Intro/Pt 1: relationship self-help book

Under-qualified, single female with loud opinions about love and dating.

NOTE: Unfinished nonfiction piece w/ opinions that may or may not be loud and wrong :)
Tentative Title: Access Denied


Intro

Love sounds wonderful. In theory.

Someone to laugh with. To binge-watch shows until you both pass out. A hug, a kiss, warm eyes that show understanding. The guy who’ll meet your family and friends, who’ll charm them until everyone realizes you’re quite a catch after all. Paragraphs of text messages or just “ily.” Conversations or comfortable silences. Someone to be there with you during your highs and lows, to support you when life is doing its best to beat you down. To celebrate all of the triumphs. To stay.

Companionship. It’s a basic human need. So why does it feel like some fairy tale? A fantasy reserved for novels and movies?

Because in our reality, dating sucks.

It seems like everywhere I look, I see heartbreak. Betrayals on every level, pining and unrequited feelings, ghosting and abandonment. Hurt people hurting people who turn around and hurt more people. People throwing up their hands and giving up on love altogether because the path there seems treacherous. Maybe even rigged against us.

We look for love, we can’t find it.

We find love, we can’t keep it.

We keep it, but it hurts us.

What if I had the answer?

…I don’t, but what if I did?

Bestseller. And way shorter.

No, I don’t have the answer. Or answers. Or even all the questions that need to be asked. But I have ideas.

For now, I’ll unpack one of my thoughts. Expand on one problem, start with a single angle, focus our attention. See if it helps us out in the end. You coming along?

Well, you say, who even are you?

Nobody, really.

Why should I believe you, then?

Not sure. If you have a better plan, go do that.

But if you’re at rock bottom with me, let’s try to puzzle our way out together. Ask ourselves the question: what’s wrong here?

Because this isn't happening TO us. It’s just happening.

I’m just like you: trying to figure this out - and you’re welcome to join me.




Part 1 - The Access Issue

1. Parched

I’ve had a lot of low points in my life. Like crawl-in-a-hole worthy. I’m not going to go into too much detail, I’ll save you the secondhand embarrassment. But one low point became an epiphany much later on.

When I was in my early twenties, I was no stranger to the “thirst trap.” If you’re unfamiliar with the term - essentially, it’s a post on social media (typically an image) that is intended to garner attention (and hopefully a reply). So if I’m maybe waiting on my situationship to text me back, or I haven’t heard from my crush in months, or some cute guy just followed me, maybe this post will alert him to my existence and make him fall in love with me. Or something. That’s loosely the logic.

The images aren’t subtle. More than a few times, I posed in hardly anything for Snapchat stories, trying to subtly…I don’t know…pretend that I just so happened to be eating Oreos in my bra. I remember taking the photo, checking it, altering it, checking it again (just to avoid a repeat of the incident where I posted one not noticing that there was a huge box of tampons right behind me in the mirror pic), rinse, repeat. And with a big breath, hitting “post.” And waiting.

Then, watching my inbox fill with messages from all manner of creepy men who were NOT the man I was aiming for.

Anyway, after a particularly bad breakup, I’d gone on a spree of thirst traps. I’d blocked my ex, but I knew his friends still followed me, so I had that loophole to make a mad dash for his attention. I posted picture after picture after picture, honestly impressing myself with my own ingenuity at these endless shoots. Until I got a message that stopped me cold.

“I love you, but I’m going to have to block you. I can’t take this anymore.”

From my younger half-brother. A high schooler. Who I hadn’t seen in years.

To say I was mortified is an understatement. I didn’t even know that I had him on Snapchat; I couldn’t remember ever adding him. My mind gave me a carousel reel of all of the pictures he must’ve seen, how I unknowingly violated him to the point where he had to block me. And that he was nice enough to apologize to ME for whatever reason.

He and I laugh about it now, but the memory stuck.

