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[amarettoandhotchicken]

World’s Worst Best Parent

12.18.20

Just over two weeks ago, I tweeted into space that I had applied for a foster dog because I felt like I wasn’t doing anything with my life. It’s true - all I did was wake up, watch tv, eat, work, tv, bed, repeat. I already have a dog of my own but she is older, calm, and mostly just likes to stare at things and sleep. 

As fate would have it, I got a call from one of the organizers in the breed rescue, and she was very interested in placing this dog with me. This dog was also supposed to be older, heartworm positive, and calm. It seemed like it would be a good fit with my dog because my dog is scared of dogs, and any dog that is high energy is especially terrifying to her even if they are being nice. Fast-forward a few more days and I’m driving halfway in between where I am and where the first foster home was to B.F.E. Tennessee to pick up this foster dog. 

During the 1.5 hour drive, my heart rate was probably 200, I cried a few times, and I was terribly, terribly anxious. I had a similar anxiety when I picked up my dog 9 years ago, and she is easily the best part of my life, so I knew I had to push through this. I just didn’t know if I had done the right thing - for my dog, for the foster dog, or for myself. This was going to be a big change. 

While I knew what my dog’s reaction to the new dog would be, I truly wasn’t anticipating my reaction. I was so stressed. I felt horribly guilty for putting my dog in a situation where she was scared in her own home. How could I do this to her and ruin the one place where she truly felt safe? The minute I saw her sad and upset, I wanted to get rid of the foster dog immediately. She was never mean to my dog or showed any type of dominance, but the fact that the new dog was the source of my dog’s “pain” made me want her to leave. 

I’m a 30-year-old “woman” (whatever, that sounds weird) with responsibilities, a mortgage, and a pre-COVID career. What kind of 12-year-old bullshit would it be for me to cry and say I didn’t want the new dog anymore? I knew somewhere in my head she wasn’t actually going to go anywhere because I made this commitment and I was going to stick to it - but if the rescue had been like, “yo, can we have her back?” I easily would have packed her shit and let her go. 

After a few breakdowns through the weekend and trying to figure out a new schedule and method that would work for both dogs, I posted on Facebook/Instagram that I had taken in a “fospice” dog with heartworms. The comments came flooding in... “You’re her guardian angel!” “This is an awesome thing you’re doing!” “She is lucky to have you!” “You are a true angel.” “I couldn’t think of a better mom.” “Such an admirable thing to do.” 

This all just made me feel like a giant piece of crap. To have people think I am some kind of angel or saint for taking in this dog made me cringe because I spent the majority of the weekend wanting her to leave so that me and my ‘real’ baby could live in peace. 

She will reach her week mark with us tomorrow. She is a sweet, silly dog that likes to zoom around and mess up my rugs, pinch you when you stop paying attention to her, do army crawls, and snuggle for hours. She is a lot of personality with a lot of health issues. And though she is sweet and she is the breed that I love so much, it has become very clear that I love my dog deeply and cherish her in a way that I haven’t even felt about another person. Parents excluded, but apples and oranges I think. I just do not feel love toward this foster dog in the way I thought I might, and it has made me appreciate and love my dog even more. 

Heartworm treatment can take upwards of three months. Ideally she will not be rehomed, but I am not sure I will be able to overcome putting my dog through fear and sadness should this last till a month. This would be a terrible disruption in the foster dog’s recovery, so I hope it does not come to that, but I have to put my dog ahead of her. Does this make me a bad parent? A good parent? A terrible person? A selfish monster? 

doG help us. 

[amarettoandhotchicken]

My Blood Pressure is 248 / 214

11.4.20

It’s the day after the election. Somehow Joe Biden has not won this in a massive landslide. I’m not sure why I’m even surprised. I could understand in 2016. People didn’t want to vote for Hillary, people maybe thought, “how bad could it be?” “Oh he’s a businessman, he’s going to change things!” And they were right. He did change things. 

Our country is a disgusting, bigoted, hate-filled nation. I cannot fathom how people I like, people that are my friends, can support this big, dumb, sack of shit. How can you vote for someone who hurts other people? Maybe you didn’t know in 2016, but you sure as hell know now. There are just so many things that he has done, from mocking a mentally handicapped person to not paying his FUCKING taxes... A vote for that vile man is a vote saying that all this stuff is okay. Don’t like Joe Biden? Cool, vote for an Independent or stay at home. I don’t give a fuck. But to vote for him?? Fuck you. 

I’m going to make myself mad writing about it. I consciously decided to get off Twitter and not return until we had a new person in power. So I’ll get back on this Thursday when Tayshia is the new Bachelorette. But it’s been really hard to not get on Twitter. I have these little dumb thoughts in my head and I like writing them out. It’s like a little tiny diary of sorts. Other people read it sure, but no one actually gives a flying fig. I like to go back and read my tweets though. I’m funny, and smart and hilarious. Obviously. 

I haven’t unfollowed or unfriended too many people through this whole process. If I did unfriend or unfollow it wasn’t really a loss anyway. There are only two people I know that I’m torn about since they are Trumpsters. One is one of my good friend’s boyfriend. Doesn’t surprise me one bit that he supports Trump, but he’s one of those that just sounds ignorant when he posts shit about it. White cis male privilege, and it reeks. I love my friend though, so I just completely muted him on Instagram and made a mental note to NEVER bring up anything even slightly political in their presence. 

The other one is a friend that even though I’m not super close to, I’d consider her someone I could reach out to at any time. She has another friend that I think turned her toward Trump, and that’s fine and dandy (not), but when she reposted some bullshit on Facebook about how he’s helped black people the most and loves gays, and supports Latinos, blah blah blah FUCKING KILL ME. I couldn’t resist saying something. I went back to check on the post later and she had deleted it. Neither of us has reached out to each other since.

I stopped responding to political/socially charged Facebook things a while back after someone called me a lot of names and compared me to Casey Anthony because I am pro-choice. It was hurtful in general but it was also hurtful because my friend whose status it was didn’t even stick up for me or tell his buddy to stfu or anything. Fuck that kid too, tbh. Even if I don’t agree with someone, I would never let someone talk to my friends like that. 

Surprised I even know what a friend is at this point. I don’t have many here. All the girls on my sales team are just ex-coworkers at this point. I’d say I really only retained two friends from that job and I think I’ve gotten more accepting of that fact as the days have gone by. Maybe I’ll post about that sob story one day too. Now, I work alone at a desk through my entire shift, and the morning shift guy is a married man in his late 40s. Perfectly fine guy, but we aren’t about to go get drinks together. 

I think part of my problem is that I’m not getting fulfillment from anything anywhere. Friendships, relationships, career/job, hobbies, food, travel, etc. I’m bored and tired and lonely and anxious. I want friends that I can count on, people who I can always be honest with, people that won’t talk about me behind my back about private or sensitive things. People that even if they’re mad at me will still jump in and punch a bitch if she talks shit to me at a bar. Those are my people. I want a relationship where I get to laugh, where I get to cry, where I get to be sad and not feel bad about it. I want someone to enrich my life, to be happy to see me, and to eat food with me. That would be my person. I want a career that will challenge me, make me think, and keep me busy. I want a normal feeling of not wanting to go to work just because I don’t want to work, not because I hate my stupid job. I want to feel like I’m making a difference for people and really excelling at what I do and have people notice that. That’s my sort of job. I want hobbies that will make me feel something, that will help me feel accomplished and interesting. I want something I can do for longer than two weeks and not quit because I have a fuck it attitude. Those would fill my downtime. I want food. All the time. And I want to travel to places that take my breath away, that make me feel like I’m on top of the world, and that make me feel so lucky I have the opportunity to go there in the first place. I want to have experiences that I can obnoxiously talk about until people are tired of hearing about that particular vacation. Those are the memories I want. 

But currently I have none of those things and it’s 6:00pm so it’s time to take my break and go feed my dog. Bye! 

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Double-Digit Midget

10.29.20

That’s what people called me when I turned 10. Bastards. 

Today my main Tumblr turned 10 years old. Weirdly, I can tell you that I was sitting in my living room of my campus apartment, laughing at stupid photos of weird shit Matt Bellamy from Muse was wearing, and decided to sign up. I don’t even really listen to Muse anymore. I find it much too noisy. 

