Notes from three years ago:
Suddenly Susan, I’m all like I’ve been given a Novocaine shot to the heart. I just don’t give a rat’s ass...about ANYTHING. Not not dating. STILL. Not being/ becoming a nun. AGAIN. Not even about Spanky. I’m really just numb. Very ho hum pig’s bum. Like, what the fuck?
But you know what? I’m kind of into it. All this feeling this year and now I’m down to the bare bones – enjoying not feeling. Because yeah, it’s the whole Ingmar Bergman interior shot thing and I really appreciate the austere nature of nothingness. Interesting place to be. I know already there’s not much to see or do which is pretty much the point but instead of finding it bleak, I’m finding it restful.
Perhaps I woke up an existentialist and I just haven’t realized it? Hmmm, note to self: research autonomic existentialism. But I don’t think I even have the energy to be cynical and tired of life. Yeah. That. Huh.
Hahahahaha I am fucking RIDONKULOUS.
But here’s the thing, kids: I’m also hella predictable because here I am, once again. I’ve never even seen a Bergman flick and yet I feel within, I am the fucking dating embodiment of his work which, according to Wikipedia, “often dealt with death, illness, faith, betrayal, bleakness and insanity.” GO, ME.
So, after Danny 3.0 popped up and dropped out basically within a couple of weeks, I really just hit a wall and slid down it. Picture a cartoon bubble over me, holding a wine glass oc, saying:
Just fucking over it, dude.
I’m talking about the exhausting attach/ detach, attach/ detach AND repeatedness until you can do the permanent letgo with all the men who do not stick and as always when I say you… All the naked dates with men that I have not loved is wearing, I gotta fucking say. I have LIKED all of them to varying degrees from friendly to lightly but firmly obsessed, but I have not LOVED any one of them. I have not loved or been loved by any one of them.
And there’s where the interior of nothing as far as the inner eye can gaze at comes in. Because when I hit this part of the POF cycle, I have to just reset. I have to feel nothing for as long as it takes because feeling ANYTHING, even as I’m sooo much better at not taking shit personally, is doing fuck and all right now for me.
And I can’t care. About anything. Because honest to fucking God, I have to tell you: dating takes sooo much emotional and psychic energy it’s whack. Then you’ve got long term dating, which is a massive undertaking to just keep showing up at every first meet openhearted and trusting, with the ability to give the benefit of the doubt to each and every potential suitor.
Personally, I try to never let anything that’s hurt me to come along on a first date because that wouldn’t be fair nor would showing up wounded do anything but repel someone whole, which is who I’d like to fucking BE, let alone attract. Hello. And that takes conscious effort. That fucking shit takes ENERGY. And it doesn’t matter if I’m meeting Mr. Could Be Right or Mr. Not Even In the Same Fucking Ocean, you know? I show up #samesame then see how it goes from there and if I get any kind of energy in return or it’s another black hole where desires go to die.
But there’s only so many extraterrestrial voids one girl can navigate, amiright? And right now, I’ve hit my limit. Again! And I’m just blank space. Not the Taylor Swift filling it with the next gorgeous mistake kind, oc. Mine’s more if you imagine an endless field of nuns’ white habits instead of a soul. That.
It’s because I’m so over having a physical connection without any accompanying and worthy emotional intimacy. And I get it – it’s been my own doing and I absolutely take responsibility for how I’ve chosen and who I’ve chosen. In my defense though, I’ve honestly done the best I could do with the men who’ve appeared in my inbox and wandered through my life. I’ve honestly tried to foster the genuine connections I’ve made into something more lasting and tangible but yeah no. Well, except for the CL adventures when I didn’t want any commitment and even then, I was looking for a single FWB and again #notsomuch
And now, the sex switch, she is OFF while “coincidentally” I’m not getting any POF messages. Not a one. My twitter feed’s a fucking bore but other than that, I’m pretty much all win because I don’t have the heart right now to put my everything out there and keep getting so little in return. I’d rather be by myself in the dark with my wine and my shows because then all the expectations that are defaulted on and all the wishes left in the dust are fictional. Ftw.
There aren’t any dashed hopes on my couch either because I don’t hope anymore. In fact, I try to never hope because that’s the way to lunch bag letdown town sure as shootin’. And if I’m not happy with the latest Grey’s Anatomy, next week I cue it up again because even when it’s bad it’s so good! And I can NOT fucking say that about dating. When dating goes bad, I go Ingmar or go mad. I have to unplug myself from the inside out and just not give a shit #goodtimes
Will I move out of this shot anytime soon? I don’t know. It’s just part of the whole cycle as I’ve found in my detailed Lucy notes from back in the day so yeah, I should emotionally reboot sometime and come back to the point where dating is just lighthearted FWP fodder, you know? Ish.
Until then, it’s fields of habits, bottles of red and hours of Grey’s, Downton and the Walking Dead for me. When you think of it, it’s suddenly Susan pretty fucking filled within the bleakness that is my interior Bergman pastiche. Huh.
Who needs a working heart or sex switch anyway? It clashes with the death, betrayal and insanity that is my POF/ Ingmar collage #theartistsway
I know this reads very drama much but dude - Ingmar. Anyone else out there fucking done like dinner and all moody black and white within? Let's compare angles and habits #wtf