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i can feel myself getting bitter and i don’t want to be. I don’t want to be cynical, I don’t want to be defensive. I want to be vulnerable, and soft, and love freely, passionately, fiercely, love flowing. I don’t want to be jaded and beaten down. Being soft is a beautiful, sacred thing, and I refuse to let myself be anything else. Being soft in a cruel world is an act of defiance, and I refuse to give in; to submit and to break. Softness is so often mistaken for weakness, for idealism, frivolity, but it’s so important to live with wonder and with light.

On the last guy I was seeing (although mostly me)

Not sure how to start this, but I have a lot in my head. Let’s start with how I hate to be writing this, how I hate the effect this man has on me, how I can’t even say it’s not personal – because it very much is. How I’m probably just another notch in his bedpost. How I’ve talked to my therapist about him.

Let’s talk about how he’s ruined my life, and how… how awful it is that he’s so ordinary. I’m not trying to absolve myself of blame; I know I am equally - actually, no, literally a hundred times more guilty. And not even trying to sort of trivialise it, or perform my guilt. I know I fucked up and am at fault.

Let’s talk about how he’s much of the reason why I’m back in therapy, which, is a great thing, I suppose, but I hate how he’s such a massive part of my life, of major events that have shaped me. I hate how big the mark he has left on me (not even for the first time) is. 

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You know how sometimes in the midst of complete inebriation you get a moment of clarity? Where you are suddenly hyper-aware of your life, where you are, and you’re kind of like, what the hell am I doing?

Like the cliche that I am, I had that experience about three weeks ago, looking into the mirror in the restroom of a random bar, (or an Italian restaurant that happened to have an extensive wine list).

And it sucks because seeing him again wasn’t even exciting! romantic! fun! full of extreme highs and lows! It was okay. Like, it was fine. I had a pretty decent time, a pretty good time actually, but they weren’t dates that were particularly distinctive or memorable (robbing me of material to properly romanticise - although i still did, of course. When it comes to romanticising and projecting, I can turn water into wine). Which kind of sucks because you don’t expect pain to be so… awfully.. mundane. 

Anyway, it was then I realised (for the fifty-hundredth time) that I really had no self-respect. I project onto men I date a lot – so much so that it honestly is almost a hobby at this point; and dating him seemed to represent being with the manifestations of everything I hate about myself. Being with him was like a constant reminder of why i hate myself.

He intrigued me at first because of our shared past (which for obvious reasons, matters a whole lot more to me), and because of the humiliation of his previous rejection. And I hate that about myself so much. I truly don’t remember much of my first year in Melbourne because of how ashamed I am. And I hate that it’s not even just the guilt from what we did – what I did, but the shame from still wanting him after, the shame over the rejection, and that sick, sick craving of validation. It makes me feel like an awful person, and maybe I am a a bad person. Not just because of what I did, but because. of what I felt after. Which I thought I’d grown from since three years ago, but apparently not, because I went right back. 

I tell myself, perhaps I gave him another chance because I want to make things right, I wanted to rewrite history; perhaps, if we could be together, and if things actually worked out between us, it would erase the badness of what we did three years before. Perhaps, then, what we did would have a reason, a higher purpose. It would be worth it. We would be meant to be. But I think upon self-reflection, I just.. really, have a sick need to be wanted. It was, me trying to rewrite my past, but not even to overwrite the guilt, but to overwrite the shame of being rejected; like, I guess you didn’t want me then, but that was just timing because look who came running back? It’s like I have no moral compass and it really kind of scares me how sick this need for validation and male attention is making me.

I suppose I could say it’s not personal, but I could never muster up such thoughts and such vitriol about any other guy I ever dated – and maybe that’s still me romanticising things.

And reconnecting with him, because of that twisted craving, that twisted need to prove something to myself, gave me a sick pleasure. I almost found joy in the secret we both shared. And I know he felt it too, but it bothers me that this is who I am as a person, that my need for validation may supersede any morals or values I claim to hold. 

Everything about him, our shared past, his political views, the way he treated me – or should I say, the way I allowed myself to be treated. I think, revealed something awful about myself I’d maybe always known, but tried to keep buried, tried not to face.

Which is why I’m in therapy, I suppose. I don’t want to be a bad person. I mean, I know I am a bad person now, I know I have done bad things, but, somehow I’ve deluded myself into thinking I’m decent, and I don’t know. I suppose, I don’t want to be a bad person anymore. 

