Week Twenty-Eight: On Mental Health & Rejection
Whenever my mental health takes a dive, it usually manifests itself in physical ways. Not cleaning the house. Forgetting to eat. Neglecting my personal hygiene. Laying in bed all day lurking around the internet as if it will distract me from how miserable I am.
That's where I've been lately by which I mean mostly this weekend (okay and a little bit of the week, too). I would say I'm sorry for being such a downer but the reality of this project is that my life is on highlight: the good, the bad, and the stinky (and I mean that both literally and figuratively).
Rejection is a certain kind of heavy sadness, the kind that feels like worthlessness and talks like self doubt, the persistence of which spends its days whispering the inevitability of failure in your ear: you are nothing. And this leaves me with a feeling of deep shame: I generally consider myself to be a self-sufficient, independent person who has never relied on other people to supply or ensure my own happiness. Perhaps my self-perception is not quite as confident as I make it out to be.
Let me break it down for you: I asked a guy out. He bailed on the day of our date and has not said a peep since. Go figure.
My last serious relationship was over two years ago. Though I have dated since then, it has been without any measure of emotional attachment. Folks my age would call this "casual dating". And it was recently that someone came into my life. Or more appropriately, I finally recognized this person in my life. Though we'd been crossing paths for who knows how long, it was only about five or six months ago I even realized that he was there.
It stands to reason that one of my downfalls in this situation might've been getting hyped over an idea. The idea of what something could be. The idea of what it might mean. The notion that I could have a partner with whom to spend my free time, someone to kiss me when I'm sad or someone to make me laugh when I'm cranky, a friend who enjoys my company and I his.
God, I'm pathetic. Despite my occasionally callous nature, especially towards romantic endeavors of any kind, it seems I am under the surface a hopeless romantic. I know. Disgusting.
Feelings have always had a way, at least for me, of bubbling up from underneath the surface. Innocuous and unclear. What is this thing that I'm experiencing right now? Is it infatuation? Is it admiration? Is it just desire or the craving for something else, something more?
I spent weeks, and I mean that literally, battling with myself about the pros and cons of this individual. And then I spent just as much time trying to work up the courage to ask him out. Which I did. Which seemed to have worked. He said yes and we set a date and time and an activity. And for all that effort, I can't begin to tell you how proud I was of myself for making that leap. The entire week leading up to it, I was on cloud nine. Shoot, I even went shopping for new clothes in preparation. The day of our doomed date, I even showered and shaved my legs, which any person who knows me even a little bit knows that I hardly ever do.
Among the many reasons that I've struggled in romantic affairs is my lack of willingness to be vulnerable. No risk means no danger of being hurt, right? So, when he sent that fateful text to cancel our plans, with what seems a thinly veiled excuse (albeit a good one; I can't fault him that), I was understandably upset.
It is probably not so healthy that I spent this entire weekend drinking to dull the heartache that comes hand-in-hand with rejection.
Yesterday, I went to a BBQ at a friends house though I was certainly in no mood to do so. But promises are promises and sometimes being an adult means showing up when you don't want to, when you haven't the energy to be mentally present. And that's what I did. I showed up, I ate food and socialized, drank beer, all the while holding on to the sparse hope that maybe he would message me to reschedule. Every text that came through was the distant flicker of excitement followed immediately by dismal resignation and slowly, throughout the course of the night, I found myself wishing to just crawl into a hole, to retreat, to fade away. This is why I don't fucking date. By the end of the night, I had expended all of the energy I had to put on a happy face and act like a normal person even though what I really wanted to do was curl up in bed with my dog, binge YouTube videos, and drink at home with no pants and no bra on. Apparently my coping mechanisms need some work.
I wish that I could capture the feeling of wanting to disappear, to just fade into the background. Sometimes I just need quiet. Sometimes I just need to not exist in the world for a little while so I can compose myself, compose my thoughts. Recollect.
You know, I read somewhere (probably Reddit), that 1 in 4 adults will have been single their entire lives by the age of fifty. Is it so outrageous to believe that could be plausible for me? I'm not trying to be self-aggrandizing here; I'm being entirely serious. What if I just never find that person? What if they never find me? I can name a small handful of friends who have experienced this same thing and I don't think it's particularly pessimistic to consider the possibility that it could happen. To be fair, I've always been more or less content single. It's not as though my life isn't full of really good things: I have amazing friends, I love my family, I love my job, and (most days) I love myself. Maybe that's enough.
So, what do I do with this information? I'm certainly not going to chase someone who isn't interested because while I'm spending a lot of time lately wondering what the hell is wrong with me that dating seems to be such a goddamn chore, I still like myself well enough to not stoop to that level. I'm upset about it but I'm not depressed. However, it's also true that I am now so disgruntled with the notion of dating that the very idea of it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Why bother, right?
With all that, and because I am a somewhat functional adult human, I press on. I'll go to work and I'll get things done, I'll take care of my dog and attempt to take care of myself. Then, one day, I'll be less fucking grumpy about the fact that I seem to be undateable (I know this isn't true but just roll with me here; I'm on the pity train).
