It’s time. I’m not getting any less obsessive, and I’m not feeling any better. It’s time to make a change.

I’m detoxing from A’s ex. I’ve cleared my search histories so her Facebook, blog, and Instagram don’t pop up. My laptop, iPad, and iPhone are clean.

She’s a part of our relationship, and she’s a part of what I look at every day, and it’s not good. She doesn’t even live here anymore. She’s living with someone else in the South. Her life depresses me. SHE depresses me. I don’t like her. I feel sorry for her, which is worse. And none of that makes me feel good about me.

So here we go. Time to focus on the here and now. No more stalking. No more self-flagellation (because that’s what this is– self-harm via feeling less-than this girl who he was going to marry, this girl who lived here and slept in this bed, this girl who was with him four years).

I’ll let you know how it goes.


Creepy Stalker

Sometimes, I wish that one specific person would read my blog.

And by one specific person, I mean someone who I have this weird obsession with. Someone I have never met, and someone I don’t like on principle. Someone who I want to obsess over me.

By one specific person, I mean A’s ex.

I can’t explain this consuming obsession I have with her. I check her Facebook and Twitter daily. I read her blogs. I stalk their old correspondence (most of which is gone because A is incredibly sweet and generous and 100% mine and deleted it or threw it out). On a daily. basis. Not good, team.

To backtrack briefly, my therapist lent me this book called Attached— mostly to glance over in regards to my relationship with my mother. Most of the book, though, is about romantic attachments. It posits there are three types of attachment: secure, anxious, and avoidant. Our relationship is remarkably secure (the ideal attachment style)– we are independent, but comfortable relying on each other, equally loving, good at communicating through issues, etc.

However, I definitely have traits of anxious attachment. This is a problem in my general life, too, and something that’s a constant topic in therapy. If someone is upset, I blame myself. This ain’t great for relationships. Luckily, we’re good communicators, so we get through it. The ex-gf stalking, though, is like, EPICALLY anxious. What is it about?! I really can’t explain it.

Back to A– he’s remarkably secure (almost textbook). However, he has a few, I dunno… “concerning” avoidant traits.

1. He cheated on the first girl he lived with (who is the one he loved the most fully before me, according to him). He describes the total detachment of it. That’s not, like, a great sign.
2. He’s lived with two girls prior to me. Now, that means nothing, really, but it could be a sign that he doesn’t see living together as as big of a step as maybe I do. (do I?)
3. He was 110% going to marry the last girl for the first years of their relationship. Although, of course, they didn’t marry, and that was really because he realized they were going in separate directions.
4. He’s not nostalgic. This is just plain weird to me. God knows I’m disgustingly nostalgic and loyal. I can’t let ANYTHING go. He doesn’t speak to his exes. He doesn’t really speak to, like, anyone, except me.
5. He doesn’t speak to anyone except, like, me. I know he hasn’t been in the city as long as I have, and most of his friends are back in Philly, but… he doesn’t really have friends. That’s weird to me. All I usually have are friends.
6. He went from working with his ex DAILY for YEARS to not speaking to her (and this is post-breakup years). It has been months. That seems abrupt. And he doesn’t seem to miss her. Which on the one hand is GREAT! But on the other… feels like a red flag?
7. He lies. He lied to his ex about little things while we’ve been together, which is fine. But he’s lied to her before. And he’s not particularly open with anyone but me about anything in his life. I learned over Thanksgiving that his parents didn’t even know we’d done a weekend trip to Amish country and Hershey Park in September. THAT seems like a huge omission.

So. Does any of this make me doubt his love?

I don’t know. No. I don’t doubt he loves me. I have never felt more loved, supported, cared for, important. I have never felt so sure of a relationship and so confident in myself with another human being.

So why do I stalk his ex-girlfriend? Some theories.

1. I want to know what happened to this LONG relationship that they both thought would lead to marriage.
2. I want to know if he loves me more than he loved her, and I’m jealous of their long time together (4 years).
3. I want to feel like the most important part of his life.
4. I want her to feel jealous of me.
5. I want her to be single. (WHY do I want this?! Am I evil?! But I DO!! I can’t wait till she breaks up with her new boyfriend!! What is this demon inside me?!!)

