on my new bachelorette pad, but I think that time will come when all of the trash bags of random shit are put in their proper places. For the time being, I’ve been praising the dishwasher and food disposal in my sink. I always told myself the day that I have those two things in my apartment is the day I know I’ve made it.
I’m excited to see what memories this place will bring. New friends & f*ckboys; empty pizza boxes & stained coffee mugs. The usual, but different.
Well, hopefully no f*ckboys this time around.
Cheers to new adventures! Thanks to everyone who have made the past 2.5 years in DC worth hanging around for. Y’all are invited to my Christmas/house warming party I accidentally planned the night before all of my final papers are due. #Blessed.
I feel like I give unsolicited advice all the time. Like, something will happen to me and I’m like YO THIS WORKED FOR ME ONE TIME THIS SHOULD BE ADDED TO THE CONSTITUTION OR SOMETHING. Most of the time I don’t really know what I’m talking about but I just go with it because I’m damn good at pretending.
So, I’m about to give some unsolicited advice again. Because, I can.
This post is for people who are like me: sorta broke (but ~woke~), sorta lost, and sorta hate using the term “adulting” because you seem to be so damn bad at it. Am I making enough money? Is this the right career move? When’s the last time I got my teeth cleaned? Sh*t rent was due yesterday. I’m broke, but wanna go to Sweetgreen? I only made out with that one dude last night, right? Why did I save a number in my phone as “Justin Tall Blue Shirt?” <—tru story
Grad school is about to begin so on paper, yes, I do have my shit together. But like, it still feels like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Ya feel me? It’s a weird age to be at. 24. Old enough to be considered a “young professional” but not quite old enough to know how the hell people afford a down payment on a home. Falling in between entry and mid-level positions. Might have 2 years of experience, but not 5+. Making decisions with the mindset that “nothing is permanent” yet wondering when you’ll be satisfied enough to make something permanent .
I’m in yet another transition phase. But I feel like I’m always in a goddamn transition phase!!! My life seems to be one big stupid transition!!
I sorta like it though tbh.
Currently, I’m in search for a job that is conducive to my grad school schedule and is the “best next step.” If you ask my mom, she’ll tell you my top priority is a job with benefits, PTO, and a 401k (love ya mom!), which is the “normal” thing to search for, right? Ideally, yes.
I’ll be honest. I’ve been totally rebelling against the “normal” shit to do since the moment I decided to pack my life and move away without a job. I think you already knew that though. The opportunities have been great and moving to this city has been by far the best decision I could’ve made for myself. But now, life is different.
I’m at yet another point where I have to make a big decision. However, my schedule is no longer ~go with the flow~. There’s class. There’s a big re-brand on my blog I promised myself I’d upkeep. There’s a freelance business I’m trying to launch. There’s graduate fellowships and 9-5s to apply to. There’s shit. A lot of shit.
When the hell are you going to stop talking about yourself and give your silly unsolicited advice?
Sorry, sorry. I tend to rant. Again, you prob already knew that though.
So, like I said, I’m back as a free agent in the job world. Unfortunately, I’m no #TB12 so I don’t have people lining up tryna get me on their team. Someday, Beth. Someday. Somehow, I have to make it seem like I’m #TB12 amongst a bunch of Peyton Mannings.
Being totally candid: I HATE COVER LETTERS. Like, ooooooomg do I detest them with a burning passion so deep I can practically feel the flames beneath my fingers as I type. Ok, dramatic. But really, I hate them.
I like writing fun shit. I like using profane words as I please and venting about my daily struggles to you beautiful people. I like wandering around the city, finding the next best coffee shop with overpriced cappuccinos, sitting my ass down in a chair close to an outlet and just writing. It’s what I’m good at.
Companies don’t care about my personal problems–shocker!! But, they also claim to want “personality.” They want cover letters, resumes, and LinkedIn profiles that not only prove that you are #TB12 amongst the Mannings, but also ones that provide a breath of fresh creativity and flair that distinguishes you from the rest.
Ok, so you worked at a marketing agency and ran a digital campaign. Cool. So did the next guy.
I filled out an application for a brand strategy firm works directly with healthcare initiatives and promotes wellness campaigns — sweet! One question was something along the lines of “Write about yourself in 250 words. What makes you unique? Make it interesting!” Ah, perfect.
Here’s what I wrote:
Hi, I’m Beth. Storyteller, content creator, blogger, and social media lover who lives vicariously through herself. Like every millennial, I love avocado toast, overpriced iced coffee, and Instagram Boomerangs. Unlike every millennial, I’m not afraid to vocalize my ideas, push creative boundaries and take risks.
