Declarations v. Resolutions, and How to Stop Being a Whiny B*tch

Key Words:

Declaration: the act of declaring; announcement

Resolution: the act of resolving, or determining upon an action, course of action, method, procedure, etc.

 

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.  Time for thousands of delusional people to declare resolutions that they’ll never follow through with but swear to god they mean it this time.  I hate resolutions.  They’re empty, cliché, shallow attempts at attention seeking.  And it’s all bullshit. 

 

But, it’s also a time for reflection, I’ll give you that.  Whether or not we even mean to, most of us look at the close of the present year with wistful contemplation.  What have I done over the past year to better myself as a person?  And what can I improve upon in the New Year?  What have I accomplished?  Why am I such a slacker?? 

 

I have spent most of the day yelling at cats.  They’re all acting like assholes today, I’m not even kidding.  Someone shit at the bottom of the stairs, two of them were fighting in the bathroom, one of them woke me up unbelievably early this morning, crying because her food dish was empty.  Is this what I see myself doing this time next year?  Fuck me, I hope not. 

 

I want to do more and be more, and worry less, and not be afraid of the unknown, and be unapologetically ME, without concern about what other people think.  I want to do something meaningful, and be a role model for others, and inspire others, and not be so god damn anxious all the time.  I want to travel and meet new people and make new friends.  I want to spend more time with the friends I already have and I want them to want to spend time with me.  I want to be healthier and worry less.  I want to engage in more random acts of kindness and less neuroticism. 

 

These aren’t “resolutions;” they’re more declarations.  I’m not really putting any of these ideas into action at this time, I’m just bitching about the things I want.  And that, my friends, is the problem with “resolutions.”  You’ve made an announcement, but not a call to action.  You can scream your desires at the top of your lungs all you want, but until you put your bitching into action, you’ll be no better off in 2017 than you were in 2016.  So, now that we’ve established that inaction makes you a whiny bitch, what are we going to do about it?  More specifically, what am I going to do about it?  I know what I want, I just need to develop a plan to make these things happen. 

 

First things first: I have got to stop worrying so damn much.  Letting go of worry, I think, is the first step in not giving a fuck, and that attitude will allow me to pursue all those other goals I spouted off earlier.  Want to meet new people?  Leave the fucking house.  Don’t fit in with your classmates?  Fuck ‘em.  Too much homework?  Stop procrastinating and start working.  Anxious?  Get up and move.  Don’t have any friends?  Pick up the mother fucking phone and text everyone in your contact list until someone who genuinely wants to spend time with you responds and you can go off and do epic things together.  Don’t wallow in your anxiety, don’t hide behind your depression, don’t allow yourself to remain stagnant.  Get up and do more.  [I apologize, dear readers, I am not yelling at you, I’m yelling at me.  Although, if you can relate to any of this, then go ahead and use this as motivation for yourself as well.]

 

If I spend the next year wishing that I had more, did more, was more, that doesn’t make me a better person; it makes me a narcissistic, whiny bitch.  This isn’t a time for wishing, it’s a time for doing.  And I invite every single one of you to call me out if I fail to follow through with my own call to action.  For real, point it out and tell me I’m being a hypocritical dick.  I need that kind of honesty in my life.

 

So Happy fucking New Year, friends.  Do epic shit.  And maybe invite me to do epic shit with you.  I promise you won’t regret it.

Snapshot

I don’t have any one good story to tell, to elaborate on and make jokes about.  This post is just about my life, which is itself a cruel, cruel joke.

******* 

 

~Last Thursday, I got a Facebook message and friend request from my sister’s ex boyfriend.  I won’t go into a ton of detail, but this guy is a paranoid, delusional psychopath.  He and my sister broke up a few years ago, and it wasn’t exactly amicably.  He and I didn’t get along and we certainly weren’t “friends.”  So why contact me now??  I ignored it.

 

Eventually though, my sister egged me on, and I messaged him back.  I assumed he needed or wanted something, so I asked.  He claimed to just be curious as to how I was doing.  More small talk was made, and eventually he ended the conversation, but not before sending me a video clip from a movie, of a guy hitting on a girl.  In the clip, the guy says, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, or, more to the point, to you, you let me know.”   Wait, what???

 

~I went on a coffee date Saturday afternoon.  I was a little nervous, because I was afraid this was going to be another situation where he’s more interested in me than me in him.  It was fine, he’s a likable guy, but a little bland.  I don't even have any funny stories from our encounter, which is really disappointing, because that's kind of the reason I agreed to meet him.  At this point, any "dates" I agree to are solely for gathering material for this blog.

 

After, I went to Scott’s family Thanksgiving get-together.  It was nice to see his mom, sister, and nephew.  But after a few hours, I felt weird about being there, so I made some lame excuse about having to leave.  Sometimes I feel weird about doing stuff with Scott, because I’m afraid it makes me look desperate or like a loser that my ex-boyfriend is one of my only friends, and I’m afraid his family pities me because I’m a lonely, friend-less old hag.

 

~Saturday night, my sister and I decided to make a French fry run to the bar.  Seriously.  We were foolish enough to believe that we would walk in, order ONE drink, get some fries, and go home.  Fast forward 5 drinks and 2 shots later, and I somehow managed to face plant while walking to my car.  Literally, one minute I was walking and the next, my face was scraping across the parking lot.  I caught my fall with my face.  And now I look like a monster. 

 

~Sunday, I spent most of the day crying because who falls on their face?  And how can I be so stupid?  And also because my face fucking hurt.  My eye was swollen shut and there was still gravel in my cheek, but it hurt too much to properly clean it up.  I felt embarrassed that I fell again (this has been happening a lot lately), and that I actually have to go out in public the next two days (for class), and I was going to have to explain to people that I fell on my face.  Fuck me.

