You're not really a Nice Guy

You tell us that you’re nice guys, and it’s our fault that you can’t seem to hold our attention.

You tried to prove that chivalry wasn’t dead by holding the door open for us and by paying for an incredibly expensive dinner we didn’t ask for when we were in the bathroom, so we couldn’t even offer to split the bill. You looked disappointed when I squeezed past you to get into the doorway of the popular, crowded café – what, you’re angry I didn’t thank you making sure the door didn’t slam in my face? Would you be upset if there was a man behind you, and he didn’t offer thanks? Would you have held the door for a man in the first place?

I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the ex on the first date, but that should set off warning bells in your head anyway. Maybe I’m not over him, and maybe I claim to be, but anyone keeping score at home could have told you to chalk it up to a frustrating evening and just let me go. The wine I was drinking kept my mind from wandering back to the ex who just wouldn’t stop texting me. The steak was to show you I wasn’t “that girl” who ordered a salad; I was the girl who genuinely wanted you to like me.

And when I realized that I just couldn’t wrap my head around dating the guy in front of me, I tried to make a graceful exit. How graceful it actually was shouldn’t be a matter for discussion, and it shouldn’t be an excuse for you to insult my choices in men. Aren’t you supposed to be a nice guy, after all?

On that note, Mr. Nice Guy, let’s talk about how wonderful you were to me. Sure, you listened to me talk, and gave me your full attention. You say you didn’t expect anything in return, but you clearly expected a goodnight kiss and a second date, since you’re so still so upset about this date days, weeks, months later. If you were really a nice guy, you’d understand that this wasn’t working for me, drown your disappointment in a beer with your buddies tomorrow night, and try another date with another girl next weekend.

You think you get it, explaining my insecurities as a reason for me to consider you once more, when in reality, it just makes you as disgusting to me as the self-proclaimed jerks you hold yourself so highly against. At least with those men, I knew what I was getting myself into. And while we’re on the topic, who the hell are you to judge me? You’re in your thirties and still can’t manage to shave without cutting yourself. Your belt never matches your shoes. You’re so proud of your life accomplishments, but I’ve managed to balance my checkbook and my social choices. Go ahead and show off that fancy new car of yours. That Mustang you love more than anything is the most accomplished thing you will ever have. You’ll be riding in it alone, you know.

As the insults keep coming, my suspicions keep rising. If you know where I’ve been, why did you want to date me in the first place? If you’re so convinced that I don’t need a nice guy, why are you still dwelling on my meager existence? If you’re such a simple guy, find a nice simple girl who’s never dated anyone in her life and will dote on you like a housewife from the ‘50s. They opened doors for women and paid their dinner bills back then – they also discouraged married women from having careers and you know, living their lives. Times were simpler back then.

If you’re so convinced that the only reason I’m interested in you is because I’m washed up, maybe you should step back and re-evaluate your own perfect life with the little accomplishments you’re so proud of. Maybe you’d notice that I’ve grown up and moved on, too, and realized that I was looking for someone I could share my life with, not my bed with. I wasn’t expecting you to be sitting by the phone for me – but since I called you, clearly you’re not finding that “nice girl” you’re looking for, either. I’m glad I’ve taught you some lessons by now, but it’s clear you’ve still got some learning to do.

Bottom line – I thought I was ready to date you, but judging by your frustration, you were never ready to date me. Stop dwelling on my own emotional baggage and learn to unpack your own. You’re not nice, honey, you’re bitter. Stop pushing for pity as The Nice Guy, and start actually becoming one

I am not afraid

I was 22 when I finally stopped opening the door for unrequited love.
I was 23 when I first learned that
courage tasted like bitter wine and metal.
Like blood and honey.
When I told you I loved you,
I screamed it. I let it rip
it’s way out of my throat, and
it felt so good that I cried.
The other day, you walked by me
with your friends and I could feel the pity in your stare.
Don’t you do that.
Don’t you look at what I had for you and call it weak.
Not when you were the one afraid of it.
I stood there with my hands open,
my mouth bruised tender with supplication.
Don’t you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions, like being
moved to my knees by love
was a mistake that I regret.
I will go to my grave with the memory
of the bravery in my bones.
I am not ashamed of any of it.
Not the closed door in my face
or the static silence of my phone
for weeks after.
I was not afraid.
I am still not afraid.
I will never be afraid again.
Bring in the beasts with teeth
like tree branches.
Bring in all the men who will never love me.
Bring in the monsters with
faces carved out of stone.
I am not afraid.
They can eat me alive.
I am not afraid.
I will cut my way out of their bellies.
I am not afraid.
Never again.

