Therapist: “So, this thing where you’re calling yourself stupid, and clingy, and crazy — where’s that coming from?”
Me: “I don’t know, I feel like I was pressuring him. He has anxiety and depression, too, and I know how that feels, to have someone demanding your time, another THING you have to keep up with. Honestly, I’m kinda psyched to have Sundays to myself again, so I get where he’s coming from.”
Therapist: “OK, I get that. But from everything you’ve told me — and obviously I’m your Person, so I’m biased — this sounds like it’s him, not you. Basically the only thing you asked him for was more sex. Maybe you could’ve been more direct about saying it, but that doesn’t make it clingy, or crazy, or stupid. Putting aside the sexual component, if you had a friend and communication with them dropped off like it did here, would you be concerned and check in with them?”
Therapist: “That’s not crazy. It’s caring about a human being.”
I LOVE paying people to tell me I’m right.
She told me it was fine to send him an email I’ve written offering a friendship, but the longer I don’t hear from him after the last message I sent, the less interest I have in that idea. I’m not that bad at taking a hint.
Ah, yes. A key decision in any “relationship” — do I end it now while I’m pretty sure I can handle it, or let it ride until it crashes and burns in the most damaging possible way?
Pfft. JK, it’s not actually a question. Y’all know I’ll suffer for a good story — let’s dance, Feelings!
Kidding. The beauty of having played the He’s Just Not That Into You home game for 2 years a while back is that I can see it easily now. Plus ending the 10-year relationship right before THAT… I mean, it can’t hurt TOO much if this one ends. “We’re done? Oh, OK, cool. I’ll have more time to clean.”
But it turns out the “slut shame” doesn’t come from the sex. It comes from sex being all there is — from me not being feelings-worthy for whatever reason, from being kept around solely for my ability to wet a dick.
I’m not built for that. I don’t need Edward Lewis, but I damn sure ain’t settlin’ for Stuckey.
I acknowledge the possibility that I’m hormonal and misinterpreting, but I think I’m right. If I can’t tell that you, um, like me, or want to spend time with me, that is legit insane-making for my membranes.
I deleted (not blocked) his number, and, with it, my ability to text him anything belligerent and cunty. He’s still free to contact me, though, so we’ll see what happens.
Hm… Though I guess I probably should’ve seen what happened before I spent the weekend getting myself over this based on these assumptions… Oops. Ah, well. Call it preventive care.
He just texted.
I am a fucking nutcase.
I might get to have sex tomorrow, so obviously my brain has picked today to have a total goddamn meltdown and decide that everything about my physical appearance is disgusting.
Whatever, bitch. You know he doesn’t care about a pimple — you wouldn’t want to sleep with him if he did. And he’s already seen you naked and still opted to invite you back.
We are getting laid if the opportunity presents itself, so get your judgy ass on board.
“What about all that other stuff I’m telling you, how he’s probably already over any real attraction but is smart enough not to say so to a woman who’s so clearly willing to sleep with him?”
Nope. Don’t care. Maybe he’ll fuck the Crazy out of you, and if that doesn’t work, that’s why we pay a therapist.
Texting friends about my family:
Me: “My sister just told me she thinks she and I are ‘curbing the insanity’ in the family. BRB, have to go laugh for a week straight.”
Friend 1: “I literally laughed out loud. Loudly. It may have been a cackle.”
Friend 2: “The funniest part is she really believes that.”
Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.
It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.
Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.
I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)