The face of an idiot

 

 

~The Alcoholic called me Monday night.  He wanted me to come over, and was quite persistent about it, but I told him no, because I had homework to do [also I look like a monster and desperately need a shower].  He called again at 2:00 am and for whatever reason that time I thought it was a good idea to go over there.  He was wasted, and I helped him to bed.  He kept asking what was wrong with my face, and then proceeded to lecture me about drinking.  Yep, he lectured me.

 

I had to leave early on Tuesday, but told him to get a hold of me in the evening.  I wanted to see him again when I got out of class.  He had started drinking long before then.  By 9:30, he needed me to pick him up and take him home.  On the short walk from the bar to my car, he threatened to fight a cop and tried to start shit with three old men who were minding their own business.

 

At his house, he yelled about how much he hates his life, and that he used to be a professional athlete, did I know that?? (absolutely not true), and why was my face so fucked up?   "I might be drunk, but at least I never fucked up my face!" I couldn’t handle it, so I went home.  I told him to call me tomorrow, we can talk then.  He said, "I probably won't."

 

~Today, I’m trying to be productive, but waves of depression keep rolling in with everything I do.  Depression never really goes away, you know?  It just lays dormant for a while, long enough to allow you to believe that you’re going to be OK.  I’m trying to look for jobs, update my resume, figure out my financial aid, make a grocery list, but I’m just feeling overwhelmed and incompetent and lonely and all I want to do is cry.

 

This is all just one big pointless story.  A metaphor for my life.

What Kind of F*ckery is This?

I have like, 3 or 4 other blog posts I’m working on, but I felt it necessary to acknowledge the shit show of the century (in case you’ve been blissfully oblivious to the severity of the situation at hand, Donald Mother-Fucking Trump was elected president of the US last week, and the whole world is going mad).  Also, I spent most of post-election day naked in someone else’s bed, and that seemed post-worthy in and of itself.

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The 2016 presidential election is finally over.  No matter what your political standpoint, we’ve all been waiting for this day; for the fucking political campaign ads to stop, for the bickering, the arguing, the name-calling, the stupidity and the madness to end.  For some of us, however, it feels as though the madness has just begun: The United States of America has elected Donald Trump as president of the nation.  What in the actual fuck? 

 

Seriously though, what the fuck? 

 

I mean, WHAT. THE. FUCK.

 

I voted last week Tuesday, like any self-appreciating citizen would do.  And then I went to class, relieved that, for three hours, I would not be subject to any political posts on Facebook, that I would not have access to the polling data as it came through.  But it was still in the back of my mind, that, while discussing Professional Ethics in the Helping Professions, voting was still ongoing; some states were beginning to close their polls, and information about which candidate was leading in which state was trending.  But I didn’t want to think about it, even though it came up in conversation during break, and again at the end of class.  Luckily, I had solidified plans with a friend to grab drinks and could avoid the noise for a bit longer. 

 

However, while the company was brilliant and the drinks were fantastic, discussion of the election inevitably emerged, and it wasn’t looking good for us dirty liberals.  Eventually, three of the four girls I was with left, and I realized that I did not, under any circumstances, want to go home and sit there, watching the madness unfurl.  And while I love Scott, I was not in the mood to go home and have an intellectual conversation regarding the plight of the nation.  No, this night was meant for drinking. 

 

As we were leaving the bar, I told the friend I was with that I wasn’t ready to go home, that I wasn’t ready to face reality.  She would have stayed to hang out, but had to get up early and take on real responsibility, like most folks do.  “I need friends in the restaurant industry, who stay out late and don’t have to get up early!”  Then I mentioned the Alcoholic, and that maybe I could message him.  She encouraged me to do so, and I did.  Shit. This is the sort of logic that can only come from a couple of strong Manhattans. 

 

He invited me over, so I picked up a couple of bottles of wine and headed to his place.  He was drunk as shit and high as a kite when I got there, but despite that, it was good to see him.  I hadn’t seen him since we broke up back in April, and hadn’t even talked to him in several months, so we had a lot to catch up on.  He told me the same story five times in my first 20 minutes there ("Did you know I went to San Francisco?  You were supposed to come with me.").  Still, I liked the comfort of being with someone familiar.  Standing in his kitchen (well, I was standing, he was wavering), he smiled and said it was good to see me.  Then burst out with, “God DAMN, you’re sexy!”    

He never asked why I had contacted him, he just went with it.  Probably he was just as lonely as I, and savored being in the company of someone who gave a shit.  He mostly talked about himself, but I didn’t care.  He bugged me to pull up the election stats, and at that point (maybe 12:00, 1:00 in the morning) it was really not looking good.  We were both rooting for Hillary, for better or for worse. He kept demanding that I refresh the page, like somehow that was going to change the reality of the situation. 

 

Despite the political talk, and his drunkenness, we managed to reignite our spark.  I know he was inebriated, and probably would have fucked anything that walked into his apartment, but I was flattered that he was still attracted to me.  He could barely stand up straight, but kissed me and told me I was beautiful and that he had missed me.  And I fell for it.  What can I say?  I’m a hopeless sap.  We drank a bottle and a half of the wine and eventually made it to bed. 

 

And then I woke up Wednesday morning, to a text from a friend that simply said “No.”  The Alcoholic woke up also, and demanded that I check the news.  There it was: Trump won- his big, fat, ugly, smug face taunting me as I read the headline.  I was in shock, disbelief that this was real life.  The Alcoholic kept yelling “Fuck!” and we both just looked at each other, helpless and hopeless and pissed right the fuck off.  How???  Why?  How???  We were both upset, but what could we do?   Instead of accepting reality, we went back to sleep.  And then fucked.  And drank more wine.  And fucked again.  And avoided dealing with the world, or any real responsibility, until he had to work at 5:00. 