What an ignorant life I led at 20 years old. I was less anxious and less depressed. I was comfortable in my own skin and couldn’t really give a fuck about what other people thought - sometimes at the detriment to my friendships. I hadn’t experienced an extremely painful heartbreak. I hadn’t moved away from my hometown. I had virtually no responsibility. Sometimes I wish I could go back and do things all over again with the brain I have now. 

I’ve been thinking about writing a lot lately, but as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I usually stick to something for about 5 seconds and then quit because it’s like some kind of inconvenience to me since I’m so busy watching TV and sleeping. I don’t know what would get me to actually commit to a hobby, but truly I think my problem is that I just don’t love it enough. 

Last year, back before COVID ruined lives, I took ballroom dance lessons for about 4 months. I really loved it. I was naturally good at it and excelled quickly. It felt good to be active and to move my body and to learn something new. It felt good to be able to tell people I was doing ballroom and then have them go “ooooh!” I actually felt interesting. Dance is extremely expensive though, and to move up to the next level I would have had to pay them $5,000 for 30 sessions, only half of those being private and the other being group classes, which I hated. I cried in the office when I told them I was quitting. I was annoyed because my instructor was pushing the sale so hard, but I was also legitimately sad because I felt like I couldn’t have this thing I knew I wanted to do. 

So I left the studio that day and no longer had something to engage my mind. 

In March, I was interviewing for my “dream” job at a beautiful new hotel. It was a big, luxury conference hotel and I had had my eye on it before it even broke ground. There were a few twists and turns on my path to get there, but I was finally there, and through the whole process I felt confident and I was certain that I would soon have this job I so badly wanted. 

Three days after my last interview I was furloughed from my normal job. I wasn’t expecting it but it also wasn’t a surprise. Seven months later, I’m sitting in the lobby of a condo building, bored out of my fucking mind, typing on a blog that I had abandoned. I worked at Kroger for about three weeks before I decided I fucking hated it and quit. I was on unemployment for about three months, but I was going absolutely stir crazy at home. 

This job was a blessing, or whatever the secular equivalent of that is. It still is a blessing. But I hate it. My mind is melting. I’m not progressing. I’m bored. I’m on second shift. I can’t see people or go to dinner with people. Oh, and those hobbies I was talking about? Turns out cooking is one of them, but I can’t cook now because my shift is bullshit. I’m sure a lot of people feel this way, but I feel like so much opportunity and happiness was taken away from me this year. I feel more lost and more disheartened than ever, and not knowing when the light is going to come back is maddening. 

So, what better way to deal with it than chronicling all my sadness in a blog that no one reads?! Just like the Gratitude Series, I will come back and read this in a few years and (hopefully) be like, “ha, what an idiot! I’m a millionaire now and had no idea how amazing things were about to be! Fucking whiner!”

I have exactly 17 minutes left of my shift now. I plan to use those minutes to continue doing more puzzles on Jigzone. Whoever introduced me to that website, thank you and I hate you. 

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Awkward

2.9.20

When I posted on Wednesday, my thought was, “yes, totally going to post every day with these daily prompts. It’s going to be amazing and this is going to be a great outlet and all of my fans are going to love it.”

Naturally I missed four days. Also I did the wrong prompt on Wednesday. Things are off to a great start!

Doing anything and sticking to it has been really hard for me lately. I feel like I have a lot of things I want to do or need to do and I’ll either start them and the project will stall or I’ll do something or a few days and then I’ll quit. If i can keep this journaling up for any amount of time I would be really surprised.

I blame a lot of things that I do or don’t do on my depression and anxiety. I feel like my anxiety is largely under control these days, but even on a new medication since November, my depression still feels pretty strong. It could be because it’s winter, could be because I’m a 29 year old female and this is just adulthood...who knows. I just can’t figure out how to give enough shits to actually change some things.

I’m sitting in the middle of this post, watching Jersey Shore: Family Vacation (frickin finally), and I don’t even want to finish the post. It’s supposed to be “5 Things to Do More Often” but all I really want to do is maybe eat some oatmeal...go back to sleep...pretend to plan vacations that I’ll never go on.... I don’t know how to do or get the life I want so I just choose not to do anything with the life I have.

So here are 5 Things to Do More Often:

1. Poop more

Other than yesterday which was the most disappointing thing since this season of The Bachelor, I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a significant sit down. Maybe my body is amazing and it’s processing and using everything, or maybe I am filled with months of backup and that’s why I’m so fat now. I’m going to bank on the second one, but how all of that shit eked its way up into my love handles is a mystery.

I don’t eat very healthy but that’s partially because a while back I was like, let’s do the One Meal a Day intermittent fasting, so that left me with lunch only. Our cafeteria is always serving us junk, so it’s probably (definitely) doing me no good. But right now I have leftovers from the Super Bowl, so I’ve been eating dinner. Sometimes I wish I could be okay with being fat so I could just fucking eat whatever I want and forget about it. But maybe pooping more would help me lose weight.

2. Drink Water

I have always said that 99% of my problems could probably be solved if I just drank more water. I’m constantly picking the skin around my fingers and the skin on my lips, and those could probably both be solved if I hydrated. Lord knows I’m not good at putting on lotion, but I’ve tried to get better at hydrating my lips. I’m putting nipple balm on my lips, ffs. (It’s pure lanolin. The internet told me to do it.)

My face is also disgusting. I have wrinkles I don’t want at less than 30, and again, not great at putting on lotion, so facial moisturizer or retinol or hyaluronic acid or whatever...not really beneficial to me because I can’t stick with it or give enough shits. I’d love to be able to afford some type of dermatologist or even botox or whatever...but I just bought a house so I am “poor” from now till the end of time.

3. Exercise

Ugh, I’ve been trying to get on a regular regimen of exercise for like 3 years, I don’t even want to write a paragraph about this.

4. Watch more Jersey Shore

Yeah, I’m gonna go make oatmeal and keep watching Jersey Shore. I can’t do this.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Guess I’ll Die Here

2.5.20

Jesus Christ, you guys. What a bunch of sad ass posts back there. Thank god I am past all of that and I am finally back to deliver some quality content that will inspire and uplift all my readers.

Ha, sike, I have no readers. Also not inspiring.

Since I’m still depressed (maybe more so now since I’m on new medication. Or maybe not because I’m on new medication?), still have anxiety, still haven’t progressed in my dating life, and basically have no friends, things are going well. I also can’t afford a therapist and I’ve watched way too many episodes of Ridiculousness, so I thought, I should spend my time at home doing something productive. Like getting on the computer after spending nearly 10 hours on the computer at work everyday.

For a while there I started learning some new stuff on my ukulele. I felt good about it. One of my motivations though was a guy I met back in October. He dabbles in guitar and music (very unique) and since I have had the uke for a while I wanted to see what I could come up with. I chose Le Vie en Rose, the version from How I Met Your Mother. When I first watched that episode and Tracy sang her rendition, I cried. I thought it was so beautiful and lovely. In my mind, I thought I could learn this song and then when Dude comes back to my city, I can show him what I learned. And it’ll be this beautiful cute moment and he’ll be like “wow this girl is amazing I’ve never met another girl in my life” and that would be the end of it. Done. Captured.

But he never came back. So we still Snap each other. But I don’t play ukulele.

Then I decided I would focus on projects. My house, though somewhat updated, seems to have never-ending amounts of projects. All projects cost money though, and I’m not entirely sure what triggers my anxiety more - not having my house the ideal beautiful oasis I want it to be or watching my bank account dip into digits I don’t like. A little over a week ago I went to the grocery and bought real dinner food for the first time since about late October. After I ran out of all those meal preps, I decided eating one meal a day was both economically and nutritionally best for me since I’m fat and poor (I am neither).

Speaking of being fat, not doing any house projects has freed up my evenings to try to get back into Pilates. I’ve tried super hard since my Dumping in 2017 to get back into long-term practice of Pilates, but I fall off after about a week or two each time. I’m three days in right now, and I’m proud of that. It’s not much, but I really want to try to stick with it.