Before I sleep sometimes, my mind is kind enough to give me a “greatest hits of the worst things I’ve ever done” medley. This moment comes up often. But lately, I’ve looked at what it showed me. Now, it’s so obvious to me that at that stage in my life, I’d lost control of something really precious, one of the most valuable things in life I’ll ever have authority over: access.

Who has access to me?

For years, I hadn’t thought about the “who” when it came to access. I just handed it out freely. I posted the good, bad, and ugly for all to see: random men on the internet, friends of friends, people from high school, you name it. I collected followers, never pruning my friends list for who actually deserved to be there. I thought follower counts were supposed to be high, but how many of those people had I spoken to in the last year? Last few months? Ever?

But they know my Chipotle order?



2. Lessons from the bedside table

I’m a big fan of the Bridgerton novels. They’re cheesy, as all books in that genre are, but they get me every time. The sweeping romantic monologues, the pining, the mournful, long looks - they tick off everything on my “hopeless romantic” checklist.

When I was a freshman in high school, I spent a summer with my great aunt, and she had one of those old, yellowed romance novels in the drawer of her nightstand. I had no idea the scandalous contents, and I was bored, so I read it. I was hooked immediately. And also looked sideways at my great aunt at the breakfast table the next morning.

Imagine my surprise getting into high school and dating for the first time and realizing…there are no grand gestures to be had.

I mean, I felt duped. Did that species of man die out at some point between the 1800s and now? A dinosaur-level extinction event? Because they were nowhere to be found. Instead, I saw nothing but prowling, opportunistic boys with girls vying to capture their interest.

In retrospect, I return to the novels and rewatch Bridgerton - purely for research purposes, of course - and ask myself: what am I doing wrong? Where’s my Mr. Darcy? And the answer is staring us women in the face: access.

Why are men making grand gestures in Bridgerton? Because they want a chance. What stokes their fiery gaze, their fierce longing? They can’t have her. And what do they do then? Fight to secure access to her. Prove their worth. Ask her father. Beg on their knees.

Let me be clear: I’m not arguing for a return to the 1800s. In too many ways, the time period sucked - indoor plumbing was a while away - and for women, it wasn’t ideal by any means. But on some level, can we acknowledge that some of those standards helped women? We were coveted. Protected. Prized.

A man had to make his intentions known, bring flowers to her sitting room to call on her, take supervised walks in broad daylight, and court her properly. It was the expectation, and he would get zero access otherwise.

Thirst traps? Sir, you’re lucky to see an ankle.

I’m not shaming anyone. I’m not saying that anyone’s bad here, or wrong, or immoral for posting something provocative (that’d be mighty hypocritical of me). But I’m polling the audience: What good did it ever do you? OnlyFans models aside - who are at least getting paid for their access - personally, I can’t think of a single net benefit in my life from giving access away freely.

So, then, we know the issue. “Well,” you might say, “It’s too late, I’ve posted everything.” That’s fine. I’ve realized that access isn’t like virginity: it isn’t one and done (I’m not gonna argue about the virginity construct, save that for another time).

Access is built like a fortress. And you’ve torn yours down, or someone’s shot cannonballs through the side, or whatever happened. Cool. Pause. Breathe. Regroup.

It’s a mess, it’s destroyed, but look at all those bricks. Let’s get to work.

3. It’s a noun

I’m not a grammar Nazi, I swear. But words really do matter. The way we use words shapes our reality, and our words also reflect how we view the world. So I want to be specific here; this isn’t an English lesson, but bear with me:

A word can serve many different functions in grammar. You can’t look at a word by itself and say definitively that it’s a noun, verb, adjective, and so on: you have to look at the whole sentence.

We’re taught in elementary school that a noun is a “person, place, or thing.” So if I ask you - what’s “dog”? You’ll confidently answer “noun” and a mental image of your second-grade teacher will give you a gold star and thumbs up.

Wrong. I’m sorry, Ms. Rogers.

