As I sit on the floor erasing penciled in cartoons out of the inside of my kitchen cupboards, I wonder to myself why the hell they are even there in the first place. Oh, that’s right, because the sociopathic cokehead I dated told me it was a good idea.
The conversation went something like this:
“I’m gonna draw on your cupboards.”
“What? Why? No, don’t do that.”
“Whatever. I’m going to anyway.”
“Oh. Well okay then.”
And just like that, I have to admit to myself that I am a moron.
I contacted him to help pay for the damage but he was too busy having a nosebleed. That is a lie.
It’s not the first time I’ve let someone manipulate me but MARK MY WORD IT WILL BE THE LAST!
Just kidding. That’s what I said the last time.
I’m not going to turn this into a gender thing. I am a female and I happen to allow myself to be manipulated by douchebag males. I don’t really care what the statistics are and blah, blah, blah. Let’s just agree that some people are assholes, yes? (There’s your pull quote.)
It’s settled then. Some people are assholes. If you’re lucky, you will date only one asshole. You will learn your lesson, focus on people who are healthy for you, and live happily every after. If you’re unlucky (as I think many of us are) you will continue in some mind boggling cycle of abuse and self hatred and nobody has time for that shit.
After chalking the first time up to inexperience and “blind love”, why do we keep allowing this to happen?
My brother recently started giving presentations to young school children through his job (here’s my chance to give a shout out to my brother and say that I’m so proud of him and everything he’s accomplished in his work and personal life), and he commented on how it’s obvious that being accepted by your peers at that age is the biggest most important, if not only, thing that matters at that age.
I remember that.
We all know what peer pressure is like as a kid not only for the things that our parents think we’re going to get into, like drinking and smoking, but things like hating one of your best friends for a week because your other friend hates her or laughing at a joke, when you’re expected to, even though it will hurt someone’s feelings.
Math class in school was torture for me. For example: what is 35+22? I don’t know. Okay it’s 57 but that took some finger counting. Who cares? Math sucks, quack quack. If you’re a Jimmy Buffet fan, you’ll appreciate that. If not, you need to reconsider.
Why is there no school subject that teaches you how to embrace being an individual, learn from your mistakes, and grow into a wonderful and kind person with your own beliefs and the strength to accept and love yourself for who you are?
Why? Because kids are dumb. I remember being told that I’d understand one day, that I was too young, that my brain couldn’t process things the way an adult brain could. Preach!
Your twenties can be described as having everything you thought you knew and loved set on fire and you have to scramble to pull out the pieces that matter most to you while watching the rest get burnt and charred.
Don’t worry. Eventually you’ll find these things again and they will be shiny and new and you will pay dearly for them in one way or another.
When you’re in your twenties you look around and realize that nothing is what you thought it was.
The people you thought were super cool are actually a bunch of jerks. Relationships are not Disney movies. Relationships, for that matter, are not even your parent’s relationship (or another healthy adult relationship you witnessed as a child). Remember, times change, people change, and society changes.
For all of you who are reading this and in your thirties, forties, fifties, or beyond, I’m not where you are. I can only assume that we keep growing and learning and discovering new things about ourselves as we age. That’s my nice way of saying that I can only assume that we still fuck up, experience heartbreak, and wonder who we are and what the hell we’re doing. I look forward to that.
Another lesson from my brother (he is very clever) is that during WWII, many people wrote letters to their loved ones at home. How romantic are love letters?! They were torn away from their families and the people they loved the most. For those who were lucky enough to see the war end, they wanted to get married and have as many babies as possible so that their family could be together and be fed.
Nowadays (in my safe little world on the east coast of Canada, anyway) it’s more like… you bored? Yeah, you bored. Check out Tinder. WHAT?! Fifteen matches in half an hour? Which one of them is the cutest? Which one of them is the most interesting? They think I’M cute?! Then, after two months, ten miserable dates, and five Facebook status updates about being #foreveralone, you start swiping left again. I mean right. Whatever.
I have not only dated manipulative douchebags. (Here’s my chance to give a shout out to all the great men I’ve dated over the years. You guys are neat.) I don’t blame all men for the things I’ve been through. They need to be responsible for their actions and I for mine.
I’d like to have a positive ending about how I then found myself, picked myself up off the ground, and screamed “I AM WOMAN” and I’ve probably done that a time or two but we tend to get knocked back down. I’m not husband hunting. I’m not even boyfriend hunting. I’m just trying to figure out how to demand happiness from the world. I WANT HAPPINESS, WORLD! * Looks around *
We can’t dwell on the falls. Think about a baby learning to walk around the living room. They teeter and fall over on their chubby little asses (and it’s hilarious) and then they roll over, pop up into an awkward downward dog, and after some leg shaking and carpet burned foreheads, they get up and they’re mushy little brain is once again upright and moving forward.
That’s all we are, folks. Mushy brained babies trying to stand up.
So I’ll stand up now, get back to erasing the pencil off the inside of my cupboards, and hope to hell I can get the marks out. “No more sociopathic cokeheads, Trish.”
Huh! I never though of it that way before.
This guest post brought to you by my lovely friend, Trish McNeill.