I have a knack for connecting with people. When bartending, hearing people vent to me about their failed marriages and/or mid-life crises can be a bit much, but in the marketing field, this quality works out in my favor. I like talking to people, and they like talking to me, too.
I believe that we all have a unique story to tell. Combine my ability to take risks, tell stories, and connect with people is perhaps why my 20-year-old brain decided it would be a good idea to start a personal blog in college. Blog About It, a site that once started as a hobby has transformed into a compelling and distinct personal brand that people love to read. To be specific, a tribe of 3.5k people of from all ages, genders, and backgrounds with a consistent readership of over 10k views per month. The whole blog is about yours truly, but the stories still connect to thousands.
Like I said, I have a knack for connecting with people.
Omg stop bragging about yourself Beth. Shush. It’s my JOB to brag in this scenario. Tryna be #TB12 remember?
On top of this prompt, I still needed to submit a cover letter. UGGGGHHH. WHYYYY THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVVERRRR. Ok, sry. #firstworldproblems
We’ve been told time and time again that employers can tell when you send the same generic thing to everyone and just switch up the company name. Guilty as charged.
…but like, it makes it so much easier tho.
I have zero experience in the healthcare industry. Zero. One of the qualifications included having some sort of experience in this field. But I really want this job. Rather the an just writing it off as “WELP, they’re never gunna pick me so f this!!!!” I took a different route.
Let’s tug at the emotional heart strings, shall we?
After listing my qualifications, skills, accomplishments, experience, blah blah blah I added an additional paragraph at the end.
Healthcare was genuinely never a field I could see myself entering into. My health has always been in check, only heading to the doctor’s for routine check ups. November 2015 was when everything changed. After experiencing months of discomfort, I went to the doctor’s to try and find a solution to the pain I was experiencing. Immediately afterwards, I was quickly and unexpectedly diagnosed as a Type 1 Diabetic. Since then, my interest in pursuing a career in the healthcare industry has significantly increased. I aim to be an advocate and an active participant in the movement towards providing everyone with the healthcare they need.
This paragraph is entirely true. Since my diagnosis, I’ve been forced to develop an understanding about the healthcare industry and escape the ignorance towards it. Sorta like politics.
I may joke about not knowing shit about #adulting, but I do know a thing or two about how f’ed this healthcare industry has become. It only took a few “Oh shit I’m about to be out of medication and my insurance company failed to tell me that my plan no longer supports this brand of insulin so I’m about to be screwed,” type of scenarios for me to understand the complexity and annoying AF industry I’m forced to be a part of on the reg.
Point being, I found a way to connect with this potential employer. I was different in my approach in both writing prompts. I decided to ditch the “normal” boring stuff and hit ’em with some Blog About It type of shit (profanities and ex-boyfriends excluded).
In the past week, I’ve applied to about 20 jobs. With most, being honest, I took the lazy route and pulled the “Marketing Cover Letter” document from my Google Drive and switched up a few words. How many have gotten back to me?
One. That “one” was the company I just described.
Diabetes, you suck usually, but you may have landed me a job! Tysm!!!!
I feel like I always address the ~haters~ at the end of blog posts saying stuff like, “So, some of you will read this and think OMFG stop bragging Beth,” followed by a plea to read this from a different perspective. I’m not gunna do that today. Sry.
I won’t apologize for unsolicited advice that I’m not even sure works. Lol.
People may not seem to give a shit about your personal life, especially potential employers. But they do…to some extent. You are, hopefully, far more interesting than overused buzzwords and action verbs. When I started this blog I thought, “nobody’s gunna read this, they don’t care about my problems.” People are nosy AF. They do care. Well, most people.
Like I said in my writing prompt, we all have a unique and compelling story to tell. Sure, we all may be in this weird stage of existing as “young professionals-yet-totally-not-professional” but I think that there’s a lot to extract from that.
You can sorta broke and still be woke (Are you sick of me saying that? Because I’m totally not). You are marketable beyond the bullet points on your resume. Employers should know that. After all, they are hiring you and not the thesaurus you totally used to see how many ways you could say “created” or “developed.” I see you.
You don’t have to have diabetes or a blog (just lol’ed at this part of the sentence idk why) to tell a story. We all have our kinks and hobbies that aren’t “resume worthy” but still can be spun into making you the ~super profesh~ G.O.A.T that you are–or at least gives the illusion that you are. Nobody likes generic or boring…well I definitely don’t.
Ok, done giving my unsolicited advice. Good luck y’all. I’m about to text “Justin Tall Blue Shirt” and ask him on a date. Jk.
At times I wonder why I left.
I ask myself if “exploring” could mean a Southie apartment with friends or “taking a chance” has to mean uprooting the familiar and planting yourself in the unknown.