Being with him makes me feel like I’m a bad person. Which is not to say that it’s his fault, or that it’s just a feeling. I guess it’s more accurate to say that being with him makes it more obvious to myself what I’ve been trying to ignore; that I am a bad person. Being with him makes it impossible to deny to myself that I am a bad person. And blaming him makes me feel a bit better, although not by much, because in the same way me making a mistake doesn’t absolve him of guilt, him being an objectively terrible person (he isn’t actually, despite everything, I still feel for him; I think he’s just another flawed person with good intentions trying his best, or at least, trying) doesn’t make me any sort of victim. If anything, it reflects worse on me because.. all of this over.. a nobody?

And I don’t know, perhaps the worst part is that, despite all that i’ve just said, it really wasn’t even that bad. It honestly took me a lot of self-control - mixed with my hurt ego and pride from his lack of commitment - to let go of this. I still think about him. And a part of me still wants him, despite everything. which, truly seems to make me a despicable person.

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I wish I never met him. These strong emotions, these thoughts, these feelings I can’t seem to shake off. They feel so wasted on him. Someone who is so… absolutely devoid of anything really that interesting. 

I reckon he should be honored. He should be honored to have left such a deep mark on anyone at all. He should feel happy he’s able to muster up such strong feelings in anyone, despite being a completely and utterly unremarkable person outside of his father’s wealth (which I admit is substantial, but does not replace any sort of exceptional trait or personality - although i’m STILL kind of impressed by it? what the fuck is wrong with me?).

Which to be honest, is the most scathing thing I can bring myself to feel about him – that he’s uninteresting (because it’s kind of true). I don’t know where I’m going with this or even what I’m saying. He’s just a regular guy, I suppose, a little selfish, not very understanding of consent, a little cocky, a little proud, but generally well-intentioned and full of his little insecurities and hang-ups, just like anyone else. I guess, I don’t know, he’s a little fucked up, and is okay with hurting people, but those too, seem to be borne from insecurities and wanting to feel good about himself, which I can understand all too well. I don’t know.

you know, sometimes in the middle of doing something, like when you’re nearing the queue of a roller coaster, or in a plane on the way to see someone you’ve never met, or in the middle of a long drawn out breakup, or drunk on the bed sleeping with someone, and you suddenly feel a massive pang of anxiety and regret? but then you push through it and it kind of sucks but it’s not that bad? i feel like killing myself would feel a bit like that and i just need to push through haha

using this as a journal because i don’t know, i read that journaling helps with anxiety and i am extremely anxious and extremely depressed today. just one of those days i guess. anyway after two weeks, i have finally deleted both of my dating apps. i’m not sure what had possessed me to download them in the first place, but there’s something profoundly wrong with me; i can’t resist checking my apps every 10 minutes or so. i just can’t seem to live without revolving my life around male attention, male validation, without craving some form of attention, without searching for love - which obviously dating apps do not give, all i get is sexual attention, which is so easy for an extremely stupid girl like me to mistake for connection or for love (well, not love, but you know what i mean).

i’ve come to realize that there is something, truly, deeply, deeply wrong with me. i think i might actually not love myself, which does not make sense because i think i do, i think i have a relatively healthy opinion of myself, i think i have high standards, too high almost, bordering on narcissism, i think i’m better than some people and i get offended when i don’t get the instant gratification of an immediate match - no matter how illogical. i find that i just don’t seem to have any self-respect, less than any of my friends. i was very very rudely disrespected by a man i’d met in the weekend, and while i did all the rational things, blocking, expressing outrage, or the logical anger, and followed through with it, i find that emotionally, i still crave attention from this random man i met once that had disrespected me more than any other person i’d ever met in my entire life. i found peace in a text he’d sent me the next morning asking if i got home okay. the rational part of me expressed outrage and anger, how dare him! but part of me felt…? almost, expectant? happy? that he seemed to “care” about me? well, not care, but i don’t know. and it’s just a mess. i don’t know why i am like this. i would never act on any sort of desire due to my pride, but just knowing that deep inside me, i am not completely repulsed, knowing that deep inside me, i still am seeking validation from someone that was completely cruel to me, completely and utterly dismissive, cruel, someone that made me feel so small, so crazy, someone that gaslit me, i don’t know why i am this way. it scares me. it scares me that i have seemingly zero self respect, that my instincts go against any regular person’s. of course i feel the regular disgust and hurt, but more than that, i almost want him to desire me, as if that would make it better, like i would feel less small? if he did? even if i didn’t respond? i don’t know, it’s messed up. and i don’t know what to do. i really, truly, do not know what i am doing. i want to laugh, and i want to cry. i honestly truly, want to die.