 

After dropping him off at work, I drove home to clean up and then ran to the store to buy groceries.  Cooking puts me in my “happy place,” so I intended to lose myself in my own culinary bliss for the evening.  I still hadn’t processed anything- the election results, hooking up with the Alcoholic.  I couldn’t.  Nothing made sense at this point. 

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So now, for the past week, I’ve been trying to piece things together.  Every day, the news is more and more grim; learning about all of the hate-fueled aggressions being acted out across the country, and hearing that Trump intends to fill his office with some of the most despicable human beings in the country have left me in a perpetual state of despair.  I want to do something to change what is happening in the world around me, but I don’t know what to do and I don’t know where to start.  I had thought that, once the election was over, we could go back to being a country of civilized individuals and come together, as a nation, to repair the damage done over the past few months.  But instead, I fear for everyone I love; for my parents, who may not get the opportunity to enjoy their retirement; for my lesbian, black, disabled friends, that they’re being bullied, now that hate has become the norm; for my sister and other empathizers who have been feeling completely and utterly broken for the past 10 days.

 

On top of all of this, I’m dealing with my own personal issues regarding the Alcoholic.  Over the past year, he crossed my mind frequently, and several times I had contemplated texting him just to see what’s up.  But I always stopped myself from doing so, because that would just be plain dumb.  I don’t need him or his drama or his drunkenness in my life.  But… maybe I WANT it!  I didn’t really realize how much I missed him until he was standing (or wobbling) in front of me.  Spending the day with him last week, it was comfortable to talk with him, kiss him, call him “baby” like I did when we were together.  I never said that I wanted to get back together with him- in fact, it really wasn't discussed.  When he was drunk, he told me that he didn’t want to rush into anything, but then when he was sober, he asked if I was going to marry him and have his brown babies.  So… I got nothing.  But good god, he’s gorgeous.  And lost.  And you know how I’m a sucker for the broken ones.

 

Ultimately, I’m looking for someone who just gets me.  Maybe that’s the Alcoholic, maybe it’s not.  But there’s some kind of connection there, I can’t deny.  And the fact that he was there with me to experience the shock and horror of the election results makes me feel like we have even more of a bond.  The significant people in my life (my sister and Scott) have told me to forget about him, that it was a booty call and nothing else.  While my head agrees, my emotions tell me otherwise.  However, while we’ve texted here and there, I haven’t seen him since last Wednesday.  So maybe it worked itself out and I’m fretting over a non-issue.

 

Regarding the fate of the country, I’m trying to keep a sort of naïve optimism about the whole situation.  It’s like we’ve been given a medical diagnosis:  “The bad news: it’s cancer.  The good news: it’s treatable, and will likely be gone in four years.”  But the initial shock, I have cancer, is distressing.  And the “healing” process is going to be slow and painful, and we’re going to all have to pitch in and medicate ourselves with kindness, uplift one another, and support the good guys, and peacefully protest the bad guys, and donate money and time to causes that are dear to us, and love one another because we all deserve to be treated with compassion. 

 

You guys, the bottom line is, we’re not going to die.  That’s one thing I feel pretty confident about.

 

 

 

Want to hear a joke? I’m suffering from depression. Ha!

In the past two weeks, I have quit my job; moved into a new place; neglected the majority of my homework; spent hours lying in bed, spewing negative self-talk and convincing myself that I’m worthless; cried more times than I can count; called my mother and lied to her about being OK and convinced her that she doesn’t need to worry about me; and contemplated who I should tell first that I’m suffering from a crippling depression and that I need help.

 

It’s been a long time coming.  I could see it a mile away, but couldn’t prevent it from settling in.  It’s like when you know you’re getting sick, and it starts with a tickle in your throat.  You’re like, “Aw shit, I know what this is.  Nope, not gonna let it happen.  I will prevent myself from getting sick through sheer will power!”  And so you do nothing.  But then the tickle turns into a cough, and the cough gets phlegmy and gross, and now you’ve got snot running down your face, and your nose is raw from blowing it, and you’re fatigued, and you want your mom, and you kind of just want to die because you’re so miserable.  Yep, that’s exactly how it is, minus the germy secretions.

 

Depression made me quit my job.

It’s all at once empowering and terrifying.  [The depression gives it a fun twist.]

“I can do anything!!!  I’m a strong, independent woman, and I can do anything I set my mind to!  I am the creator of my own destiny!!!”

“I can’t do anything.  I suck at everything.  I can’t do any of the things.  I suck at life.”

The decision to quit my job was not an easy one, as there was no right or wrong answer; it was more a matter of weighing the risks and benefits.  On the one hand, I have freedom from the stress of my job that had resulted in a desperate lack of self-care.  I worried constantly that I was going to get written up or fired at any given moment, and as a result, I suffered physical ailments from work-related stress.  Leaving my job allows me the opportunity to put myself first- to develop an exercise routine, to seek counseling without worrying about having to fight for a day off to make an appointment, to dedicate more time to the activities I love and that bring such satisfaction to me (writing, cooking, finger painting…). 

On the other hand, I’m losing my biggest network of supporters.  I’m losing the joy I get from working with my kiddos on a daily basis.  And of course, I’m forfeiting my sole source of income.  My kids will never know how much I’m going to miss them, or how big of an impact each has made on my life.  I’m going to miss all of their sweet faces, their personalities, quirks, and behaviors.  I’m going to miss the snuggles, the laughs, the songs, and the dance parties.  I’m going to miss this outlet for my need to nurture. 