The journey after a relationship

“I don’t do relationships.”

That was how all of this began. I never wanted to go through the struggle, the pain, the troubling journey, the constricting lifestyle of a relationship. After a long, arduous and life-altering relationship at an age when I hadn’t even discovered myself, let alone someone else, the last thing I wanted was to go through it all again. To feel dejected, broken, unworthy, helpless, and embarrassed of feeling all these things.

But what I had forgotten was the joy. I forgot the joy of sharing your life with someone that willingly and eagerly takes part in it, yearning to be a focal point. I forgot about the happiness of having someone by your side that wants to make every aspect of your life better and will try anything and everything to make it happen. I forgot the feeling of waking up next to someone that you had hoped would spend the night. I forgot the fulfilling, comforting and beautiful journey.

Or maybe I chose not to remember them. In any case, you were insistent on making it happen, and make it happen you did. You reminded me of all these things, you showed me that my perspective was messed up. You proved to me that avoiding relationships wasn’t the answer to maintaining a peaceful lifestyle. Rather, you achieve that peaceful life by avoiding the unhealthy negativity from a failing liaison and looking for what makes you happy. And you made me happy. Our time together was eye-opening to say the least. It was a combination of bliss, pleasure, happiness, and excitement in a way that words would never truly capture in its glory. While it was short, it was still important. It still meant something to me.

Everything that I had chosen to forget seemed utterly stupid. I myself couldn’t understand where or how I could have possibly gotten those thoughts. Until now.

Now that we’re here, I remember it all. The pain, the struggle, the troubling journey, I remember it all now. But these are not attributable to the relationship. The agony isn’t from the relationship; it’s from the journey after the relationship. The process of returning to yourself, whoever that may be at the moment. The path of rediscovering life as you used to know it. Life as me instead of life as us. Understanding how having you in my life for such a short time left such an impact on me. Going from talking constantly to nothing but silence.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't worth it. I know I'm a mess. I know I have problems. But it didn't seem to phase you. Maybe I was wrong. I know that I'm still trying to get my life together. Maybe you don't want to wait around for it. I know that it takes hours for me to look presentable when you can wake up and look gorgeous. Maybe you knew you could do better. I know I have a constant battle with food. Maybe you realized I wasn't worth it. Maybe you realized that you deserve better.

It will happen, it is inevitable. Nothing is forever. No relationship will last, but all pains come to an end. Whether it takes a few days, a few months, or a few years, I will recover. Along the way, the days will be long, the nights will be sleepless, everyday tasks will be mundane, and everything that you thought you knew about yourself will be questioned by others and by yourself. But you will return to yourself. I will return to myself.

I just wish this would have ended differently.  

Any minute now... You'll be you.

You function “like a normal person.” You take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and make it out the door in less than an hour. It used to take you the whole morning. And two to three cups of coffee. And a handful of songs that glistened on your ears. (If you made it out at all.) You used to lose time looking out the window because everything was beautiful, and everything in every season had a hazy glow attached to it. In the summer you’d go out to see what the plants looked like after the heavy sky left drops of rain on the leaves. In the winter the fresh snow would cover everything and fill your mind with soft corners.

But now, none of that. There are only dirty sidewalks and messy gardens and more fucking sun and more fucking humidity. The world is a place you are forced walk across to get to work or school or home. At work you answer emails and make phone calls and tie up loose ends and find solutions to problems. Under fluorescent lights you go to meetings and cross things off your to-do list. Your hair is combed, your tights don’t have runs in them, and your boss praises you. You smile because you have forgotten that this is not You.