I am exhausted, utterly and completely exhausted. I think I’m finally admitting to myself that I am not okay, and while emotions, like tides, have ebbs and flows, the wave of sadness and of emptiness come ever so often, like clockwork, it comes every week, every three days, the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach, the overwhelming desire to escape. I keep it away by going out; eating out, social interaction, yoga, exercise, keeping busy, watching mindless shows, prayer, denying it, but it always feels like I’m toeing a line, precariously balancing on a thin piece of rope, with the feeling of unease creeping behind me so very closely, like I’m a character in a bad horror movie, the looming threat of coming undone just a couple steps behind. I find myself breaking down every week, and it’s not something I want either; it frustrates me, it makes me feel weak. annoying. Cringe-worthy. pathetic. But yet it comes. Even in the happiest of moments it comes. I find myself crying two or three times while on holiday. I blame it on random circumstances, and when asked, I say I don’t know, or make something up, but the truth is that I truly don’t know.

Some days I don’t feel as bad, some days I feel like I am being dramatic; people have it far worse than me, and in a way, well, in many ways, they do. I am, objectively, an extremely privileged girl. I was born to a “good” family, upper-middle class, I’ve lived in relative luxury all my life, I haven’t gone through any pain. I’ve lived a charmed life, by all definitions. Rationally, I should not be feeling like this - I had a good, normal childhood. Yes, my parents were very often away, but I was always loved. I’ve never really been bullied, I’m objectively pretty, and have always been told so. My weight, while something I’ve always struggled with, has never been anything but socially acceptable. I speak relatively well, am of relative intelligence, had not gone through any real trauma. By all accounts, I’m extremely blessed. I should not be feeling like this, so feeling the way I do makes me feel guilty, because I have no reason to.

There are times I wonder, could it really be my parents? Perhaps some of the anxieties that come with my appearance, with my fear of being disliked, of authority, my lack of assertion, could have come from my mother. Perhaps my desperate longing for male attention, constant, needy, clingy, reassurance, perhaps that could have stemmed from a lack of affection from my father. But I know they love me, it seems almost worst to blame them for things, to take for granted my perfect idyllic family that loves me. The problem is not them, it’s me. It’s all me.

I romanticise everything in my life with a sort of pathological obsession, My life, in my eyes, in reflection, take on an pseudo-Plathian tinge, a New York Times modern love story. Even the way I’m (very badly) writing this now. Despite having zero audience, I still perform. Everything to me is a narrative. Every boy I date, a prince, a grand love story where I am the so-very-special protagonist. The narcissist I am. Every boy I date has qualities I deem storybook-worthy. A list of traits that make them worthy of my pedestal. In my world, they are the perfect ones that got away, ones that just cannot understand me, everything is deeper than it needs to be. I hopelessly cling onto romantic endeavours to find a sense of self, a sense of worth. My life revolves wholly around my romantic relationships, or lack-thereof. I torture myself endlessly, literally obsessively. Every man is THE ONE. The only important thing in my life. The centre, the saving grace. The more doomed, the better. Trophy boyfriends I convince myself I love. And I do love, at least, I believe I do. More often than not, they are merely figments of my imagination. I take the base traits that make me choose them and run with it, creating a fictional character in my head I then devote myself entirely to. I change my entire identity, my entire purpose, to fit this narrative. I do this often, I do this pathologically. Do I want to be this person? Of course not, I fancy myself a feminist, a not-weak bitch. The one who is desired by many, rather than the pathetic, clingy, sad, anxious loser. But yet. I am aware of my anxious attachment style (have I yet mentioned my neurotic need to read up on every single situation and self-diagnose, actively ponder and mull over, drive myself crazy overthinking yet?) This anxiety runs through every aspect of my life. To be completely honest, I’m not sure if I actually am sad and empty, or if this just defines me. A literal, mere text makes or breaks my entire day, my entire sense of self, my entire mental health. Nothing else in the world matters except this relationship. I don’t know, actually, maybe I am not actually empty, maybe I am just sad due to different men, and my refusal to accept that I am really, that, insane and weak, is leading me to blame other factors for my vast mood swings. Very possibly so.

miss-mandy-m:

Makeup Mondays 💄 :

Nneoma Anosike photographed by Bennet Cobliner for Glamour South Africa, with makeup by Sheri Terry. Hair by Kazunori Ueda.