I have no explanation, is really what I mean. But I think I need to detox. Or something.

Okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do.

1. My sister’s here this week, so I’m going to not talk to him about this yet. We should be alone.
2. When we can be alone, I’m going to tell him that for some reason, I feel a lot about his ex.
3. I’m going to ask him to just tell me everything he can about her and their relationship. I don’t care if I’ve heard it all before. I need to hear it again. I need to hear that our love is different.
4. I’ll detox from my stalking. Just 100% cut. that. shit. out.

Okay. HAVE to go to bed.

(it’s been a shitty weekend because A’s away at Army, and my sister’s in town but not with me. I spent the whole day alone. I didn’t binge, but I ate more than I wanted today and especially after losing 5 lbs from being sick… I’m thinking about it. I HATE thinking about it. I want my love home to me. It gets worse when he’s away.)

(Ohmigod also THIS IS IT: )

Sometimes you know it all at sixteen

I just downloaded all my Facebook data to my computer so I have it (kind of cool– I have a record of my life from age 16 till now).

Anyway, I stumbled upon a message my sister sent to me after one I sent to her about our relationship (it’s tenuous, at best). I had forgotten the really powerful, strong response she wrote to me.

You don’t really need to know the backstory except, perhaps, that my sister was sexually abused by a boy at summer camp when she was 15, and our relationship has always been tough.

i never talked to you about what really happened, but i think that it is important i do.
He would force me to do things while i screamed and cried, but never stopped. in the beginning i thought i might have a chance at getting away, and i tried, but every time he would get me. i remeber every night trying to sneak back to my cabin unnoticed but he always seemed to be everywhere. so i got to the point where my mind was telling me ‘you are not getting out of this.’ so to protect myself, i told myself this was the way it was supposed to be.
My worst memories are being locked in the bathroom in his cabin, feeling like a rag that he threw on to do anything that he wanted. whenever i remember that day, i remember it as though i am detached from my body, hovering over myself and him. I can’t even truly grasp what i was feeling then. i just remember sheer fear so deep that all you can do is feel numb.

These are the kinds of things that start to run through my head in sleep, in silence, and there are always triggers that push these memories from the depths of my mind to the front.

When this experience was happening i had no idea, or capability to deal with it, so i pretended i wasn’t there. but in the beginning of winter break, i for some reason felt safe enough to tell mom one of the things he did. Hearing myself say that was like actually experiencing it for the first time. so all winter break i felt like i was there, locked in the bathroom, or trapped in the woods and my only way of escape was to get out of the house. i felt like if i was home i would start to remember things i wasn’t ready to deal with. so i started to distract myself with things-like tim. he has really helped me heal. but i feel like i wasn’t myself during that break, and i wish that i could have been present. for you, for our family.

I feel like our relationship means a great deal to me.
i know that we have never been the typical ‘sister pals’ that the TV world seems to know, but i feel like we have a silent understanding for each other. Maybe because we were raised together, maybe because even during our hard years i feel like we had some kind of bond. whatever that bond was, it was lasted us until now and i have faith in it.

I think that this winter break we were both silently grieving. You for your relationship and loneliness, me for my lost youth and loneliness. i wish that i could have stepped out of my world to see that our pain was similarly matched, but for some reason, at that point in my life i wasn’t ready.

I am always willing to work at our relationship.
it is something that is very dear to me.
I hope that when you come we can both be honest with each other, and i have much faith that we can.

I wish that we had the kind of relationship that we watch in the movies, but the truth is, we aren’t the kind of girls that you would typically see in the movies. I am coming to embrace this.

i am excited to see you and i hope that when you come we can create the relationship that feels right to US.

i love you

He Said It

He said “I love you” when we were lying together in my bed, heads at the footboard and skin glued together with sweat.

I looked at him. My breath caught. I finally breathed. “I love you too.”

And the thing was… I already knew I did. I was just too scared to say it. I was falling in love with him when he wasn’t even here.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t even know what’s going on right now. But I’m in love, I’m having great sex, I have a new best friend, and I keep falling head over heels for him again and again and again. Down the rabbit hole.