Well, not wrong always. But wrong in the sentence:

“My brother is going to dog me for my busted-up shoes.”

There, it’s a verb. But it can be more!

“Honey, make sure to pick up dog food at the store.”

Adjective, modifies the noun “food.” You get the picture.

The word “access” is no different. But I want to clarify: When I conceptualize it, it’s a noun. And I think that’s important.

Let’s delete the sentence: “He can’t access me.”

Instead, use: “He can’t have access.”

Oh, that’s so minor. It doesn’t matter. You are, in fact, a grammar Nazi.

It does though. It does. Because linguistically, it shifts the sentence.

In the first one - he can’t access me - “access” is an action verb, one that you’re negating with “can’t.” In that sense, it becomes something for him to do or overcome. It is some kind of attack that you have to block. It’s a game to win. It’s a challenge.

No.

The second one is my truth. He can’t have access. Noun. It’s something I own and I have the power to bestow. A gift, if I decide to give it. There’s no discussion or negotiation. It’s mine. End of story.

I don’t mean to be nitpicky. This is a small detail, and I won’t drag this section on. I just want you to know it too. Reframe it. And own it.

It’s a noun.

4. The cost of entry

Imagine your friend calls and invites you to some cool concert. “It’s gonna be really fun!” She says, “You should definitely come!”

You’d start asking immediately: When does it start? Where is it? What should I wear? Who all is coming with us?

How much does it cost?

Tickets, cover charge: It’s not just to make money, it’s to control access.

Well, why?

First and foremost: money. I know I just said it’s not about money - it’s not ALL about money, but they want to receive some reward or payoff for what they give you. They’re asking for a return on their investment. They paid for the venue, the stages, the concession stands, the performers, electricity, manpower; if it were free, they’d have to eat all of those costs. Even if they gave free entry, chances are that there would be some access control inside with a price. VIP sections, drink passes, merchandise, whatever. Like an app that’s free but requires a membership: if it’s 100% free, they get nothing in return.

Okay, why else? Well, maybe, safety? You give them your ticket, then they search your pockets at the door. They turn away anyone who has too big of a bag. They don’t allow outside food and drinks. Whatever their stipulations, they continue to monitor access.

But beyond the numbers and logistics, controlling access controls the whole situation. If you think about it, imagine a concert with wide-open doors. Suddenly, randoms from off the street walk in because why not? Free AC. I’ve got nothing better to do. The venue fills up because of these passerby trickling in.

They’re talking over the music. They don’t even know any words to the songs. The vibe changes. It’s overcrowded. The energy is different. Who are these people?

What could’ve been a congregation of 200-300 like minded people having a positive and collective experience has turned into a circus. We don’t even know who is who anymore.
More importantly, we have no idea why they showed up.

Think about dating. I’m posting thirst traps, I’m tweeting my every thought, 500+ people know what I had for breakfast. I have a huge audience, and that’s great right? Who doesn’t want fans?

But at that concert, would the band be happy about the thousands of accidental audience members? When they can’t hear over the interruptions and half aren’t even paying attention? They didn’t get anything monetarily, they lost any semblance of security and control, and for what? People who don’t even know who they are?

Look at your friends list. Check your followers. Ask yourself: Why are they even here?

Some are casual listeners.

Some are diehard fans who know every word.

And all of us have people who only walked in because the doors were wide open.

5. U up?

“WYD.”

For women, there are not many three-letter texts that hit as hard. Even if you’re waiting on the guy to message you, it still stings some that it’s an obvious booty call. Especially when it’s 3am.

Still, I reply. “Nm, hbu?”

“Not much,” “I’m free,” “Nothing really.”

All typical responses. There are a million potential replies, but to men, they all say:
“Open invite.”

If you’re looking for a hookup, that’s a perfect scenario. Some women are walking to the Uber already, excited to see him, and that’s perfectly fine. But they’re not who I’m talking to. I need a sec with her - the one who sat all day in a shitty mood wishing he’d text, and because she wants it so badly, she now takes what she can get, even if it’s not what she wants.