I do my workouts right when I get home and then follow up with some sort of dinner. This week has been terrible-for-me foods left over from a Super Bowl party, so my workouts are essentially as effective as the 49ers 4th quarter defense. The plan is to do that each day that I can, maybe squeeze in a few episodes of the garbage TV I watch (5 hours of The Bachelor this week?? How did we get so lucky?!) and then do some writing. This is purely for me. I have never shared this blog with anyone I know personally and I don’t know if I ever will. It’s all stupid and unstructured anyway.

An astute observer might have noticed that I’m a bit cynical or angry or sarcastic or bitchy...whatever you want to call it. But this is what is always in my head. In an effort to quell that, I wanted to find journal prompts, something to focus my thoughts and maybe put me on track toward something I can speak positively about.

I love my house. I love being home, I love my own space, I love having complete control over everything under my roof. I find comfort in being in a nest, a safe haven of sorts where I can walk around with no pants on, eat pepperonis out of a bag, and burp without judgment from my peers. I am proud that I have been able to situate myself well enough financially to be able to buy my first home. It’s been a blessing and a headache, but it makes me feel good. It makes me feel like a big dumb kid who somehow has a house. But it’s not my favorite place.

In 2007, my parents and I traveled to Asheville, NC to see the Biltmore Estate. We spent two full days there. I think we might have thought about doing something else the second day, but we just loved the Biltmore so much everything else was forgotten. For me, there was a weird sort of peace I felt while being there. Not sure if it was the grounds, the greenhouse, the big room with the organ, or just the beauty of it all, but I absolutely loved it. It’s still not my favorite place.

During my senior year in college, I did a two week study abroad in London. Looking back I don’t think I appreciated London as much as I should have, but I’ve grown up a LOT since then. London fulfilled all my teenage anglophile dreams and set off that early 20s wanderlust that most of us have except for those impossible people on Instagram who seem to do nothing but travel and have no cares in the world. London was lovely but it wasn’t any sort of utopia. It had the essence of history and beauty, modernity and poise, but “life” in London seemed normal. It’s the only place I’ve traveled outside of the U.S. if you don’t count Central America...but it isn’t my favorite place.

When my baby girl was 3 years old, we went to Charleston, SC. I’m not sure how I got focused on Charleston, but I was certain I wanted to move there. The history and the beautiful buildings, beaches, food, romance...what’s not to love? I planned every single day my parents and I were there (terrible, will never do that again), and we saw and experienced a lot. My lil peanut got to see the ocean for the first time, do a hucklebutt in the sand, and visit some historical sites. I loved watching her chase the seafoam. I loved seeing her paws leave prints in the sand. Yeah, I’m talking about a dog. This was a city of love - love for my dog, where Noah and Allie laid in the middle of King Street, and it was the place where I watched Game of Thrones season 3, episode 9, The Rains of Castamere. Aren’t all weddings romantic? Still, it wasn’t my favorite place.

The owners of our beach house left a note stating that pets were not allowed on the furniture. Quinn is above the law because - well, she’s Quinn. She can do whatever she wants. The living room was also my bedroom though as we opted for a smaller beach house to get a better location. Quinn stayed on the couch with me every night as I binged Game of Thrones. She stayed with me as we slept through the night and didn’t leave me until she heard one of her grandparents open the bedroom door. It’s been almost 5 years since then, and she still lays with me. I think she is less clingy at home, but when she does lay by my side I don’t move. I can’t bear the thought of disturbing her comfort or shaking her from a dream. I love her snores, even though she’s usually never even asleep. I love the weight of her and the way she nestles into me. I love how it feels like we are a unit, that she loves me and out of everyone in the whole entire world, I am her person. Not that she’s had much of a choice. 

They say home is where the heart is. Even though I am proud of my house, have found peace and love in other cities, and contemplated making new destinations my home, my heart lies with her. My favorite place is wherever she lies with me.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Which have a better chance of running you down on land, alligators or crocodiles?

3.14.19

Happy Pi Day! I don’t like pie, and until just a few minutes ago, I didn’t even remember what Pi was. I guess with each day you just gotta Google something new. Or follow Neil deGrasse Tyson. 

Yesterday I celebrated a birthday. A birthday of a guy I have been seeing since mid-December. A guy that I’ve already tried to stop seeing once. A guy I believe I truly have no happy future with. 

I met his older sister for the first time. She is very nice (so it seems) and appears to have the same jovial nature as her younger brother. His younger brother was also there, and having already met him once before, I find him intriguing as he seems to show more varying outward emotion yet also seems to be very personal. 

It seems I have found myself in another position of being with someone that lacks any sort of reasonable emotional depth and hasn’t really experienced any external or internal turmoil. While I wouldn’t describe myself as emotionally experienced, I have gone through significant family and friend death, anxiety and depression, devastating heartbreak, and self-loathing. 

What’s the big deal you say? 

While my experiences aren’t some that would make people gasp and go “poor soul,” what my current guy and my Ex share in common is lack of empathy and sympathy. Neither has lost a close family member or friend (though my Ex’s grandmother has since passed according to social media). Neither has experienced clinical depression or anxiety. I would say neither of them have been ripped from a relationship as I was. And both of them think very highly of themselves, having this incredible self-confidence that I sometimes think is unwarranted, especially in my current guy. 

“Current guy” is called such because another thing they share in common is a lack of commitment. The Ex was unable to commit to something long term and serious, and while I believe he is capable of it, that has been the reason for at least the last 3 of his breakups. I’m convinced he will marry the one he is dating after me, but time will tell. Current Guy, even after 3 months, tells people “Whoa!” when they refer to me as his girlfriend. Because ~eww~ labels. 

Grow up. 

Incredibly, these two men are extremely different. One being corporate driven, wanting success and popularity, caring about fashion and technology and being on the forefront of that. The other one would prefer to not have a job at all or make a living streaming video games, couldn’t give two shits about what people think but believes he’s a god, and tends to lose every small piece of technology he owns. 

So I suppose the biggest difference is me. I was so happy with my Ex. He was nearly everything I wanted on paper for a partner. I was inexperienced and hopeful, scared and judgmental, thoughtful and ignorant. Now, I’m just lonely. He’s my companion for the wrong reasons. I’m being called inexperienced because I haven’t tried weed or cocaine. I’m only hopeful that one day I’ll be able to end this and not pick up my phone and text him again. I’m still scared and judgmental, but I’m scared I won’t find someone else and I’m judging both of us. My thoughts mostly revolve around me instead of him, and my ignorance is simply because I stopped asking questions. I am not interested. 

And I’m angry. A disappointed anger, not a hostile anger. I’m angry that I’m so lonely and I can’t overcome feelings by finding things for me to do. I’m frustrated that I lack motivation and that nothing is appealing to me, and that I can’t afford therapy. I hate that my body has deteriorated - the rolls and jiggles disgust me. I’m not heavier than I’ve ever been, but I find myself more gross than I ever have. I’m angry that I seem to have all the tools in front of me to do anything but can’t figure out how to use anything to bring me happiness. I’m jealous of people who have found apparent happiness and joy in relationships. I’m mad that I’m not amounting to anything. 

Though I’m still with my current guy, I occasionally thumb through my dating apps to see if anything is there. Spoiler alert: there’s nothing. Sometimes I’ll browse sites that give me ideas for projects and hobbies. I still haven’t done anything. At night, I’ll Google ways to have a sidehustle. Definitely haven’t figured that one out. I want to pursue all these things but nothing is happening. I can’t make anything happen. 

The first day of Spring is on the 20th, and technically that means the death of cuffing season. I consider myself an A+ participant this year in nearly every aspect of my life. I only hope that when the flowers bloom and the sun shines and I can finally relax in warmth, that I can be released. 

From myself. 

[amarettoandhotchicken]

The Gratitude Series: Conclusion

9.24.18

Well it’s been more than a year since our break up and consequently more than a year since I started writing this series. Eight posts in fourteen months...I’m well on my way to being a regular blog post writer.

This will be the last post for The Gratitude Series. What I do know is that writing this last post will not cure me of my feelings and thoughts about this man and this relationship. What I also know is that I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I don’t know when I will feel better. I don’t know when I will be able to come to terms with what happened. What I do know, and what I hope for, is that I have a long life ahead, and I hope somewhere out there is a friend, a partner, and a lifetime of love.