 

I left this job with the hope that the next job will be just as fulfilling, without the toxicity of my relationship with the current management.  But what if the next job isn’t fulfilling?  What if I have sacrificed this amazing network of supporters for nothing?  Worse yet, what if my friends forget about me when I’m gone?  Sure, we say that we’ll keep in touch, but when the one thing we had in common- our job, and all the joy and pain that comes with it- is no longer a shared activity, will they really think of me when I’m not around?  I have a fear of being forgotten…

Had I been in a more stable mindset, I may not have decided to quit my job.  I would have stuck it out, for better or for worse, until I found the next best thing.  But getting up in the morning had become more than just a chore, it was very nearly physically impossible some days, to the point that I was tardy to work twice in the last month.  I Just. Couldn’t. Do. It. 

And now, thanks to my disheveled mental state, I don’t even have the energy to engage in any of the self-care I had intended to begin once my employment ended.  I have no energy, no motivation.  I just want to sleep and forget about everyone and everything…

 

Depression has me convinced I have no purpose.

 

I’m battling social anxiety.  Me, the girl who never shuts up, suddenly can’t think of anything to say.  Striking up conversation, even with people I know well, has become an insurmountable feat.  The last few social events I attended recently (including my own going-away party, hosted by my coworkers), I felt so out of place.  Someone could be mid-conversation with me, but I would feel overwhelmed with anxiety and convinced that no one actually wanted to talk to me, so I would just sit there, spacing out, not listening, not talking, not smiling, just… nothing.

It has immobilized me.  I can’t do anything, I can’t muster up the energy to read the assignment for class, or take my homework out of the folder to work on it, or shower, or even pick what music I want to listen to.  I just sit, thinking, not moving, wishing I could just give up on everything with no consequences.  Because nothing seems like it even matters right now.  Who cares if I don’t do my homework?  What if I just drop out of school?  I’ll probably suck as a counselor anyway, why bother getting my degree?  Why shower?  No one likes me anyway, what difference does it make if I’m a smelly, disgusting mess?  All the more reason for people to avoid me.  Who cares what music I listen to?  It’s all shit that’s probably going to make me cry anyway.  I might as well listen to whales fucking in the ocean.

I hit a pretty low point last weekend, while moving into Scott’s house.  I was filled with negative emotions about the move anyway, and I started to feel resentful that none of my friends (besides Scott, of course) had even bothered to offer to help me move.  I decided that it was because everybody hates me and I have no friends.  Of course, that’s the only logical explanation.  When you’re a big, fat, stupid loser, people don’t want to associate with you, and they sure as shit don’t want to help you move all of your crap.

My thoughts transitioned from “I have no friends” to “Why do I exist?  No one wants me here anyway.”  The demonic voice of reason in my head, like a fucked up Jiminey Cricket, convinced me that I am nothing but a burden, on Scott, on my family, on every person I ever come in contact with.  Nobody likes you, why should they?  You are completely worthless.  You don’t do anything right, you make terrible life choices, you suck at life.  The world would be a better place without you, so do everybody a favor and fuck off, will ya?

When my sister finally showed up to help me move, I was deep in the throes of self-loathing.  I sat on the bedroom floor, surrounded by garbage bags filled with my belongings, sobbing uncontrollably.  I don’t want to exist any more.  I have repeated that statement in my mind more times than I can imagine, but this was the first time I said it out loud.  My sister asked if I wanted to kill myself.  Fuck no, woman, are you high??  I don’t have the energy for that and I wouldn’t know how and it would probably hurt; I can only tolerate pain when it’s delivered by a tattoo gun.  (And the occasional, sexually-charged hair pull.)  No, I don’t want to kill myself; I just don’t want to be here anymore.  I’m exhausted from feeling every emotion, every day.  I’m tired.  I’m ready to be done.

But I keep getting up, every day, because I don’t have any other choice.  I hide my depression as best I can, and stifle my sobs so the roomies don’t hear me.  I lie to everyone about feeling well, and enjoying school, and looking for a new job.  I’m barely getting by but goddammit, I’m getting by.  I still exist, for better or for worse.  It’s scary and painful to admit that I’m sad and broken and dark and lost and exhausted and lonely and hurting and so very, very tired, but I just did it.  And I finally called to make a counseling appointment.  So there’s that.

 

 

The Ex-Boyfriend-Turned-Best-Friend

In December, 2005, I was engaged to be married.

[Spoilers: I did not actually marry this person.]

At that time, I was living in Muskegon, but teaching medical massage therapy in Grand Rapids.  Scott and I started carpooling that fall, because we’re environmentally friendly like that.  Although he had more experience, was a more skilled therapist and instructor, and really just better than me at basically everything, Scott was my teacher’s assistant for this class.  I didn’t know much about him before we started teaching together.  Our first carpool experience was complete hell for me.  It was early, like 7:00 am or some shit like that.  I hadn’t yet finished my first cup of coffee.  I was hung-over (I was always hung-over back then).  He was listening to NPR (and trying to carry on a conversation with me about it).  He was driving like 68 MPH.  I couldn’t smoke a cigarette.  The whole thing was awful.

Regardless, we eventually hit it off.  He was fun to teach with (and good to look at), and he thought I was hilarious, so BAM, we became friends.  I was set to be married in September 2006, but that guy and I broke up around May.  Scott was great, listening to my complaints about the now ex-fiancé, taking me out for coffee and taking me on walks.  (Not like I’m a dog, but, you know what I mean.)  I’m not quite sure what happened, but in the course of about a week, I went from looking at Scott as a co-worker and friend, to boyfriend potential.  He had everything going for him: smart, compassionate, caring, talented, handsome.  I fought it for a while, thinking that getting out of a 5-year relationship and jumping into a new one right away was a bad idea, but eventually we started dating.

And continued, for 6 years.  Now, if my life were a movie, I could tell you that we were madly in love and eventually moved in together and got married and lived happily ever after.  But of course that’s not true, otherwise why would I have this blog??