If that’s you, let’s talk.

Let’s not even get into the actions after the texts. Because let’s be honest girl, if you’re me, you’re already otw. For the plot.

Look at the texts themselves. Zoom in on the words (sorry, I’m back to words again).

“Nothing, I’m free.”

Access comes in many forms. We might think about access as waiting six dates to have sex. And we pat ourselves on the back after making it over that invisible threshold. Sure, that’s one level of access, and yes, we maintained a boundary. But what about the other ones - the side entrances, first-floor windows, and doggy doors?

Some of us put twelve locks and a deadbolt on our front door but left the kitchen window wide open.

Time. Time is a huge area of access. We can acknowledge “time is money” on a paycheck and deal with the reality of time when we grieve the loss of a loved one, but we don’t value our own when we give it away or dismiss it.

When I say dismissing it, let’s look at that reply again: “Nothing, I’m free.” Beyond just signaling your self-valuation with the word “free,” there’s another important word there: “Nothing.”

You weren’t doing nothing.

You were watching your favorite show. Doing laundry. Playing a game on your phone, falling into a rabbit hole on YouTube, sitting around with your roommate, walking your dog. You were making dinner and meal prepping for the week, unwinding from work. Journaling or exercising or napping.

Could’ve been anything. Fulfilling whatever need you had in that moment. Health, connection, rest, joy.

It wasn’t “nothing” until he texted.

He doesn’t have to waste every minute of your day physically if he’s wasting every mental second with no effort. Just because he isn’t always using the access doesn’t mean he doesn’t have it.

The fact that he texted “wyd” with the intention of a hookup means that he expected you to be
a) free
b) willing to drop anything for him

Notice the word. “Anything.”

Not “Nothing.”

6. Unlocked

Years ago, my friend woke up the morning after his birthday to a locked phone. You know how your iPhone locks after however many failed password attempts - it’ll lock and make you wait for a minute, then five, then so on? Well, he’d apparently tried unlocking it a zillion times in a drunken stupor the night before. His phone was locked permanently, a security shut-out. He spent the rest of the morning on the phone with Apple support begging for help. It was a mess.

Access is not permanent. My friend had the password - hell, it was HIS phone - but he messed up enough that his phone withheld his access. Sometimes, my phone’s FaceID doesn’t recognize me on the rare occasions I wear makeup (which, by the way, is truly humbling. I guess it only knows the usual goblin version of me).

My friend wasn’t doing what he needed to do, so his access was revoked. Same with FaceID - I looked different, showed up differently, and couldn’t get in.

Point being, it isn’t just closing the gate. That’s a start, but it’s also about figuring out who is already inside.

Sometimes, we’ve given away parts of our access permanently. You already shared about your abusive childhood or gave them your Netflix password. Sometimes, I think of one or two guys who have seen me naked and I would trade just about anything to wipe away the memory from their brains and the smirks off of their faces. But I can’t. And that sucks.

It’s a sucky lesson.

I had a friend who told me once to stop oversharing at the bar.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, “they don’t deserve to know.”

I’d made a habit of it. I loved to drink (way too much, usually) and ramble to any man who bought me vodka crans or crying girls in the bathroom. My friend told me to stop sharing after I told some guy about something intensely personal (I’d tell you, but that kinda defeats my entire point, so lemme stop).

And I had a completely different perspective back then. I told her something along the lines of, “It doesn’t matter who I share it with because I don’t care about these people. I can share whatever I want, because I can go home and never think about them again. It’s liberating.” Like, I guess I thought of it as free therapy? A venting session without consequences?

But my friend was right. Her point was that our vulnerabilities are powerful, and giving access away can be dangerous. Wounds become weapons. When we share our scars, we are actually telling people where our weak points are. And that can come back to bite you in the ass. Trust me.