I feel fat, but he thinks I’m beautiful. When he says he loves my legs, my butt, I actually believe him. When I’m on top of him, or on my back as he pulls off my underwear, I feel slender and sexy. When I’m touching him, however I’m touching him, I feel safe and grounded and special. With him I am glorious, whole.

I love him.

P.S. Thanks for the BC tips! I actually ended up talking to my sister, who takes a progestin-only pill and has for a long time with no side effects. I figure we have similar physiology, plus she’s also on Zoloft and sleeping meds, so I imagine we have similar-ish issues. Been on Errin for about five days, and so far so good… no spotting or cramps or mood swings, maybe some acne, but not so bad yet. Hooray!

Sexual Errors

I made a mistake.

I told him that if he came, he could stay with me.

In no uncertain terms, I implied that if he came, I would sleep with him.

I don’t want to sleep with him, especially in this tiny twin bed in this mansion on a floor with five other people.

I thought he wouldn’t come. In fact, I knew he wouldn’t come just to support me. So why I thought it was a good idea to ply him with an offer to stay with me is just idiotic.

I don’t want to sleep with him. Not like this.

How do I get out of it? I have been accused of blue-balling before because I have a very hard time saying no thanks. But sometimes I don’t know until the last second and I know that’s bullshit but shouldn’t I be allowed to choose?

What do I do? He wouldn’t come until after July 8. I can’t just say “I changed my mind,” even though that’s the truth, and that’s what I want to say. Do I lie and say we can only have one guest at a time in the house and unfortunately someone else got priority?

I should have left this alone. I was doing well. But I think in my heart I just really want someone to fall in love with me and want to be with me and see my show. I so deeply fear that none of my friends will come out.

And if that happens… well, were they even my friends in the first place? Especially knowing how important it is to me.

But promising sex in order to get someone to come out to see a show they should want to see anyway because I’m in it and it means a lot to me… that’s bullshit, and I fucked up. If he, or other he, or whoever, only comes because I’ve promised sex, and otherwise wouldn’t bother, why on earth would I want to have sex with them anyway?!

I have to stop. This has to stop.

Maybe I need new friends.

“Brownstone Commune”

Thursday evening, I got back from my Rocky Mountain homeland after a 10-day trip.

I had spent most of my two flights crying (long story for another post– partly PMS and partly just the usual home-ness), so I wasn’t at my best. I also had my two bags, stuffed full (that Borders final sale is a trap, y’all). But some of my dearest friends were having a party at this amazing brownstone where they were housesitting– an apartment that spurred on a glorious dream of high-class co-habitation with three of my friends that we call “brownstone commune.”

I got there after a confusing taxi ride:

TAXI DRIVER: How are you?
ME: Good, thanks.
(ten minutes later, spurred by nothing)
TAXI DRIVER: You live here?
ME: Yep.
TAXI DRIVER: Isn’t it scary, living here?
ME: Uh… I don’t feel scared.
(another ten minutes later, while paying for the ride, I “swipe” my card too early. TAXI DRIVER gets angry and short with ME. Then I successfully pay.)
TAXI DRIVER: You are beautiful. Have a wonderful night.

Huh? Also “huh,” because I just HAVE to share my ridiculous state:

ANYWAY (apologies to anyone reading this who actually edits their writing… This is my blog and my attention span is simply too short), when I got to the “brownstone commune” at 11pm, a number of my friends were there. M immediately offered me a drink, which I accepted gladly– a gin & tonic, my favorite. I went downstairs to say hi, and someone offers me a veggie burger, which I accepted heartily (I hadn’t eaten since a bout of overeating TEN hours earlier– I know, it wasn’t good). The party continued in much the same fashion, as everyone, including myself, absorbed the alcohol. I didn’t drink all that much, but I think on an empty stomach, with the time change, with my emotional craziness of the day, I actually got drunk on my one drink (prob it was two drinks worth of gin, let’s be real).