Or at least three-quarters of a lifetime. Good enough.

Times I was with him were possibly some of the best times I ever had. I was happy and I hope he was happy. We did many things and created memories that I still look back fondly on. I would not have gotten to experience many things and seen many places if it weren’t for him. I am so lucky that he chose to share that with me.

Dating him was also extremely stressful - for me. When we started seeing each other, I had a constant fear that he would be done with me. I caught feelings pretty fast, and knew I would because that’s just the way I am. He was close to perfect on paper, and I put a lot of pressure on myself to relax and not make the same mistakes I did in my previous relationship. I had grown up a lot. I also sort of threw out a lot of my own rules and protections for myself, some good and some bad. I shouldn’t have been scared, and I should have opened up to him about my concerns and I should have communicated my fears with him better. I should have been more open about my anxiety and depression, and how that was affecting our relationship.

I think about it a lot now, this weird little colostomy bag of feelings. It’s there, and it’s important, but it’s full of shit and I hide it as much as possible. And when I do reveal it, it stinks and it’s embarrassing and if I could get rid of it I could. But I can’t.

I’m not entirely sure how to approach this in my future relationships...mainly because I haven’t had the chance to approach it again yet...but I think I need to be more transparent in the future. I don’t believe my ex was either ready or willing to accept my mental health, and since he could not empathize (or sympathize sometimes), it was hard to open up to him and feel accepted when I was struggling. I hope to find someone who is better at accepting people that are not like them. I sincerely hope that my ex has some new experiences and realizes that the life he is living is truly blessed. He is wealthy in so many ways - in friends, in family, in health, in money, in experiences, and in knowledge.

While that relationship and its ending brought me to my knees in fear and heartbreak, I have gained so much.

I know now that I am capable of a great deal of love. I loved him with all of my heart, and I thought of so many things I wanted to share with him and experience with him. Now, I am kinder to people. I wasn’t a giant bitch before, but you never know what people are going through. You never know what struggles they have or when they just need someone to say...I’m with you. I love my friends and my family, and many of them have stayed by my side through all of this. My quarter-life crisis. They’ve cheered for me when I try to get back on my feet, and they support me when I fall back down. I love them all. And I still have enough space in my heart to love someone again.

I know now that I can let loose a little bit. Before I met him, I was very fearful and didn’t try new things. Biggest item on that list was getting drunk. I felt safe enough with him to get the party going and I made a fool out of myself plenty of times. Found out I was a crier. Literally the WORST. I drink now, and I’m learning my limits and how to take care of myself. Even though hangovers are a bitch, I’m learning I’ll get through it. Vomiting is still terrible, but I can now do it without crying and calling my mom. It’s still a phobia...but baby steps people! Beyond alcohol and bad decisions, I just try more things. I want to experience more. I wasted half of my twenties being a fucking loser, so now’s the time.

I know now that fabric couches are BULLSHIT when you have pets. I’m sorry I didn’t know my couch was gross and smelled like a giant sheepdog.

I know now that I am still independent, but am able to manage my time how I please. If I want to seek out companionship of any kind, I can. I don’t have to feel weak that sometimes I just need a friend to vent with. I don’t have to feel slutty if I just need to go to a bar and talk to a guy all night. I don’t have to feel guilty that I want to stay home and watch bad Noah Centineo movies with my dog while I drink fruity wine and eat mac n cheese. This is my life. There is no right or wrong.

I know now that we weren’t right for each other. Truth is, there were moments where I thought he was my person. We never talked too far into the future, but I thought he might be it. We still had a lot to overcome, but I thought we would do it together. Ultimately, I think we’ve had such different lives and experiences, and we were unable to bridge that gap and understand each other and make that bond. I think he needs someone who is extremely independent, but is still happy to take care of him. I think he needs someone who has lofty goals, and is willing to leave him in the dust for them. He needs someone who accepts his past without jealousy, and someone who can maintain that lack of jealousy through their entire relationship. He needs someone who wants him, but doesn’t need him.

I am more worried about myself than him. He’ll be okay. I do hope though that as he moves through life he finds happiness and that he follows his dreams and aspirations. I hope he overcomes his doubts about his friends loving him, and I hope he knows he’s good enough and that he deserves the best. I hope that one day, when I am strong enough, that we can exchange words and niceties and it won’t hurt either of us.

I am grateful for all the lessons I learned along the way. About love, about life, about frats, about hockey, about airports, about shit I don’t know shit about. I am grateful for him and his time and his love that he gave to me.

Most of all, I am grateful that I have opportunities in every day to be better.

“I write about the power of trying, because I want to be okay with failing. I write about generosity because I battle selfishness. I write about joy because I know sorrow. I write about faith because I lost mine, and I know what it is to be broken and in need of redemption. I write about gratitude because I am thankful - for all of it.” --Kristin Armstrong

[amarettoandhotchicken]

I Just Felt Like Running

7.8.18

I joined a gym about two weeks ago. It’s a very nice gym, opened by a local insurance giant simply for the purpose of them to show off. The brilliant part is that it’s in walking distance from my office, $25 a month with no cancellation penalties, and has brand new, super fancy-pants equipment. I really couldn’t pass it up.

I’ve been doing a good job at going most days of the week, though I skipped today because I was extremely tired from a mediocre night at the bars last night. My back is sore, hopefully because I am working muscle, but more likely because I was using the rower incorrectly.

I have no idea what I’m doing in the gym. The internet has been largely unhelpful at guiding me unless I want to pay $49.99 per month for a “trainer” that’s not even present. But each day after work...well, most days...I trek over to my gym and start my routine. By routine I mean selecting machines that are available and helpful without being too hard. I try not to beat myself up over this too much because as the lady said when I signed up, even if I’m just coming in for 15 minutes a day, it’s more than I was doing before.

Problem with me is that I’m an instant gratification type. I’ve been working out for two weeks but I have not lost any weight. I have not seen any changes in definition. I don’t feel stronger. All I feel is that I need more activewear. 

Many people enjoy the gym and use it as a time to expend energy or get their frustrations out. Others feel invigorated or rejuvenated after a tough workout. I’m hoping these feelings might come with time because I feel none of these things about the gym. I hate myself for it, but it seems that my brain always veers toward the negative while I am in the gym.

Why can’t I run full out on a treadmill like that? Why am I not sweating more...am I not doing enough? Why can’t I do enough? Why can’t I look like her? Why can’t I lift more than 20 pounds on this machine? Why am I not fit? Why is none of this good enough?

Going to the gym is going through motions. Stand on the elliptical and go round and round until your quads can’t take it anymore. Climb the stairmaster until you’re breathing so hard you might fall down the stairs like a slinky. Do lat pulls until your arms quiver and weaken. Pull the rowing machine and stare off into the distance because there’s something both awful and comforting about the repetitive motion.

Every day I go through the motions. I wake up and go to work. Sit in a dim office and answer the same questions from clients as we get ready for the event. After work I head to the gym in hopes that bettering my body might help better my mind. Then I come home and sit alone, eating meals I’ve had before and watching shows that mean nothing, all while flicking through dating apps in the hope that something will spark.

There are personal trainers out there for your body, and I’m sure that “life coaches” would qualify as trainers for your mind. But just like with any type of training or therapy, none of it works if YOU are not your best trainer. I have to be my best trainer, my best motivator, and my biggest cheerleader. The scariest part of that is I don’t know if I can be. Within a couple of years, I went from an independent person to a needy and lonely soul, basing my worth on what a man thinks of me (or even what my friends think of me). I had a guy that I wanted to be so right for that I destroyed myself, believing I had to do certain things or not say certain things for fear that that was not what he wanted. Even now, as I find myself trying to get back into dating, I am careful with what I say and how I present myself, though I believe that once again, doing that has cost me some guys that I had some budding interest in.

I wish I could leave this post and say that it was time to love me before I love anyone else. I wish it was as easy as waking up and sticking a Post-It note on my mirror telling me I’m beautiful. And I wish I could say things are on the upswing and I choose to have a positive outlook starting now.