Let’s not think the worst of the rando in the bar. Maybe that particular person wouldn’t use our hurts against us. But I was strengthening my tendencies. Over time, I had developed the habit of oversharing as a reflex in order to avoid awkward silences. Trying to trade sad stories to get other people to open up to me too. Metaphorically showing my jugular to create connection.

But if I run the conversations back in my mind, I was the only one sharing; no one else was as vulnerable as me.

There are different levels to this.

We can revoke someone’s access to new information, but we can’t take back what we’ve already broadcasted. That’s a sad fact. This isn’t meant to devastate you: it’s a lesson moving forward.

There was another time that my friend (iPhone friend, not good advice friend) got kicked out of a bar for being belligerent. He tried to barrel his way back in, and the two bouncers literally locked their arms together to block his invasion, red-rover style. Spoiler alert: he did not make it back into the bar.

What does that story tell us?

My friend has a drinking problem.

But also, let’s link up. When my cousins and I played red rover in the backyard as kids, we stared down even the biggest of challengers to the line (and man, I had some massive cousins) without fear. They weren’t breaking through.

Now, we only look forward.

Link arms.

Brace ourselves.

Game on.

7. Past 9:58

I worked as a cashier at Little Caesars throughout undergrad, and trust me, I have quite a few notes for their suggestion box, if they only had one. It was a hellhole.

But this specific qualm isn’t Little Caesar’s fault - in this one instance, the customer definitely isn’t right.

The store I worked at closes at 10 pm. At around 9:30, we’d start cleaning up, putting away all of the ingredients and cooling the ovens. The time ticked closer. Freedom in sight.

It never failed - sometime around 9:58, we’d hear the “Pizza! Pizza!” door speaker cheerily alert us to a new customer. Insert collective staff sigh here.

I think that this is a universal service industry experience. At the last second, they show up, and yes, TECHNICALLY we aren’t closed, but sir, my heart is closed, you’re going to have to leave now.

But they don’t stop. “C’mon man!” they protest, “You’re open for another 5 minutes! I know you still have something made in the back.”

Or “My kids are hungry!” and a gesture toward a car that is, in fact, teeming with children.

A hundred different ways of saying “Please” before I inevitably crack. First, because I don’t want to be an asshole, and second, because there’s always a chance that when you say no, they blow up:

“Y’all did it for me last time!” “There’s still 2 minutes till 10!” “I’m gonna call corporate about the time listed on your door!”

Honestly, no matter how badly I wanted to clock out, it wasn’t worth the hassle to say no. Another collective groan from the crew - when I’m at the cash register, we were almost certainly not going home on time.

Not everyone is a pushover like me. But some of us are just tired. It can be harder to control access, to justify and defend our standards, when it feels like it has to be done all day, every day, around the clock.

Suddenly, it really does feel like we’re going to die on this hill. I always think of it like an endless game of Whack-a-Mole. Like a mom finally surrendering and buying the toy after an hour of their child screeching in Walmart. Not the same situation, but the same overwhelming feeling: OKAY, FINE.

Given the fact that some men can act like overgrown toddlers, it’s no wonder that dating feels that way. Even when we try our hardest with our boundaries, it is an endless attack, day after day: being questioned as to why we’re cold, or bitchy, or rude when we don’t give our hearts and bodies out like Halloween candy.

After too many of our dates asking “What’s the point?” we start to question it ourselves.

But I learned a hard lesson at Little Caesars. And not just about cooking meth.

I say yes to a customer at 9:58, and then they inevitably ask if I can give them a free garlic butter too. Whatever, sure. They pay for their food, but wait, they forgot to say they wanted a drink, do we have to do a whole transaction again, or could they just have the drink? Fine, take the soda. Do we have any wings that are getting thrown out soon? Can they have those?

Cut to ten minutes later, I’ve bankrupted Little Caesars.

(Kidding, Caesar - please do not prosecute).

Remember the classic children’s book? Give a mouse a cookie… and he’ll eat you out of house and home.