The relationship was great, though.  Mostly.  Sure there were highs and lows, but overall he was the closest person I had ever considered a soul mate (not that I believe in that nonsense).  We went on adventures together, we loved and respected each other, we loved each other’s families, and we shared similar ethics, morals, and ideals.   So it’s no surprise that, when the relationship finally came to an end, it wasn’t because there was some big blow up or one of us cheated on the other [Truth: He doesn’t know I ever cheated on him.  But it did happen, more than once.  I am not proud.].  I had moved away to go back to school, and we simply just grew apart.  Our lives were moving in different directions, at different speeds.  But this is also why, today, I can say he’s my best friend.

Sure, after the break up (even though it was all my doing), I was in pretty rough shape.  I missed our songs and inside jokes, the closeness of sleeping with someone you love, sharing stupid stories of things that happened throughout the day, having someone in your life who just gets you, is invested in you, wants to know what you’re thinking and feeling.  But after about a year of healing and growth, we were able to connect as friends.  And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

Not everyone gets our friendship, though.  His now ex-girlfriend hated that we were friends, and all but forbid him from spending time with me (and continues to, because she’s a dumb cunt).  She was jealous that we had a “past,” and was convinced we were going to get back together.  Sorry bitch, but you’re younger, cuter, and fitter than me.  Any of your jealousy is a direct result of your own insecurity.  I am not a threat.  (Also, she was really awful to him during their break-up, thus, being overly protective of him, I hate her even more for toying with his emotions.)

Most people assume that we’re going to get back together.  Why else would a boy and a girl spend so much time together???  It couldn’t possibly be that they love, respect, and appreciate each other as friends…

Even my own mother, bless her sweet heart, doesn’t get it.  I had told her, months ago, that I had invited Scott and the alcoholic to my birthday weekend (the alcoholic and I broke up long before my birthday, but regardless…) and she said, “Oh Deanna, no!  You can’t invite them both!”

So anyhow, now we’ve been broken up for about 4 years.  And I’m in a sticky position that I need a place to live come October, but my options are limited.  My roommate had his mind set on buying a house this year, and his dream is coming true.  He put an offer on a house, they accepted, and he may close on the house by the end of September.  And, despite having agreed to remain roommates when he found a house, he has decided he doesn’t want me to move in with him.  So now my best plan of action is to move in with Scott (he bought a house in GR while we were dating and now has lived here maybe 5 years).  My ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend.  A dude I dated for 6 years but never lived with.  THIS IS MY LIFE.  So many minds will be blown when I actually move in with him.  Lord help us that we don’t murder one another…

I’m actually looking forward to living with Scott, if I really think about it.  He’s a fantastic human being, one of my favorites, and we really do work well together.  This living situation is (hopefully) temporary, so it’s already been decided that most of my stuff will stay packed up in storage (kitchen things that he already has, and whatnot).  But the other day, he brought up groceries and was like, “We could save so much money if we just go in on groceries together.”  And also, “We’re going to have the best food at our house!  We can take turns cooking dinner and sharing food!”  I hadn’t thought of that but yeah, that’s cool.  We can go grocery shopping together and cook together, like a couple.  Except that we’re not.

I find myself doing things with him that I would normally do with a significant other, if I had one.  We cook together, go out for ice cream, go on walks, discuss daily trials and concerns, goals and aspirations.  If a concert or show or whatever is coming up that one of us wants to go to, we ask the other to come with.  If there’s an event around town that one of us wants to check out, we ask the other first before anybody else, because we already know that we will have fun together.  Besides, we have countless shared interests, chances are we both want to go. 

 

***********

 

I recently went to a wedding out of town, and had about a 2-hour drive each way.  Driving home after the event, I grabbed a random CD out of the case in my car.  Most of the discs in there are compilations Scott made for me while we were together.  The CD I grabbed was a mellow mix of singer-songwriter type artists, like what you would hear on a coffee-shop radio station: Imogen Heap, Sun Kil Moon, Ray LaMontagne.  Some of these songs I hadn't listened to in years.  The music made me feel nostalgic for the days when Scott and I were together, how happy we were in the first half of our relationship.  Then, “Paperweight” by Joshua Radin comes on, and immediately I’m taken back to 2007.  Many weekends were devoted to one another, days spent lying in bed naked, talking and listening to music, sleeping and making love.  While I relished the memories, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness, of loss, of despair that I will never again experience that kind of connectedness with another person. 

I called him a few days later, to see how his week was going, because I've come to realize that he always reaches out to me first.  [I’m kind of self-absorbed like that, and I apologize to each and every one of you for not reaching out to you first more often.]  Anyway, near the end of our 40-minute conversation, he says, “I meant to text you earlier to see how school was going, and if you needed me to cook for you.”  Does it get any sweeter than that???  It’s this kind of thoughtfulness and caring that I’m looking for from another person.  But not Scott, I can’t bring myself to want that from Scott.  He’s my friend, and that’s it.  Totally platonic.  But why can’t I find a guy like Scott???

BUT… what if…  What if he is my most perfect person?  What if I actually have found my soul mate, and I’m just being stubborn?  No, that’s not right.  Scott can’t be my most perfect person.  While he’s a fabulous human being, he lacks a lot of things I’m looking for.  And, let’s get serious: I look back on our relationship fondly, but it was far from perfect.  There were the ultimatums he gave, about my smoking, my drinking, my lack of fitness, etc.  He made light of the issues in my life that concerned me, that brought stress and anxiety.  He all but told me I was wrong for the emotions I was experiencing when I was depressed and lost and poorer than I had ever been in my life.  I spent the last couple years of our relationship pretending to be someone I was not when I was around him, which made me want to spend less and less time with him.  Finally, the holidays came around, and I can remember sitting with my sister in her house, saying that I would rather not celebrate Christmas with him than pretend to be someone I wasn’t.  That’s not perfect love.