Truth is, I want companionship. I want to love and be loved. I want someone to think of me when they see something funny. I want to feel proud of myself and to feel like I’m contributing. I want to have stories and create memories, and I want to share them with someone who can smile and laugh with me. I want to feel strong and stable - with my friends, with a partner, with myself.

The elliptical is my cardio equipment of choice, but it doesn’t move forward. The scenery doesn’t change, the terrain is smooth. I can look to my left and my right and see others moving but not going anywhere. My hope now is though I’m moving and nothing is really changing, I’ll eventually see some progress.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

The Gratitude Series: Part VII

6.17.18

Last Sunday was the day it finally happened. I had been waiting, essentially ever since we broke up, to see him acknowledge that he was with someone else. Even though he told me he wanted to be single and wanted to start over and travel, I knew he was full of shit, and he was scared that I would ruin all of his possibilities. I just wanted to share them, but I guess not everyone learns in kindergarten.

A picture was posted on Instagram. He looked happy. Other friends posted heart-eyes emojis. I can only assume that this is a friend of friends, though I don’t know her. It hurt. All I could wonder was how she was different than me. The obvious thing is that she was there...and I still believe that if we had not done long distance maybe it could have worked. But it hurts to see him with someone new. And it hurts to know that I’m still alone. And it hurts not knowing why I wasn’t good enough. And why I’m still not good enough.

In February, I asked him if it was okay if I started looking for jobs in his city and considering a move. I was so nervous to ask him that I cried, and I tried to explain why I was scared. He finished my sentence by saying I was thinking I would “scare him off?” And he assured me it wouldn’t happen.

He assured me.

Last spring was difficult for me. My anxiety and depression were awful, and I couldn’t afford a therapist. I resisted medication and instead tried to exercise and join social groups. I thought if I did these things maybe I could run from my mental issues, and even run from the things that were haunting me about our relationship. I thought exercise would make me happy. I thought social gatherings might make me lose focus on the fact that he wasn’t here, and he wasn’t giving me the attention he used to.

I would cry while eating dinner. Cry at work. Cry at bedtime. Nothing was working.

In March we went to a wedding and met a lot of his friends. I also met his ex. I was kind and she was kind, and I can understand how hurtful it might have been to see me there.

The difference that I feel now is that after they broke up he still reached out to her. He still cared about her. He doesn’t talk to me at all. How nice it must be for his new girlfriend to not have to worry about an ex.

The wedding was a blast. We had fun and I felt companionship with him and his friends. He looked great, I looked great, and I didn’t want that weekend to end. I never wanted those weekends to end. But I think that was our last truly happy time together, unbeknownst to me.

As time progressed I got worse. I’m not sure if he noticed at all, but I certainly felt the strain of things. I felt so much pressure to be good, to be happy, to be positive, as I felt like I couldn’t burden him with my fears or my sadness because he always seemed like he never had any of these problems. He didn’t like seeing/hearing me cry, he didn’t like me being sad, and he had a hard time providing emotional support because he could not empathize. In April I had plans to go to his city to look at apartments for me (not for both of us), and I had plans to do it alone because I didn’t want to burden him with that either. He insisted on being a part of it. I was extremely nervous all day, not necessarily because I would be moving but because this made it real. I was inserting myself into his life. I briefly mentioned that I was feeling a little anxious and nauseous, but he assured me it was okay.

He assured me.

Two months later I would find out that that weekend was the ending of our relationship.

It still makes my chest feel tight thinking about things. I wonder so much what I did wrong then and even what I’m doing wrong now. I want to blame him but I can only blame myself because since then, every guy I have had interest in has ghosted me (or tried to) after meeting me. Everyone I’m not interested in says they’re interested in me because I’m different and cool and blah blah.

I spent nearly my whole relationship with him nervous that he would leave me. And he did. Now I spend every date I go on where I actually feel something nervous that they’re going to ghost me. And they do.

I’m not sure what I’m grateful for in this post. This last month and a half has been hard for me from a mental health standpoint, triggered by many different things.

For so long I continued to follow his social media accounts because I wanted to be the bigger person and show I was strong, and I was still interested in knowing how he was doing. A friend of mine made me unfollow him on two of my accounts back in February. The minute that picture was posted I removed him from the rest of my accounts. It felt petty, but knowing him, he won’t even notice. Or care.

I have to protect myself. I hope that removing him from my social media will help, but something so simple is just a small step. We are thirteen days away from the “anniversary” of our breakup, and I can only be disappointed in myself for not taking steps sooner to take care of myself and to figure out what I need. I don’t know what I need and I’m not sure how to figure it out right now, but I guess I have time to figure it out.

And I’m grateful for that.

"Forget yesterday--it has already forgotten you. Don't sweat tomorrow--you haven't even met. Instead, open your eyes and your heart to a truly precious gift--today." --Steve Maraboli

[amarettoandhotchicken]

You Gotta Put Your Behind in the Past

5.19.18

It’s interesting to really sit and think about how much people change over the years, even over a short span of months. The past five or six months have really given me a chance to not only think about myself but about others, and about how judgment comes into play usually when people are most ignorant.

Let me start out by saying dating is fucking stupid. I hate going on dates. It’s the same monotonous bullshit over and over with no real meaning, and people, including myself, sometimes putting on personas that maybe the other person might find appealing. The good news is that recently I have given less fucks about this and find it easier to open up to people. That or I just really don’t like any of these people enough to feel that nervous crush feeling.

It’s probably the latter.

For my entire life, people have called me judgmental. I have fully acknowledged that I am, though some judgments that are passed aren’t always out of line. My most recent tale of being called judgmental involved being asked out by a guy who smokes and does drugs such as ketamine, molly, ecstasy and others, and when I told him I wouldn’t date someone who lived that lifestyle, he called me judgmental. And then he told me I was going to be alone for being judgmental. And then I walked 0.8 of a mile back to my car in heels and got blisters because I was tired of listening to his stupid ass.

But in previous relationships, I have had a hard time letting things go and not feeling jealousy or resentment when my partner has told me about something that happened in the past. One ex told me stories about drinking and smoking, about problems with school and his dad. Another told me stories about hookups and exes, frat parties and binge drinking. When I would hear these things I could feel my heart race and heat roll up my back - anger, jealousy, disappointment. It wasn’t even happening in the present, but the more I thought about people’s lives before they met me, the more I hated it.

I’m not even sure if these are normal feelings to have. I think part of it may stem from a desire of mine to want to share a life with someone, to have such happiness that I don’t even recall what I did before them...and I’d hope they’d feel the same way. I want them to build fond memories with me and reminisce about things we did together the same way they talk about their other friends and other memories. There’s a certain love in nostalgia that I think is special, and I think my jealousy comes from not feeling that love.

Over the course of the last 11 months, I have done some of my own living - getting shitfaced, throwing up because of it, making “poor decisions,” talking to multiple boys over apps, kissing people and feeling nothing other than a selfish desire for someone to want me.

And at some point I realized that drinking and throwing up doesn’t make you a terrible person. I didn’t make any bad decisions those nights (other than maybe questionable health decisions? Nah, I’m fine) and other people are capable of the same. Kissing someone the first time you meet them doesn’t make you a bad person. And hookups truly are meaningless...and often disappointing. I could easily see any of those people and feel nothing toward them despite our closeness. 

I’ve decided that should I enter into another relationship, I’ll ask less questions. That seems counter-intuitive to a healthy relationship, but in my case I think it would be better. What good does it do me to know how many people he has slept with? What good does it do me to know what he did in college? What good does it do me to know what he may have experimented with but now doesn’t touch?

I know that I wouldn’t want people to judge me off this last year. Or rather, I’d hope that they’d understand why and love me anyway. Perhaps the next person I am in a relationship would be equally as hurt, so there’s no need for me to share it or talk about it all the time.

Judgment seems to be the strongest when people don’t understand what the other person has experienced. Not all experiences have to be negative, but until you have something similar, you judge, and you project your ideas onto the person you don’t understand.

That’s the scary part. How well do you really understand each other?

My past is my past. And his past is his past. As long as that past does not interfere with the future, there’s no reason you can’t just leave it behind.