It’s death by a thousand yeses. Whether it’s internal guilt or external pressure - the fear of confrontation, the blowback, the eye rolls and nasty grumbling - we say yes. Not because we want to. Because it’s exhausting to guard the door 24/7 when someone’s always knocking. Loudly. Like they own the place.

Women, especially, are trained to say yes. Or if not “yes,” then it's yes’s quieter cousins: “sure,” “fine,” or “whatever.”

First, it’s giving your number or Instagram to some guy at the bar just to avoid the awkwardness.
Then it’s agreeing to a date you didn’t want to go on. Next, it’s smiling through it. Going home and cringing at his barrage of text messages he sends. Being unable to friendzone him without coming off as rude or leading him on. Complaining to your friends, but having them justify: “Give him a chance!” or “But he seems really nice!”

Then, it’s more messages from him. One after another. Berating you for your “attitude,” your “games,” your “lack of interest.” And at every turn, the “no” just gets harder to say, and the man feels more entitled to your “yes.”

It can get dangerous and scary. But even if it doesn't, it’s annoying as shit, and we deserve the right to say no.

It’s 9:58. Nothing’s Hot-n-Ready.

8. Over-exposed

Earlier, I was your English teacher, but welcome to science class.

When taking pictures on an old-school camera, you use light-sensitive film to create an image. The shutter controls the moment that the light is allowed to hit the film; the length of time the shutter opens to allow light is known as “shutter speed.”

Shutter speed can be extremely short (1/1000 of a second) to long (30+ seconds) depending on the kind of conditions you’re in and the image you want.

The photographer will know exactly what shutter speed he/she needs to use for the camera to capture different kinds of effects. Simple enough: control the light, control the picture.

But photographers can mess up sometimes. The images end up getting overexposed. When that happens, there is so much light allowed in that the photo becomes oversaturated. Giant white splotches appear. Details are lost. The image is blurry. It might accidentally look kind of cool, or it could be completely ruined.

And back in the day, it would take a while to know: you might be in the darkroom weeks later painstakingly developing pictures only to realize they were destroyed by exposure.

Another science lesson: human beings can die from exposure. Dying from exposure essentially means that you’re left defenseless in the elements long enough for them to kill you.

Take for example, hypothermia. In that situation, you’re outside in freezing temperatures unprotected, feeling your fingers numb and turn blue, your body shutting down slowly, until you keel over popsicle-style.

English teacher again: the short story “To Build a Fire” by Jack London:

A man walks alone through the Klondikes at -50 degrees. He accidentally gets wet when ice on the ground gives way, and in his haste to build a fire, he ruins his supplies. His fingers freeze, and in a panic, he runs for his life until his feet and legs numb and fail him. He collapses. He dies alone in the wilderness. Nice story, huh? Real crowd-pleaser.

Back to science. This is the last time, I promise. Extreme cold hits you. Your body desperately tries to conserve heat by taking it from your extremities first (toes and fingers followed by arms and legs), keeping it as close to your core as possible, since your organs are most precious to your survival. You’ll shiver as your body attempts to create heat by constricting muscles. Your ears and nose lose all feeling. Finally, your body is overcome.

Your body wants to keep you in homeostasis, which is just a fancy term that means harmony. It wants you to stay balanced in every way, and it does that through self-regulation. If you’re hot, you’ll sweat. If you’re cold, you’ll shiver or get goosebumps. There are all kinds of chemicals and processes just to keep you exactly as you are. And your body is doing its damndest.

Exposure, for a human, messes up the body’s self-regulation. Your body tries for as long as it can, but organs and processes will eventually shut down. It tried.

One more science lesson (I lied).

How are rivers created? Rock is exposed to running water. One little drip of water flowed across hard ground and washed away some of the soil on top. And suddenly, this is the best route for all of the other drops as well. Before you know it, the cleft has deepened. Widened. It’s suddenly the path of least resistance for all the nearby water. It grows and grows.