I found myself reflecting on these myriad emotions for several days.  I wanted to be sure that I was sure that my emotions weren’t attached to feelings for Scott.  My god, this definitely needs to be sorted out before moving in with him!  But I reflected, and wrote about it, and listened to more of “our” songs, and allowed myself to cry, to feel every emotion that came to me.  The result: I am desperately lonely and have a strong desire to be in a meaningful romantic relationship, but attempting another relationship with Scott would absolutely not fulfill my needs.

It’s at this point that I have to remind myself that love is a choice.  Sure, chemistry is a real thing, that feeling of being truly “connected” with another person.  But love, in itself, is a collection of behaviors that, for the most part, we have complete control of.  While I love Scott, I am not in love with him, and I don’t act on those behaviors related to romance or passionate love.  I don’t feel inclined to.  I don’t want to.  He doesn’t want it, either. 

So, yeah, that’s the state of affairs these days.  As unconventional as it is, I am completely comfortable with the fact that Scott and I will be playing house in the near future.  I get the benefit of sharing a living space with someone whose company I enjoy, who takes pride in nurturing me and providing me with food and a room to stay and a place to park my car, and who also appreciates my company and badass cooking skills.  I am not moving in with my ex; I’m moving in with my best friend.

[Totally platonic.]

Weekend at Nudist Resort

Two weeks ago, I spent the weekend with the Dude, camping at a nude resort, because why not?  I hadn’t done anything crazy and spontaneous in a while, this was the perfect opportunity.  YOLO!!!

I got out of work early on Friday, rushed home to finish packing for the weekend, and waited for the Dude so we could begin our weekend excursion together.  We drove separate, because I didn’t know how late he was going to stay on Sunday and I just kind of wanted the freedom to leave when I was ready (let’s get serious: there is such a thing as too much togetherness with the Dude).  Our journey to the resort was a little rocky; he was a maniac to follow, and we ran into traffic and construction on the highway, but we finally made it to the resort around 6:00 pm. 

I had been super nervous at home, waiting for the Dude to show up.  My main concerns were: 1.) Not knowing the nature of my relationship with the Dude, if he had invited me there as his significant other, or just as a friend; and 2.) Not knowing when “naked time” officially began.  Would he give me a sign or signal when it was time to get undressed?  Or would I just know?  It would be a real shame to get naked too early or too late.  The whole drive there, however, I felt a strange calmness about the situation.  I decided not to worry about anything this weekend, just relax and have fun.   

We parked at the Welcome Center to check in.  When we got out of our cars, the Dude gave me a big smile and said, “Well, this is it!  Just a heads up, there could be naked people around any corner.”  I wasn’t apprehensive at all, just anxious to get settled in and see what this place was all about.  At the front desk, I was asked if I had stayed there before, and upon learning I had not, the receptionist tells me that “Ed” would come by to give me a mandatory “first time” tour of the facilities.  [Side note: everyone in the welcome center was fully clothed.]  We settled our matters there and prepared to drive to the campsite when the receptionist announced, “Well there’s Ed right there.”  I really shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was a little taken aback to turn and see a very portly man in his fifties, balding with little tufts of white hair, and butt ass naked except for some beat up sneakers, standing behind me.

He followed us to our site, and I hopped into his golf cart to get my official tour.  The place was beautiful, albeit not exactly what one would picture upon hearing the word resort.  There were cabins that people live in as retirement homes, a “rustic” camping area in some woods, a clubhouse with an indoor pool and hot tub, an outdoor “conversation pool” with a tiki bar, a small mini golf course, volleyball nets (on grass, not sand), and probably a lot of other things that I’m forgetting right now.  As we were touring the facilities, most of the people we drove past were nude, but not all of them.  Everyone waved and said hi, people here are very friendly and I’m sure clearly know that I’m a newbie, as I’m riding in a golf cart, fully clothed, with Ed.

He dropped me back off at the campsite, and the Dude and I proceeded to set up camp; well, he did, I just watched since he declined all of my offers to help.  I was introduced to the couple we were sharing the lot with, S and E.  S approached me and was very sweet and welcoming (and nude).  She was beautiful; a woman in her 40s, with a lovely smile, unbelievably perky breasts for her age, and a nicely shaped butt (of course I looked!).  Her husband, E, was not nude, but still warm and friendly, and I immediately felt at home.

After we were all set up, the Dude asked if I wanted to go shower and freshen up.  We were both sweaty and gross, and I figured this was the time I was supposed to get naked, so I agreed.  I was expecting him to make the call; when the Dude got nude, I would too.  However, after we rinsed off, he put his clothes back on.  Following his lead, I did the same, but decided not to put my bra back on, because fuck that shit.  We went to a bonfire that night with his volleyball friends, and it was great.  A couple of friends were nude, but it had started to cool off, so most people had at least a shirt on.  We drank and conversed and eventually went to bed. 

The next morning, the Dude started to get some breakfast ready while I munched on granola.  He again asked if I wanted to hit up the showers to freshen up and so we went.  This time I decided it must officially be naked time.  If not now, when?  So I came out of the bathroom, carrying my bag and my towel [one big rule here: you MUST have your towel with you at all times (like a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: Nude edition); you are not to sit your bare bottom anywhere, for your safety and the safety of others.], completely naked except for my flip flops.  When the Dude saw me, he gave me a smile, as though he were pleased with my decision, even though he was still dressed.  I proceeded to spend the rest of the day naked, except for a couple of times when it got chilly and I put on a cardigan for comfort.