There’s no reason I can’t leave it behind.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

The Gratitude Series: Part VI

4.8.18

I just did a quick Google search to figure out who it was that said “time heals all wounds.” In an ironic twist, I didn’t find who said that, but rather tons of people that disagree with it. I can only believe that is because whoever said that was full of shit - possibly struggling from a wound themselves, and just needed something to hang on to, something to get them from one day to the next without thinking about the hurt.

In December I said I was healing. I don’t know if it was winter or the empty conversations on dating apps, or being “dumped” by the one guy on those apps that seemed to show genuine interest in me. Or perhaps it’s just the natural progression in time...the loss of time. There are many days where something happens or I have a thought that I wish I could share with him. I miss him terribly. He is gone from my life but the wound is still there.

The first few months of long distance were pretty good. We had made plans that had us seeing each other may once every two to three weeks, though that was by accident. I got to go to a college tailgate with him. It was nice; I felt integrated and accepted into his life. We went to New York. It was fun but short. I think he was stressed that weekend for some reason.

December was our one year anniversary. We posted cute shit on Instagram just minutes within each other even though miles separated us and it was just the cutest millennial thing. We met in Dallas that weekend to celebrate our year together. I felt a lot of pressure to get him a gift that he would love and find meaning in, though he already has everything and isn’t sappy in the first place. I spent hours poring over online websites hoping to have a stroke of genius, and I ended up deciding to get a watch.

It was a simple time piece, elegant yet understated, and I thought I did all right. A girl I worked with at the time decided to inform me that it was terrible bad luck to get your significant other a watch on an anniversary, especially the first one, but since she was a heinous bitch I didn’t really think anything of it. Six months down the line, I’m not sure I’d call what happened “bad luck.”

I hate New Years Eve. The one good one I had was with him the year prior. For this New Year’s Eve, we were in St. Louis celebrating with his friends. It was off, not only because it was my first NYE in a different time zone (watching the ball drop at 11:00pm is weird; how come more people don’t mention this?) but because I again felt out of place. This friend group didn’t feel the same as the others and I felt like much more of an intruder rather than an extension of my person. The people were very nice, but he was different. Maybe it was our argument before we went over there.

It was one of the first true arguments we ever had. It was about him making decisions and not asking for my input, and subsequently how I would talk to him and how that made him feel. I felt horrible about it, but I remember very clearly, for the first time in our relationship, I was scared he would leave me. I was scared that when things started getting dark or hard, he would run. I was scared he would never forgive me. Stop loving me. I cried in the car ride to our party and I’m sure he thought it was because of our argument, and it was, but it was much deeper and scarier for me that I ever told him.

I can’t say with any kind of certainty whether that’s where my insecurities about our relationship began. I was always insecure with him. He was so smart, so successful, so popular - and I was so not. His friends were good looking, successful, had money - mine were not (maybe except the good looking part ;) ). His ex-girlfriends were beautiful and talented, earning scholarships for opera singing or being a successful ballet dancer. He was with me, yes, but how could I ever be as beautiful or as talented as them? What do I have other than a dog and a strange knowledge of Weird Al lyrics?

Yet I was still hopeful. I believed he was in this with me. I believed if I expressed my insecurities, my worries, my problems with anxiety and depression, he would understand and if he didn’t understand maybe he would learn how.

I’ve been struggling in the past couple of months. I’ve been struggling to feel that happiness and see things to be grateful for every day. Nothing is really wrong, but nothing is right either. I’ve had good moments and bad moments, but all I can think about is how he’s not there anymore to be my shoulder. I’m not even sure he was that good of a shoulder, but he was a shoulder nonetheless.

I don’t believe that time heals. Time just moves you further along, further away from whatever weapon gave you the wound. The wound will always be there, raw at first then slowly turning into scar tissue that you have to be delicate with or else risk more damage. I am scared again, not that people will run or leave me now when things are low, but that I will run again. I am not facing what is in front of me because I believe that I don’t have that support system.

I do though, if I would just reach out. Those people are there and they always have been. I am grateful for that.

“We often take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.” --Cynthia Ozick

[amarettoandhotchicken]

The New Year is Starting Off Great

1.21.18

I have done nothing all day today.

I take that back. I have watched half of Pocahontas, Big Hero Six, and Beauty and the Beast. It is 9:21 pm on a Sunday, and mostly I just feel lonely.

I spent so much time with people this week. We had a work outing. I went to a theater production. I got drinks with someone. A friend of mine came to town last night. But today I feel lonely.

I feel like this loneliness is making me lose my mind. I am constantly on my phone, sifting through apps, hoping maybe a message will pop up or someone will tag me. I look through people I’ve talked to previously - why can’t I let them go? Why are they still in my brain? And why do I find myself back on my ex’s Instagram?

I feel this horrible, juvenile desperation for attention, for love, for companionship. I want someone to want me, and I actually want to want them back in some capacity. I want to spend evenings with someone, eating, drinking, laying together.

I’ve seen so many times that sometimes after extremely hurtful breakups things like this will happen, and the urges of lust and wanting someone to just be consistent come back, sometimes at the expense of who you “used to be.” I am finding it difficult to be alone, even though I spent 4.5 years alone, with no dates or companionship from men in my early twenties. And now I have talked to several men - Matt, Justin, Brian, Ben, Austin, Andrew, Todd, Chase, and Michael - and have gone on dates with four of them.

But I also wonder why I’m still talking about my breakup. Why am I not stronger than this? Why does it still hurt to know I’m not loved? How did it go from sharing everything with a person to not knowing what they’re doing on a daily basis? I wonder what he’s doing. How he’s doing.

I wish I could punch my brain in the face. Or at least explain to it that I have no reason to worry, no reason to be unhappy, and no reason to feel desperation for companionship. I want to tell it these things will come, maybe not right away but someone will come.

Someone will be there right?

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Some Days I Am a Flower... 

12.20.17

After months of wallowing, I think both me and some of my friends were happy to see me trying to get back out there and meet new people. It’s a long, crappy road, filled with self-doubt and what-ifs, but I believed that for the most part I had finally taken my exit off that road to begin my next journey. 

That journey began a couple of posts ago, when I decided to begin using online dating apps Bumble and Tinder. Bumble is what I preferred, both from a user standpoint and from the selection available. Unfortunately I swiped through everyone in my parameters within like the first week, only matching two people and only reaching out to one of them. That was Brian. 

In the meantime, I had downloaded Tinder, an ugly app filled with people who think silhouettes of their penis make them appealing (I mean I guess there are some people out there that are into that) and a lot of guys holding fish. This state is just too fucking country for me. 

I matched with a handful of guys on there (literally 5) and ended up only hearing from three of them. I was having to put in the effort on Bumble, and that shit is exhausting so I sure as hell wasn’t about to do it on Tinder. 

One guy was Timmy, a hockey player from somewhere up north that wasn’t great at carrying conversation and was generally dull. Needless to say, that petered out pretty quickly. 

Another guy was Matt, a native to the city. He info dumped me within the first five messages, telling me all about himself. Definitely a little weird but at least he was being open. He later told me he would wife me instantly if I could make a good buffalo chicken dip. Eventually we moved to texting and he asked me in third person if I liked and knew what memes were. He then proceeded to send me not-funny memes that I tolerated. I agreed to go on a date... Matt’s pictures turned out to be carefully curated, as he was less impressive in person, a bit nerdy, and self-deprecating in a not-cute way. The night was fine, but we mutually ghosted each other. 

The third guy was Justin, a dancer who had moved around a bit but had settled in town for a few years. He was easy to talk to and shared some mutual interests of mine. His profession made him easy to find on Facebook, but also allowed me to see more of him, and consequently made me less interested. I was trying to be open-minded, and agreed to a lunch. I still found it easy to talk to him, but my lack of nerves told me I was not feeling it. I simply was not attracted to him. 

I ran into Justin at a bar about a week later. I was drunk. I have not seen him since.

Tinder was deleted from my phone exactly one day later. I had been talking to Brian on the Bumble app for just under two weeks, and while conversation was light and fun, he seemed hesitant and reserved. I had asked him to come say hi on the night mentioned above, but he was out of town. After that, I waited for him to make the next move. 

Two weeks later, after texting every day and through the nights, we still had not met, and were still talking through the app. He finally gave me his number after the app didn’t refresh for him, and I thought, jesus, we’re finally taking a step. Add another week, and he asked me to dinner on a Saturday night. 