That’s great for the water, but what about the rocks underneath?

As they’re exposed to drop after drop, they erode. Their top layers disappear as water continuously rushes over them. They get flattened, smoothed, and eventually, washed away completely.

Class dismissed. Do you see what I’m saying here? What did we learn?

1. We control exposure; we just have to decide what kind of photograph we want.
2. We’re designed to be okay and restore our harmony, but outside elements can throw us off balance.
3. It doesn’t matter if we’re strong: if exposed to something repeatedly over time, it becomes routine to be washed away.

Now, don’t close off. We don’t have to be hermits.

Go outside. Play in the snow, even.

Just wear a damn jacket.

PAUSE: It’s me

I hope you aren’t getting the idea that this book is me pointing my perfectly-manicured finger at you self-righteously. I know it might feel like that. It isn’t.

So let’s take a break from the metaphors, the science lessons, the preaching. I want you to know that I’m writing this because I lived this. I’m still living this. It’s a work in progress.

Access is important in all areas of life - family, work, love - but I’ll stick to romantic relationships for this chunk of my history because my home life would take another ten chapters. And honestly, my love life is illustration enough.

I’m a series of dating faux pas. If I was writing a memoir, I’d call it “Series of Unfortunate Events” (except that’s taken). Maybe just “Whoops.”

Picture this: me, eighth grade, new school (for like the tenth time), particularly-awkward awkward phase. Never been kissed. Hell, never been the object of anyone’s attention. Utterly ignored. Every afternoon on the long bus ride home, I’d sit strategically to watch a boy from my grade: long hair, total rebel. Off-brand Green Day. He never gave me the time of day.

So right then, I learned lesson 1: gotta keep access open, because sometimes you have to take what you can get. One day, someone will notice you from afar (I was a big Twilight fan, feeling my Bella fantasy), and when that happens, be ready.

Flash forward to high school. Still awkward, tallest girl in school now, painfully shy. Madly in love with my best friend. He would spend lunches complaining about his girlfriend; I’d spend lunches living the words to “You Belong With Me” by Taylor Swift. They were the definition of an on-again-off-again relationship, and when they were off, I’d think “this is it!” Only for him to tell me the next day during history class that they just got back together and now loved each other more than ever.

Lesson 2: keep holding on, keep staying open. Even when you’re alone at prom, even when your heart breaks as he waxes poetic about another girl, stay the course. Eventually, he’ll turn and see you with brand-new eyes. Because one day, you’ll change his mind.

I didn’t, by the way. Change his mind, I mean.

College. Late bloomer - still haven’t been kissed. Mortified and feeling left behind, I jump at the first opportunity for love: some gross boy from my job who treats me like shit. He’s a nightmare in public, but he tells me that our late-night conversations make him fall in love with me more and more.

Another lesson: access will change him. He’s misunderstood. Only I “get” him. Vulnerability means love.

But it doesn’t go that way. When I finally have enough and stand up for myself, he tells me I’ve changed. I’m cold, I’m distant, and he justifies cheating as looking for something I no longer provide.

Is this a lesson too? To shut up?

Later on in life, Bachelor’s and Master’s under my belt, still looking for love. Watching my friends get married. Feeling confused, cheated, lied to. More men, more mistakes, more lessons:

Lesson: always respond to him. You never know.

Lesson: give him a chance. You’re too picky.

Lesson: forgive him again. You might never find anyone else.

Until one day, I met a decent guy. And here you’re thinking: “Wow, I kinda related to her story so far, but now she’s getting preachy again. Sitting behind a keyboard, perfect relationship, writing a how-to guide while getting a foot rub from her rom-com husband.”

Not quite. Actually, I’m single. Have been for years now. But at one point, I did meet a decent guy.

He was straightforward - he told me on night one that he could see us going somewhere. Sure, just words, I’ve heard that all before, until he introduced me to all his friends, talked to his older sister about me, explained his culture, language, and religion, and made all of his efforts completely transparent.

