Why I’m Single. Well, One of Many Reasons

“I went from relationship to relationship and needed a break. Every woman should have a period of time where she is unencumbered and free to focus on herself. I never had that. There was always someone in my life from 16 on.” –My Mama in a journal she wrote to me

Me too, until just recently. During the last 8-months of my mom’s life, while our family was fighting cancer around-the-clock and facing never-ending drama, I dated three different men. THREE DIFFERENT MEN. My mom was dying and suffering through terminal cancer, and yet, I found the time to be in three different relationships. I also went through my Instagram pictures… I started my Instagram account during my junior year of college… which was, erm, lemme get the calculator or text somebody, H/O. I got the account less than four years ago and there were pictures of four different boyfriends scattered throughout my feed. If I’d married every serious boyfriend I’ve had in the past four years, I would be hella mormon, but with drinking coffee still (lots of coffee), so I would just be a **polygamist.

So, when my last relationship crumbled like a badly burnt cookie into thousands of crunchy, little pieces, I put my foot down. I deleted all my past boyfriends from my Instagram and from my life. I have no desire to date anyone again, for a while, maybe forever.

A few days ago, my only bed companion, Tyga (my dog… not the rapper. Calm down, Kyle Jenner!), and I headed out for an evening at the “small dog” park. En route, a man jumped out friggin’ of nowhere to talk to me. (And yes, I was wearing headphones. Dude interrupted my Slow Jamz mix.) He said I was pretty and really stood out (on the not very crowded street, for real, I think I was the only person passing by at the time.) He asked where I was from, and trying to be kind and polite, I answered him. He unfortunately took this as an open invitation to walk with Tyga and I. When we neared the park, he said he had to go meet a friend and would take my number. I was like, um, no you won’t… but I said it nicely.

Then, shit went down. Here’s our convo:

Stranger Danger: Listen, I’m running to meet a friend but what I’m going to do is take your number!

Me: Oh, okay, have fun. And, sorry but I can’t.

Stranger D.: Why can’t you?

Me: I just can’t. I’m sorry! K, bye now!

I began making my great escape by crossing the street. BUT, he followed me.

Strange D.: What do you mean you can’t?

Me: I’m sorry, bye!

He continues following and refusing my answer. At this point, I’m v. annoyed and stressed.

Strange D.: Will you just tell me why? Why can’t you?? Tell me. Just give me a reason!

It was very clear I wasn’t interested in this man’s questions. I was being hassled. He was being a dick. However, after all the shit I’ve trudged through over the past year, I am no fucking damsel in distress. I’m the last women in the world who needs rescued. Ever. Kapeesh?

As we arrived at the park entrance, I turned on my heel and yelled at him:

“MY MOM JUST DIED THREE MONTHS AGO. AND I’M REALLY NOT IN A GOOD PLACE RIGHT NOW. SHE HAD PANCREATIC CANCER AND FOUGHT FOR 8-MONTHS, AND THEN, SHE DIIIIIIIED.”

He said sorry so many times and backed away so quickly onlookers probably thought I had a gun on me. Good.

I realize this makes me sound crazy. What was I supposed to do? I realized afterward I could have just given him a fake phone number like a normal person. (Call me, babe! It’s 555-5555!) But, it irked me how he just wouldn’t let up. I don’t NEED A REASON to say ‘no’ to men. That’s something I wasn’t fully aware or confident of prior to my mama’s diagnosis.

I’ve made a lot of poor decisions in my life based on my desire to be in someone else’s.

But you learn. You live through the worst and you live through so many lies from the people who love, and then you learn. When my world was falling apart, I was stuck in this constant pain, which is beyond what’s imaginable by those who haven’t lost the person they love the most. My biggest nightmare in life became my life’s reality. And so, I cried on the floor, and I sobbed until I couldn’t catch my breath every night in my bed, and I pricked tiny cuts up and down my arms using steak knives, and I manically baked a new batch of cinnamon rolls everyday… I was pretty much outside of my mind and overwhelmed with my mama’s dying.

And, he didn’t care. There’s nothing my ex could have done to stop me, of course, or to make my pain go away, but he didn’t care either way. I’d spent the past weeks living off his perfectly sweet words of love and his promises that our love would last forever, and then, it stopped. His words crashed and it broke me.

He told me I needed to be strong– I needed to be strong by myself. I needed to pick my body off the floor. I needed to find the courage to find comfort, while being alone. He didn’t have the time or the positive energy to deal with me, (he was always talking about his ‘chakra’ which I was like, um, not in front of family, dude!) He couldn’t be around 24/7, even though, that never felt like what I was asking him… but I guess to him it did.

There were nights when my body shook with panic and I felt like I’d pass out or worse, (or better), like I was dying too. Sometimes, I just wanted him just to hold me. And so, I’d get the nerve to ask him, only to hear him frustrated and saying ‘no’ he was tired from work. He wanted to work on his trade– nothing more. His friends were in town and he was busy entertaining and he didn’t have a minute to call or text me to see how I was doing… for two days. He was angry. He was doing his best. He always me fit into the time he had to spare– between building bicycles and not paying his taxes this year– and if I wasn’t going to fit his schedule, it didn’t work for him, and if it didn’t work, then he’d always known that to mean goodbye. In the end, I was told by my love who was so different and unexpected, who held me and stared into my eyes, who got me so high… sorry, I didn’t fit. I wasn’t his girl. His words dropped me so low. Luckily, though, I was already lost in a hole so deep, being guided by my grief I was falling into the core of hell farther and father, the pain of it couldn’t touch me.