How liberating it is to walk around naked, without fear of judgment or criticism!  I wasn’t uneasy or self-conscious at all.  Freedom from clothing was empowering!  I know I’m not in the best shape, but I didn’t let that bother me.  Most of the people there were older than me, also overweight, but happy.  Never once did I feel the need to suck in, or cover my fat rolls when I was sitting, or check my reflection to see if my outfit makes me look fat.  I was completely comfortable in my own skin, perhaps for the first time ever in my life.  Not once did I think people were ogling me or judging me, no one made lewd comments or gestures.

A couple of observations I made:  Not many people had tattoos.  [I wonder if that’s something in the nudist community, that covering yourself in ink and images is covering one’s true self.  I think I’ll research that.]  Also, a LOT of people lacked tan lines.  These folks are naked ALL of the time!  I love it!  Also also, I never knew testicles came in so many shapes and sizes.  I’m pretty sure I beheld some of the largest, saggiest balls on the planet, no lie. 

Another point of interest: this is a family resort, so there were teenagers, children, and babies.  Now, the kids were dressed for the most part, except in the pool area, where it was mandatory to be nude.  But this didn’t seem weird to me.  Why shouldn’t kids grow up thinking that nakedness is acceptable?  It’s no wonder that kids growing up in this environment tend to have fewer body image issues.  They’re being taught at a young age, from an entire community, that every body is good enough.  One couple had a baby who drew much attention from old, fat, naked men and women.  And no one was fazed by this, because there is nothing wrong with being naked.  Now, I’m not ignoring the fact that there are times when nudity is inappropriate, but the reality is, we as a society have made nakedness “naughty.”  This is the same thinking that drives people to shame breastfeeding mothers; breasts aren’t “naughty,” but we’ve made them so in our overly sensitive culture. 

 

******

So, there are really two parts to this story: the socio-cultural aspect of nudity (read above); and the relationship between two people (me and the Dude, duh).  I asked him Friday night why he had invited me there.  He said he thought I would appreciate the self-awareness and self-acceptance of it all.  Fair answer; I really did.  I appreciated that he knew I would benefit from a nude getaway.  I was curious though if he had also invited me because he wanted me there.  I asked him if he invited other women there, thinking that maybe I was special.  But he had brought former girlfriends, other friends there before.  My presence wasn’t unique. 

It was still unclear what my status with the Dude was.  He introduced me to everyone as his ‘friend,’ but to be honest, I was hoping for more.  I was glad, then, that we had plenty of time to chat on Saturday while it rained (an untimely thunderstorm delayed the volleyball tournament, but allowed us a couple of hours to chat), and in the evening as we sat outside of the tent, drinking wine and letting thoughts roll off our tongues.  Our conversation covered broad topics, such as my upcoming grad program, work, the future.  While he appeared engaged and contributed to the conversation, we didn’t quite see eye to eye.  I went on about how I’m a “helper,” and that’s how I decided on the grad program and career path I’m diving into; he responded with advice about not giving too much of myself, because people don’t deserve it, and I need to focus on myself and not worry about other people so much.  That was disappointing.  I felt like, instead of valuing what I deem to be some of my most admirable qualities, he considered those qualities faults.

I eventually mustered the courage to ask him why he stopped talking to me two years ago, when we were seeing each other regularly and I was so into him.  All he could tell me was, “I don’t know.”   I admitted that I was pretty hurt by his rejection, in large part because he was a deciding factor in my move back to Muskegon.  He said he had no idea, and laughed, like I just revealed myself as a foolish little girl.

Sunday morning proved to be the most telling, however.  He snapped at me, for the first time ever, about something really stupid.  He had asked me if I knew where his keys were, I said no and got up to help him look, giving suggestions as to where they might be.  He snapped, “Dammit, Deanna, I’m an adult, I can handle this myself.”  I was caught off guard; I’ve never seen him angry before.  Not knowing how else to respond, I sat back down on my chair in front of the tent and feigned listening to his friends converse about nothing I had interest in.  I sat and stewed.  The more I thought about it, the more upset I was over him yelling at me.  Plus, I was starting to get some pretty severe menstrual cramps and I was hung-over and generally feeling crappy, so I decided it was probably time for me to go.  I walked over to where he was packing up the cooking supplies, and apologized for annoying him earlier.  He confessed that he was mad because, by trying to help him find his keys, I was implying that he was incapable of doing it himself.  [Oh my fucking god, really?]  He rambled on about trying to be more independent [you’re 47 years old; you’re just now working on this??], and that my “help” was belittling.  I again apologized and explained that I wasn’t implying anything, but I’m a helper, remember?  We discussed this last night.  “Also, I didn’t realize that’s what was upsetting you.  Next time you need to use your words.”   [If he’s going to act like a child, I’m going to talk to him like a child.]

At this point, I’ve clearly reached the conclusion that there will never be a relationship with the Dude.  We’re both entirely too stubborn, and while there is a faint chemistry, there’s no real connection.  And I certainly deserve more than to be with someone who doesn’t value and appreciate who I am as a person.  Simply put, I’m not willing to settle.

Despite the letdown from the Dude, I’m grateful for the experience.  This is a way of life and let me just tell you now, I am all for it.  Getting dressed to head out Sunday morning was so disappointing.  Clothing is such a nuisance!  I did not put a bra on, because fuck that shit.  As I was driving away, I wondered if the people on the road with me suspected where I was coming from.  I stopped at a gas station to get something to drink, and pondered whether the cashier knew where I had spent my weekend.  Honestly, I don’t care.  Going into the weekend, I was hesitant to tell people what my plans were.  But now, I’m happy to say I spent the weekend at a nudist resort, and I’m looking forward to going back, as soon as possible (not with the Dude).  This whole clothes-wearing business is a real downer.

 

 

 

 

 

The Dude

So after I finished my blog post about the Enigma a few weeks ago, I was feeling really bummed out.  My self-worth was wavering and I needed to feel wanted.  The obvious cure for that is casual sex.   You know, just get a hold of someone you already know wants to bang you; that way, you know you won't get shot down.  That night, The Dude was that guy.