What a load of shit, right?

Valentine’s Day: showed up with designer perfume, two dozen roses. Went to dinner and a movie. A kiss on the porch, nothing more.

My boyfriend in college didn’t even wear the couple’s costume that I fucking made for him. And now, I have a guy bringing my friends and I out of state for a rodeo since I like country music, booking the BNB, and buying them stuffed cow plushies.

Hold on. Nothing’s this easy. Where’s the drama? What’s the catch?

So I acted the ass. Got insecure, got petty, reacted like everything was a lie or a ploy. Because it had to be, right? I pushed and pushed until he couldn’t take it anymore.

When he broke things off with me, I panicked. I realized none of it had been a facade and my own coping mechanisms, traumas, and behaviors had ruined it. He told me that he wished me all the best, to text him if I ever really needed anything, and said goodbye.

It’s fine, I told myself. Men always circle back. In my experience, they always had - toxicity always goes both ways, and this had always been some kind of dance, a game I knew by heart. Push and pull. Hurt and forgive. Even that emo kid from the middle school bus messaged me on Facebook years later after my glow-up. I just had to wait a bit. And maybe drunk text him from time to time.

But he never came back. Still hasn’t. And it hurt. A lot.

I was indignant, offended. Sure, NOW he could stick to his word - then what about all the other words he said? He told me he loved me. So I figured that he had to be a liar then, because if you love someone, you don’t abandon them, no matter what. Right? It couldn’t have been true or real if he ended up leaving. Clearly, I never meant anything to him at all.

It took me months to realize that he’s the only healthy relationship I’ve ever been part of. Even when it came down to him leaving; it was gentle, but absolute. The end of the relationship wasn’t toxic, it was wholesome: it freed him from my poisonous behavior, and exposed a festering wound in me desperate for a cure.

I acted poorly. And love didn’t excuse it. So I lost access.

Looking back, I have nothing but respect for him. And I’m grateful, because he gave me the blueprint:

Love. Love well. Love honestly, love completely. Give of yourself. Be kind. Open. Share what you love. Connect with others.

If all goes well, it’s happily ever after.

If it’s ever bullshit, slam the door shut. Even if they’re still pounding on the other side.

That’s what I’ll do in the future, hopefully. Take a page from his book, if I’m ever lucky enough to find someone like him again.

In the meantime, I’ll work on myself. Because he taught me another lesson:

I wanted a relationship so badly, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be with someone like me if roles were reversed. Someone selfish, paranoid, and hurtful. Trigger-happy with lashing out, a minefield to be with.

I had begged the universe for the perfect boyfriend, while at the same time being a nightmare potential girlfriend.

I needed to work on myself. If you’re still waiting on Mr. Right too, that’s your job right now. That’s what we’re here for. If you don’t have your perfect partner, maybe it’s because you’re not a perfect partner yet. And the universe is holding off on giving you someone - maybe because if you met your perfect man today, he’d run screaming for the hills.

At least, that’s what happened to me.

In the next section, we’ll talk about access: the ways we’re hurt, the society that pushed us in this direction, the behaviors we’ve normalized.

At the same time, this isn’t a “poor me” book.

Owning that I was part of the problem sucked at first. I was filled with self-hatred and regret because of what I did. But there’s a bright side: it was caused by my actions, but that means I can change things moving forward.

I’m not saying it’s all your fault. Men ain’t shit, yadda yadda yadda.

However, we can do better here too.

We control our halves of the equation. We can bring the best versions of ourselves to the table. Then, if things still go wrong, we can say with total confidence that he was a douche while eating ice cream. And every girlie reading this will shout “Amen!”

But let’s earn that shit talking.

Okay, then. Where to start? Let’s go all the way back.


(Next section is about the why's - societally and whatnot - but this is just section 1. It's just a nonfiction piece from personal experience)