As the night continued, we said farewell to some, said goodnight to others, cleaned some spills, played some Catchphrase, etc. And I flirted with a boy, a stranger, basically. He’s one of my best friends’ best friend, and although I knew his name well, I had never really spent any time with him. My friends reeeeaaallly wanted him to pair up with someone (my gay boys just want everyone to find love, y’know). I didn’t really make any direct moves.

Game change. I decided at some point I was ready for bed, and headed to my “bedroom” (the “commune” has a number of bedrooms, and I’d committed to staying over– why I came at all). As everyone dispersed, I heard the boy chatting with people, unsure where his room was. Now, I was definitely drunk. But I was also completely lucid. I remember everything, perfectly clearly. It was like by-proxy-drunk– since everyone else was wasted, I could just be uninhibited without actually being drunk. Who knows.

Anyway, I pulled the curtain to my room, and called over: “Hey, you can sleep in here if you want. It’s a huge bed. And I’m going to bed now, so if you are too then you don’t have to wait for everyone else.” He waffled a bit, then came in. I took off my pants, took out my contacts, and got into bed. Somehow my hand ended up on his shoulder, and we did that thing where you move a little… wait for the other person to move a little… oh look we’re both awake…. who’s going to make the first move… you inch your head onto his pillow… he tilts his head so you’re closer…

And pretty soon we were kissing. He tasted like cigarette smoke (not ideal), but it was fun. To tell you all waaaaaaay too much, we both kept our underwear on but my shirt was off by the end, and no kind of intercourse was had. What is that… second base? Who knows. Anyway. He did try to take off my panties twice– once obviously for sex (and like a gentleman, asked “is this okay,” to which I moved his hands and replied “not tonight”) and again for oral (same conversation), but in general, the goods stayed in the trunks. Eventually we both fell asleep in each others’ arms. Aw. Sort of.

SO. The moral of the story is: I felt sexy. I know! WHAT?! I felt good about my body? I’m not a drunken hook-up-er at all, but the one time I had a one-night stand (in Brooklyn. Ha) I had the same experience. Granted, I was somewhat smaller then, but still incredibly self-conscious. And BOTH times I was intimate, I felt attractive. I felt connected to my body. And even in the serious, sexual relationships I’ve had, I tend to feel good about myself when I’m having sex, or being “intimate” or whatever you call it that doesn’t sound stupid. It’s different with a boyfriend (in some ways better and some ways worse), but in general, using my body with a boy makes me feel really good about myself.

Is this bad? Maybe. At least I’m not going crazy sleeping around. People have sex. It’s life. If I’m not ashamed, then who cares, right? Right. Maybe it’s good. It’s not like I’m going to go around sleeping with every person in the world, but it’s like a “zone” where every piece of my body is connected to my mind. That, as you all know, is rare. So why not relish it the occasional times it happens, huh?

Anyway, I woke up super early the next morning (hadn’t taken my sleeping pills), and slipped out from under his arm to pee, putting my jeans and a blazer on. I then decided to just lie on the couch rather than going back to the bed. I was ready for some alone time, and I was kind of hoping he’d sleep for a while longer. I dropped in and out of sleep till a more appropriate hour, when my friend came to the living room and joined me. We talked pleasantly and opening and lovingly for about an hour. (I LOVE easy conversation with friends. It’s like a miracle.) At 10 45, he decided to head back to bed, and I decided to head on back to my apartment. As he walked down the stairs, he giggled– “look at me, here in my underwear.” And I responded. “Well, I’m wearing a blazer over nothing, so.” We laughed, and he headed downstairs and I headed home.

The boy was still asleep when I left, which kind of relieved me. And I haven’t heard from him since. Again, I don’t feel shame or anything, but it’s just this silly thing. We are such twenty-somethings. Good lord.

That was a much longer post than I planned on. For starting with a single “moral,” I ended up with a novel. Y’all are just much better bloggers than I am. If you made it this far, cheers. And apologies. 🙂

Till next time,


“A schoolchild should be taught grammar–for the same reason that a medical student should study anatomy. Having learned about the exciting mysteries of an English sentence, the child can then go forth and speak and write any damn way he pleases.”
— E.B. White (Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976)