The Dude.  Where do I even begin???  I’ve known him for years, hard to say exactly how many.  He was always just a guy at the bar, someone I would chat with, but nothing more.  Then two years ago, I don’t know, something just clicked.  I was living in Kalamazoo at the time, he in Muskegon.  The first time we slept together was nothing remarkable, so I don’t have a fond memory of it (or any memory, for that matter).  It just happened, and we proceeded to spend the majority of the summer together.  I was making frequent trips to Muskegon, to see my family of course, but also to see him.  He would come to Kalamazoo every other week or so, and it was just fun.  Well, I guess a little more than fun, because the Dude was a big factor in my decision to move back to Muskegon.  I had finished undergrad, and while I had a job that I loved, there wasn’t much else keeping me there.  However, as my track record shows, the “romance” between the Dude and I fizzled long before I even made the move back home.  Go figure.

But anyways, about this guy.  He’s a 47-year-old hippie stoner surfer type with long hair which he enjoys holding back with a headband or a French braid.  He’s ridiculous and flighty and funny, but not always on purpose.  He’s always high and spends most of his free time working on his quaint but dilapidated house.  He treats his dog like his girlfriend.  He’s highly intelligent and keeps up on political and world affairs, but often struggles to complete a coherent sentence.  He’s a free spirit, happy-go-lucky, and never lets anything bother him.  Honestly, that part’s sort of refreshing.

I texted him that night, with the sole intent of going to his house for sex (that’s the current nature of our “relationship”, and has been for over a year).  He had just gotten back into town from a volleyball weekend.  A NUDE volleyball weekend.  Yes friends, you read that right: nude volleyball is a real thing.  Just a bunch of people getting together, butt ass naked in the summertime, with all of their tender bits exposed to the sun.  He mentioned something about his ass being sun-burned and I laughed, because the whole situation was just ridiculous.  We chatted for another couple of minutes, but we both knew why I was there.  Eventually we went to bed, and while the sex wasn’t exactly orgasmic, it was clear that he was happy to have me there, and I was comforted by his presence.  Beats sleeping alone.

The next morning, he offered to make coffee.  Standing in the kitchen, he asks me if he had showed me his sunburn the night before.  Probably?  I don’t know (I mean, we did get naked…), so I mumbled something but despite my response, he drops trou, right there in the kitchen, to show me his red ass.   How can you not be amused by a guy like that???

So the Dude and I have been hanging out pretty much every weekend since.  Last night, though, he was being really weird and touchy-feely, even at the bar, which turned me off.  I loath PDA’s, whether it’s someone hanging all over me in public or other couples sucking face in the middle of the bar.  It’s a way for people to mark their territory, and I hate that.  Look, you don’t own me; you don’t get to “claim” me.  I’m still single here and I don’t want you cock-blocking me, thankyouverymuch.  Hands off, bro.  

Anyway, he asks what I’m doing the last weekend in August.  Dude, I can’t plan that far ahead.  I don’t know, probably nothing?  So he invites me to a volleyball weekend.  Three full days of volleyball (which I don’t play), and camping (which I despise because bugs are the worst and I don’t want to have to sleep on the ground) with people I’ve never met, about 100 miles away.  Oh, and it’s his nude volleyball league.  I’ll be expected to be au naturel the whole weekend.  What in the ever loving fuck???  How is this my life?????

*Tangent:  I have absolutely nothing against nakedness, I really don’t.  In fact, I’ve been employed as a nude model for several art classes over the years, and I truly relished in the experience.  I enjoy being naked, actually.  But at this time in my life, my naked body isn’t looking quite as shapely as I would like it to be, and honestly, I just don’t want to watch everyone’s penises and testicles and boobies flapping and flopping all over the place while diving for a volleyball.  Also, I don’t really care to watch volleyball (or any sport for that matter).

My sister was at the bar with us last night, so she witnessed all the touchy-feely-ness and the conversation about nude volleyball weekend.  I asked her today, “Why would he want me to go to that with him?  Why would he even think I would want to go?”  “Because he wants you to be there!  I think he really likes you… again.”

This is the part that irks me: he likes me again.  Two years ago, I was really into him.  I enjoyed the time we spent together, going on picnics, cooking together, going out on the town and ending the night naked in bed.  But then he just stopped talking to me altogether.  We didn’t get into a fight or anything; he just stopped responding to my texts (sound familiar???).  I can remember being at the bar with my sister one night, after not having heard from him for several days, and sending him a text that said, “If you don’t want to see me anymore, that’s fine.  I just need to know.”  No response, ever.  That was in July 2014.  I moved to Muskegon September 2014.  I think I ran into him at the bar around March/April 2015.  It was around that time that we started a “bed buddy” relationship; casual sex and nothing more.  And even that has been relatively infrequent.  I spent all of last summer infatuated with the Enigma, so I didn’t have any use for the Dude.  And even after that, more often than not I turned down his late-night text propositions.  So why all of a sudden is he into me now?? 

 

Now, at a time when I’ve closed myself off.  Now, when I’m probably not even capable of connecting with anyone emotionally, and honestly, don’t want to.  I’m still sore from the Enigma situation, and I’m not really looking for a relationship.  I’ve built a wall and I’m sure as shit not knocking it down for this asshole.  I have no romantic feelings toward him whatsoever.  But fuck it.  At least I can get laid any time I want, and he’s totally willing to be at my beck and call [he just came over to mow my sister’s lawn simply because I asked him to].  I’ll take it for now, until something better comes along.

 

PS. I have not yet accepted nor declined the nudey volleyball weekend invitation.  But if I go, holy shit, what a great blog post I’ll have from that experience!