Until then, at least I have beer.
That's where I've been lately by which I mean mostly this weekend (okay and a little bit of the week, too). I would say I'm sorry for being such a downer but the reality of this project is that my life is on highlight: the good, the bad, and the stinky (and I mean that both literally and figuratively).
Rejection is a certain kind of heavy sadness, the kind that feels like worthlessness and talks like self doubt, the persistence of which spends its days whispering the inevitability of failure in your ear: you are nothing. And this leaves me with a feeling of deep shame: I generally consider myself to be a self-sufficient, independent person who has never relied on other people to supply or ensure my own happiness. Perhaps my self-perception is not quite as confident as I make it out to be.
Let me break it down for you: I asked a guy out. He bailed on the day of our date and has not said a peep since. Go figure.
My last serious relationship was over two years ago. Though I have dated since then, it has been without any measure of emotional attachment. Folks my age would call this "casual dating". And it was recently that someone came into my life. Or more appropriately, I finally recognized this person in my life. Though we'd been crossing paths for who knows how long, it was only about five or six months ago I even realized that he was there.
It stands to reason that one of my downfalls in this situation might've been getting hyped over an idea. The idea of what something could be. The idea of what it might mean. The notion that I could have a partner with whom to spend my free time, someone to kiss me when I'm sad or someone to make me laugh when I'm cranky, a friend who enjoys my company and I his.
God, I'm pathetic. Despite my occasionally callous nature, especially towards romantic endeavors of any kind, it seems I am under the surface a hopeless romantic. I know. Disgusting.
Feelings have always had a way, at least for me, of bubbling up from underneath the surface. Innocuous and unclear. What is this thing that I'm experiencing right now? Is it infatuation? Is it admiration? Is it just desire or the craving for something else, something more?
I spent weeks, and I mean that literally, battling with myself about the pros and cons of this individual. And then I spent just as much time trying to work up the courage to ask him out. Which I did. Which seemed to have worked. He said yes and we set a date and time and an activity. And for all that effort, I can't begin to tell you how proud I was of myself for making that leap. The entire week leading up to it, I was on cloud nine. Shoot, I even went shopping for new clothes in preparation. The day of our doomed date, I even showered and shaved my legs, which any person who knows me even a little bit knows that I hardly ever do.
Among the many reasons that I've struggled in romantic affairs is my lack of willingness to be vulnerable. No risk means no danger of being hurt, right? So, when he sent that fateful text to cancel our plans, with what seems a thinly veiled excuse (albeit a good one; I can't fault him that), I was understandably upset.
It is probably not so healthy that I spent this entire weekend drinking to dull the heartache that comes hand-in-hand with rejection.
Yesterday, I went to a BBQ at a friends house though I was certainly in no mood to do so. But promises are promises and sometimes being an adult means showing up when you don't want to, when you haven't the energy to be mentally present. And that's what I did. I showed up, I ate food and socialized, drank beer, all the while holding on to the sparse hope that maybe he would message me to reschedule. Every text that came through was the distant flicker of excitement followed immediately by dismal resignation and slowly, throughout the course of the night, I found myself wishing to just crawl into a hole, to retreat, to fade away. This is why I don't fucking date. By the end of the night, I had expended all of the energy I had to put on a happy face and act like a normal person even though what I really wanted to do was curl up in bed with my dog, binge YouTube videos, and drink at home with no pants and no bra on. Apparently my coping mechanisms need some work.
I wish that I could capture the feeling of wanting to disappear, to just fade into the background. Sometimes I just need quiet. Sometimes I just need to not exist in the world for a little while so I can compose myself, compose my thoughts. Recollect.
You know, I read somewhere (probably Reddit), that 1 in 4 adults will have been single their entire lives by the age of fifty. Is it so outrageous to believe that could be plausible for me? I'm not trying to be self-aggrandizing here; I'm being entirely serious. What if I just never find that person? What if they never find me? I can name a small handful of friends who have experienced this same thing and I don't think it's particularly pessimistic to consider the possibility that it could happen. To be fair, I've always been more or less content single. It's not as though my life isn't full of really good things: I have amazing friends, I love my family, I love my job, and (most days) I love myself. Maybe that's enough.
So, what do I do with this information? I'm certainly not going to chase someone who isn't interested because while I'm spending a lot of time lately wondering what the hell is wrong with me that dating seems to be such a goddamn chore, I still like myself well enough to not stoop to that level. I'm upset about it but I'm not depressed. However, it's also true that I am now so disgruntled with the notion of dating that the very idea of it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Why bother, right?
With all that, and because I am a somewhat functional adult human, I press on. I'll go to work and I'll get things done, I'll take care of my dog and attempt to take care of myself. Then, one day, I'll be less fucking grumpy about the fact that I seem to be undateable (I know this isn't true but just roll with me here; I'm on the pity train).
Until then, at least I have beer.
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