No, the You you’ve known all your life would not feel good about completing a purchase order or remembering which folder a document is in. The You before the medication had dreams about doing more than this. It was always Which city am I going to next? And now it’s When is the microwave in the breakroom free? The You before medication was always What can I create tonight? Now You are more What if I spill paint on the carpet? That won't come out and I'll lose my deposit. During the day this doesn’t seem like a big deal because you are focused and productive. You see clear goals and paths carved out to get you there. You are medicated, and everything is linear.

But when have you ever been a fan of straight lines? At night you remember how you used to love the twisted ones best. How much time did you spend just wandering, even if it meant not getting where you were supposed to go? You would always find something better, or at the very least you’d see/touch/taste/feel something amazing on the way there. The world was not something you were forced to be in; you wanted to be in it, badly, and wanted it in you. You wanted to put your hands on it and breathe it in. What was that like, again?

It’s too hard to remember because every morning you wake up and swallow a blue capsule that pushes all that out of sight. It gives you tunnel vision, and during the half hour it takes to kick in you can feel the narrowing like waves crashing over you. Soon this part will be over, though. Soon you won’t be reaching out to grab the hand of the person you used to be while the tide pulls her under. You’ll forget her and you’ll forget the way the sun hit the streets just right this morning and how the breeze brushed past you whispering “Follow” as it disappeared around the corner. You’ll be fine, and you won’t dream.

It’s ok because this is what the doctor says is “fine.” This is what your parents and teachers and bosses say is “fine.” But you know this is not fine because fine is having space for your thoughts to breathe. It is thanking the stars or the lord or the Smiths that you are not like the others. It is what you were before you were medicated. It can be yours again, and you know it, and each day it’s harder and harder to hold your breath and go underwater.

One day you won’t do it. You’ll just stop, and you’ll live again.

You’ll stop, and you’ll see and feel and be in love with the world again.

Any minute now.

Where do I go from here?

Anyone who has battled an eating disorder will tell you there is a line drawn through life. It’s not huge or obvious or obnoxious. In fact, it’s quite small and almost always invisible to others. Staying on the right side of the line is a war won not through the end result but the daily battles.

You see, this fine, fine line is occasionally overstepped. Maybe a toe sneaks over the line or a whole step is taken but, whatever it is, you’ll always catch yourself at the edge, back up slowly and resume living on the right side.

But sometimes, when fate decides to come and play, you don’t just take a step or two over the line. The control you thought you had begins to slip away. Slowly, at first, and then like a tornado it rips through your reality, destroying everything in its path. And before you know it, you find yourself falling head first into that bottomless pit.

After several years on the road to recovery, I finally felt okay. Okay to eat a slice of pizza now and then. Okay to indulge in a full fat latte once a week. I was okay.

Fast-forward four months and I have begun to cross that tempting line again. At first it was a missed meal, then a harsh thought after looking in the mirror, followed by an extra mile on the treadmill.

But I reassured myself I was fine. Having an eating disorder isn’t a one-time thing. It can be a struggle to stay afloat. So I had picked up some old habits. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before. I was still better. I wasn't that  bad. Right?

This was different. The carefully balanced scale reached the tipping point.

Eating disorders are disorders based in shame, and I felt a whole additional level of shame. Without even realizing it, I had gone five days without eating. I wish I could have stopped myself, but at that point, it was too late. The dark side had consumed me as I gained ultimate control again. Control over my body, what I chose to put in my mouth and what I chose to refuse.

It was exhilarating. Like the feeling of whiskey running through my veins, I felt alive.

If this path of self-destruction and self-deprecation is familiar to you then you also know that the high doesn’t last long. The hunger pains slowly increase. A permanent winter takes refuge in your bones and won’t shake no matter how many blankets you wrap around yourself. And a glance in the mirror reveals that the days of shiny, full hair are long gone.

But I had crossed the line, that fine, fine line running through your life. Oh darling, I had fallen into the deep end and, once you’re in that deep, the swim back to shore seems impossible. You're out there all alone and no one can see you. No one can throw you a life raft.

What do you do when you’ve gone too far? What do you do when you don’t recognize the face staring back at you? Where do you go from here?