This one I was nervous for. He seemed kind, was close with his family, had a job he loved, and was active both physically and socially. His interests interested me, and I found him unique and charming. The date was much of the same, and I believed it was going well as conversation came easily but didn’t get too serious at first. 

Toward the end, he was showing me pictures on his phone when a message from his friend came through saying he was at another local bar. Brian swiped it away. He told me his friend had been broken up with after a 2-3 year relationship, and he was going to go meet him. I asked if I was coming along, and he said “normally” he’d be up for getting another drink, but thought this was better handled on his own. He asked me what I was doing the upcoming week while giving me a hug, but didn’t solidify plans, and said he’d text me as he was walking away. 

I got in my car and felt instant hurt. I was unsure if he had lied, using a friend emergency to leave a date. I was new to the game, so maybe he was being honest. All I knew was that the rejection felt awful.

The next day I didn’t hear from him. I thought maybe he was waiting for me to text, as a sign I was still interested. So I sent him a generic text, and he replied within minutes. We had a very brief conversation. 

That Monday, I didn’t hear from him. I knew I was being ghosted. I find ghosting pretty hurtful, and don’t believe in ghosting people (disclaimer: yes, Matt and I ghosted each other, but that was mutual. If he had reached out, I would have responded). Tuesday I texted him because I wanted confirmation. He responded, confirming my thoughts, and explained that he had a bad breakup 2 months ago and was just trying to get back out there, but wasn’t ready to date. 

Going through my worst breakup to-date this year, I understood him more than he knew. I really just wish he had been honest. I wish (if he was being truthful) that he had asked for more time. I wish he had explained his previous relationship. Why can’t people be honest? Why don’t they understand that other people have feelings, and maybe they deserve some truth? 

All the feelings from summer came back. Not as intensely, but it was awful to think that, again, someone who I believed liked me actually didn’t and I didn’t know why. Once again I had formed a relationship that was digitally-based, and it didn’t work. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. And all these negative thoughts came back so quickly and flooded my mind with fear and loneliness. 

I can’t fix it. I want to fix it. I cannot fix loneliness. 

Now we start all over again.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

The Gratitude Series: Part V

12.5.17

In my last post of the series, I wondered if time would go by and if I would ever feel better. I am happy to report that I do feel better, but I’m not sure I have days where at least one old thought doesn’t creep into my mind. I believe that I am at a point where I am healed enough to think about different men when I am happy or when I am considering a future, but I still think of him when I am sad or think about what could have been. I don’t know what it means..but I think it means life goes on. 

Our first summer together was probably one of the best I had had in a very long time. I was living my life as an adult, with a companion, and with a solid sense of adventure. 

We experienced our first weddings together as plus-ones that summer, and it was always a great time - even when he would make fun of me for crying *every* time at the daddy-daughter dances. We enjoyed judging other people’s ceremonial and reception choices, but in my mind we were always careful not to address our own wedding. It was a weird paradox: being present amongst the truest proclamation of love, but being unable to acknowledge it ourselves. 

We flew across the nation together. I was lucky to spend time with him on many trips, including my first-time visits to Houston, Los Angeles, New York, and Cancun. The trip to LA was interesting and fun, and gave me an insight into what life he may be interested in. These were his fraternity brothers, and they lived richly only in the figurative sense. The apartment was a dirty bachelor pad, but had stunning views of the sunset over the Pacific. The booze was cheap and sometimes warm, but kept us happy playing beach volleyball during the day and laughing about watermelons on the beach at night. It seemed so carefree...other worldly. I loved it, but it just didn’t seem real. 

His birthday was that summer, and I remember him lamenting about how he wished he could do something a bit more. We spent one of the weekends near his official birthday with his family on a lake house. His brother was able to be there, and I thought we had a great time. But something always seemed to be drawing him somewhere else. That’s how it always seemed, no matter where we were. 

Our last weekend together before moving into a long distance relationship was Labor Day weekend. We spent it in my hometown this time, and I suppose it was so unextraordinary that I don’t remember a single detail about it. He never liked my hometown anyway. 

The evening of our last night together, I drove him to the airport. I felt hugely nervous and scared, the pessimist in me convinced that we would fail because he would choose to finally hang on to that little string that was tugging him along and he would leave me behind. We hugged tightly, and it took everything in me to not cry in front of him, as I wanted to prove that I was strong, and that I could do this. I watched him walk away. 

As I drove away from the airport, I cried.

“Gratitude is when memory is stored in the heart and not in the mind.”  --Lionel Hampton

[amarettoandhotchicken]

A 48-Hour Trip to Tinder

11.21.17

I have been single by definition for just under 5 months now, and naturally some of my curiosity is starting to return. I don’t heal very fast or move on quickly, but I have been determined to take steps to not necessarily jump into a relationship, but learn how to move on and stop dwelling on my past. 

Everyone that I’ve talked to about my relationship status always give me that semi-pity face and says, “You’ll meet someone here!” I’m inclined to believe them, but it is very hard to meet people when your best friend is your dog and the people you are most familiar with are 1) married 2) gay and 3) also a transplant from a different city. So you can guess that most of their friends are either already married, also gay, or...non-existent. 

So I’ve taken it upon myself to try to meet people or at least talk to other men in a way that is not work-related or completely platonic on my end. Reaching out and making moves is completely out of my character so I thought...why not try one of these stupid, horrible, online dating apps? 

I downloaded Tinder (just for the ease of it all) and set up my profile, assuming that I needed to choose photos where I was cute but not overly not-myself. I also only chose one photo with a friend, because I assumed that’s what other people might do. I tried for a semi-witty bio, but every time I read it I want to swipe left on myself. 

So here we go into swipedom. 

And honestly it’s every bit of gross as I expected it to be. 

Tinder is endless profiles of men either posting what they think women want or posting things that show they obviously have no idea what women want. I do not claim to know what men want, mostly because I don’t have a man, but geez, I really don’t think either gender is that complicated. 

I wish I had a count for how many guys I swiped through. After about three hours of swiping one evening, I had this horrible realization that this shit is addicting, not because I’m getting attention or the ever-so-flattering Super Likes, but because I essentially have a pool of men at my disposal to choose from in the most superficial way possible. What could go wrong?!? For me, it was thinking about my ratio of NOPES to right swipes which was probably about 100:1, not even joking. 

The stereotypical man profiles can probably be grouped into just a few categories, most of which are unappealing. 

Not My Kid Man: Guys know that chicks like kids. Guys think that putting a child in their picture will get them swipes. But guys are also adamant that “That’s my niece!!” If the thought of someone thinking you have a child is freaky, maybe don’t try to attract females that like kids. 

The Chintleman: Either I’m vain or other people are stupid, but it’s general knowledge that taking a picture angling up from your belly to display your poor beard trimming and exact nostril shape is not going to get you any right swipes. 

Dude Roulette: Kudos to you for being popular, but try to post a picture that actually allows me to figure out who I’m swiping on. Some profiles even posted multiple pictures of them with the same friend, which was either a compliment to the friend or an invitation for a menage a trois. I also sometimes found myself wishing I could swipe right on them only to ask about their friend... 

Please Acknowledge My Masculinity Guy: You know these guys. Mirror selfies as they are flexing the arm not holding the phone. Laying in bed with one arm under their head to accentuate their huuuuge bicep. And occasionally the guy who pulls his gym shorts down far enough to hint at his partially-trimmed uninvited member. SNORE. 

Blurry Boy: I swear these guys must have a 7 year old who follows them around with a camera and takes all their pictures while moving slightly because not a one of them is in focus. “Photography” is kept pretty simple these days - you don’t even have to fiddle with focus or aperture. For gods sake, man, post one clear photo. 

Normal Blokes: Trying too hard to be normal, or actually just normal? I guess we’ll find out. 

I keep wondering if Tinder was going to stop me swiping because I really felt like I had swiped through hundreds of people. Even after all of that, I have matched with 5 people and so far the conversations they have started have been vapid and uninteresting. “Hi. :)” Woohoo, Mike, did you work on that all night? 