My family and friends who’d visited during my mama’s last weeks had all loved him. Me too. But when things fell apart (and did so quickly) everyone blamed the timing for us falling in love. It makes sense I would want someone good to cling onto during the end of my mama’s life. I didn’t totally buy it, though, saying over and over, “Yes, but I really, truly did believe it was the most perfect love. I thought I’d gotten way too lucky, and I’d met the love of my life.”

He looked at me and held me and loved me like I was the only true-love-of-his-life. I guess in retrospect, I’m a huge dummy. After our crash-and-burn breakup (on the day before my mama’s memorial service), I told my *guy-bestie about it. I went on about how much my life sucks, how much I miss my mom, how I wish my ex still loved me and how I was still lost on what the hell happened. But, when I told my guy-bestie how my ex had said “I love you” after two weeks of dating, or really, even meeting me… he (not so) nicely reminded me of something. THAT’S BATSHIT CRAZY. Adummy is on the extremely logical, AKA smart, side of the spectrum, and he said seven or eight months is ideal (if not early) for an I love you.

He was right. He was so totally right. Maybe, not about the seven to eight months thing, but my ex telling me he loves me after two weeks was just so… not anything but complete shit.

He didn’t know me. It’s impossible to know someone after two weeks let alone two years. On the phone the other day, my big brother was saying how he and his GF had just hit the 2-year mark, and even living together, he was still learning new things about her. TWO YEARS LATER AND THERE’S STILL NEW SHIT. Ha, even my mama and my dad were, for better or for worse, still learning new things about each other, together, 30-years later.

Thank God for all of this. Because, my ex? He still doesn’t know me.

He’d promised me he would understand and he would love me through my grief– even a couple weeks ago, while I was in town for my dad’s birthday, he made promises again– I found myself being held and kissed by him again as he said we’re so good together and he cares so much about me still, and he maybe wants to move to New York to be with me. And then I found out, via internet stalking (duh), he’s had a new girlfriend for a good long while.

Oppsies. I win. I win so big by not being with a guy who has a girlfriend and still kisses other girls and makes plans with them. And honey, you didn’t know me. You wouldn’t know me now, either. I’m stronger than a woman you “knew” and loved back then.

One last thing: The man I do marry, (Lord help him!), won’t be in love with me after two weeks. We’ll barely know each other after two months– we’re in no rush— we take things slow. He’ll see I have bruises, and down the road, he’ll find out I have scars. I’ll let him feel my heartbeat and how it still stops at the ache of losing my mama. It always will. His kisses will feel great, but they won’t heal anything. I’m sure he’ll be a bit beat up, too. That’s life, man. And most importantly, It won’t matter to him that while my mom lay unresponsively in the hospital bed setup in our living, I cried on the hardwood floor alone and terrified. He won’t be concerned as to whether or not I needed someone, of if I was strong, and he won’t think less of me for feeling alone in those crushing moments bringing me to my knees, because what matters most to him is that I wanted someone.

I’m not looking for a relationship, right now. But weirdly, deep down, I know that when I’m ready for one, I’ve learned so much that the next time I fall in love I’ll be so badass at it.

xoxo.

*Every, every, every gal needs a guy-bestie. Guy-besties rock because they have kick-ass taste in music and they don’t ever wanna talk about the Real Housewhoevers of any county. Plus, they give you honest (TOO HONEST) no-frills feedback on shit. I’ve maybe only (ever) gotten two compliments from Adummy, but they are the most sincere, meaningful compliments in my whole collection of ego-boosting flattery! 

Why This Babe Writes.

I write this not because I think I’m totally right, at all– I write it because I read, for hours, in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, while I watched the world around me catching fire—burning and smoking and leaving nothing but a crisp, dark memory of what my life was like before grief— I read what was written in most likely the same state I write what I write. And I hope people read. Not because I’m super vain and begging to be heard, but because I don’t know any other way out of that fire in the middle of the night without getting burned. It was the power of knowing I wasn’t alone, while in a house full of people who came to ‘be there’ for us, and that there were other people who’d lost mom or dad, brothers and sisters, and worse than I can ever imagine, there were parents who’d lost a child. These were the broken people who I made my friends—we were all shattered, but together. And if, while still in pieces and surrounded by slivers with sharp edges pricking their scars, they could continue to live again, well, then… me too. What I read was sad and hard and made me sob, but it’s the only comfort I felt– just knowing they were still writing.

One thing I recently read, which really nails shit on the head, says grief makes you lose your filter. It’s so true. There are so, so many things I don’t care about anymore— and most of them have to do with what other people think of me. It’s scary and wrong, how little thought I give to what other people are thinking while reading my writing or scrolling through my posts on social media. But it’s the truth: I don’t care. I don’t care because I’d rather have one person, or one follower, who reads my blog or an Instagram caption, or a lonely late night Tweet, and feels a little comfort from it… over getting thousands of views from people reading pure bullshit and liking everything I do in life. This really isn’t realistic for anyone, of course, but we hella wish it was. And there are so, so many things grief takes away from caring about… ‘what people think’ is so, so very low on my list of things worth ever caring about again.