While Tinder was the most fun on Saturday evening when my friend and I were each half a bottle of wine deep, judging these guys (and listening to my friend squeal when I swiped left on dudes she thought were decent) will quickly lose its appeal. Though I am shy, I interact much better in person and I think I truly want a relationship that is cultivated from a moment or chance greeting rather than a swipe and a text conversation. From experience, digital relationships are hard, and I’m not sure I want to venture down that path again. 

For now, I’ll leave the swiping to the Tindies that may feel like they are getting true fulfillment out of it rather than a cruel satisfaction of saying NOPE to a small county’s worth of men. And perhaps, just like last time, a guy will show up when I’m not looking for it.

Edit: RIP my Tinder app, 12/3/17.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Standing at a Great Precipice

11.20.17

This post discusses suicide and mental illness.

2017 has been an awful year. I almost feel bad for people who are actually having a good year because the rest of us will be like, “Ugh, yeah, 2017 was a garbage fire.”

I believe my 2017 dumpster dive has plateaued however, and I do find myself being more positive and believing that everything will, eventually, be okay.

I’ve made some new friends at my job, and a preliminary report from me tells me that they are good people and I really would like to form a good bond with them. I’ve discovered that people in this city are kinder than I thought they would be, helping me from the smallest things like great restaurants suggestions to support when a grandparent dies. I’ve discovered how to be alone again, not constantly wondering when someone would reach out, but rather enjoying cooking, drinking wine (omg this new wine I found), or watching my favorite shows.

This evening, with a three-hour stew on the stove and my temporarily crippled dog snoozing beside me, I began reading a blog of a friend of mine detailing his struggles with depression and mental illness. I was only three posts in when I hit a post titled “My Journey to Medication,” a succinct title indicating the topic within.

What I didn’t know about my friend is that he had gotten dangerously close to suicidal thoughts, believing that not being in this world would be preferable to being in a world where a depressive episode coupled with anxiety was overruling all the good and all the blessings he already had. My lovely, smart, funny, supportive friend was going through this and I had no idea.

But it makes me realize that I am the same. How many times have I had these ideas pop into my head? How many dangerous ideas have I had when I am alone? How many people have I actually reached out to and said - my thoughts are scary?

February and March began a miserable period in my life filled with anxiety and its friend, depression. I believe my anxiety was much stronger than my depression, and it invaded all aspects of my life. Some time in April, it began affecting everything I did negatively and the toxic thoughts came pouring in.

At work when I would feel overwhelmed I would walk. There was a bench that I would routinely sit on that overlooked a downtown park, and I often wondered about the guts it would take to step in front of a car. Would I flip over the car and smash the windshield? Or, since I am short, would the car run me over and drag me underneath?

At home, I would think about being hurt and who would visit. What would happen if I did drink an entire bottle of Bulleit? How many Xanax could I take to be almost there? What if I just sank down a little further in my tub until the water rose over my face? This food tastes terrible.

One evening, I was doing pilates. My “instructor” (Cassey Ho, creator of Blogilates) started a stretch routine. She said: “I feel like your emotional health and your mental health are so important and a lot of times we overlook that. We work too hard, we don’t sleep enough, we worry about what other people are saying about us on social media like literally - who cares? [...] I want you to calm down, let go, and just let your body take over, and feel how good it is to find balance and find peace, okay? Try not to think about too much, just think about you, and think about all the good things happening in your life and just feel your body.”

She begins the routine. 4 minutes and 26 seconds in: “Let’s get into those hip flexors. Go ahead and bring one ankle over the opposite knee. This is going to hurt a little bit! But I do find it relaxing when you can kind just find your zen in the pain. [...] What I’m going to ask you to do is press, and when you press...let go. Let go right here.”

While crying was not abnormal for me in my current condition, crying in the middle of a pilates routine after a woman who has never even seen me tells me to let go was different. She looked directly in the camera and told me to let go. I cried through the rest of the routine, knowing that all my attempts to cure myself were not working. I had a problem I could not control or fix. And it was time to let go - let go of my fears of admitting it was real, let go of my reluctance to tell someone I needed help, and let go of my preconceptions and stigma of illness.

I went to my doctor on May 10th and got help for my anxiety and depression. More than 6 months later, I believe it was the best thing I’ve done in 2017.

In a corny and ironic twist of fate, the song that was playing when Cassey told me to let go was a song called “Won’t You Save Me” by Loving Caliber, a song I had never heard before that day. Even now, I cannot watch the Total Body Stretch and hear that song without wondering if that really was the point that saved me.

[amarettoandhotchicken]

Was It Good For You?

10.18.17

In 2009, at the green age of 18, I got my first job working at a luxury dog resort. I mean seriously - what could be better than hanging out with dogs all day in a setting that was literally more like a hotel than a kennel? It had a huge indoor play arena, a lovely grassy yard, dog rooms with TVs, a pool with fountains...that a bulldog drowned in my first day there....

Reality hits you in the face faster than a 15-month old, 170 pound Rottweiler. Come to find out, dealing with other people’s crazy ass dogs and scooping their shit all day isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Even the fun stuff like outdoor play times and belly rubs aren’t enjoyable when it’s 92 degrees outside or when that shitty little Dachshund snaps at you every time you come near.

Needless to say, I am no longer at that job, but to this day it remains my longest job tenure at just about 2.5 years. Shortest job? Two months. Fuck you, Rob.

Now at the age of 27, I am very proud and extremely relieved to have found what I believe is the job for me; this is that ever elusive job that everyone is looking for. I no longer wake up in the morning and dread the day ahead of me. I no longer lay on my couch in misery wondering if I really do need a job. And I no longer spend 9-10 hours of my day at work wondering what the hell I can do to get out as fast as possible. I can now join the 41% of respondents who say they are very satisfied with the work they do each day.

Could it be...contentedness?

It has been interesting to feel the difference it makes in my personal health and well-being. Gone is the terrible anxiety I would feel every day on the way to work as I knew that I would have to endure another day of mindless contracts and empty emails. Half of the time, I didn’t even had work to do, which aggravated my GAD. It was easy to sit in that office and think of all the terrible things, mostly things I wasn’t achieving. I felt stupid, I felt useless, I felt stuck. My mind raced each day to figure out an escape route - should I look for a new job? Where? In town? In Dallas? Another city? What should I look for? What opportunities will be available? Would they even consider me as an out of towner?

Then what about salary? Will I be able to live my current lifestyle in another city? Will I be able to have affordable housing where I won’t feel unsafe? How far am I going? Will I be so far away that I will have to learn to be completely self-sufficient? Who can I rely on? Am I alone in this?

An unfulfilling job but me in a dark place of uncertainty, envy, and anger. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be able to tell people stories about my job and how interesting it was. I wanted my parents to be proud of me and I wanted my boyfriend to be proud of me. I wanted to prove my success and I wanted to share it with other people.

I truly believe that my dissatisfaction in the workplace caused damage to my personal life. My chronic stress made me irritable, weepy for no reason, and more sensitive. I clutched to things like my relationship harder than ever because I believed that’s all I had. I was so focused on an escape route and moving to his city as fast as possible, I ignored the warning signs that he was not ready. I truly believe that my unhappiness outside of my relationship poisoned the happiness within it.

After the loss of my relationship, my job wore me down further. I cried alone in my office. I kept my phone in my drawer to remove temptation of communication, but that also took away my distractions. My obsession with finding a new job and a new place to live had caught up to me, and all my websites were now blocked. I would spend hours clicking through Wikipedia just to have something to do, and somehow I found myself either reading about something related to him and his life or reading about other careers.

My obsessions and anxieties had reached a boiling point. I submitted application after application figuring anything was better than this hell hole. I had two interviews in Dallas. This just added another level of anxiety I’m not sure my body could take. Literally...I had lost 12 pounds, I could not sleep, I felt weak, and I had had chronic GI problems for more than a month.

And finally. My ADoS threw my name in the hat for a new opportunity. I didn’t want it. I didn’t take the interview seriously - I didn’t even take a resume. I got the offer a week later and allowed myself one day to mull it over. This was exactly what I wanted and I knew it...but it was the wrong city, the wrong hotel, and the wrong people. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This wasn’t the plan.

But sometimes “you must give up the life you planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you.”