Rejection: A Dish Best Served at a Short But Intense Pity Party

I’ll be very honest with you: when Daniel disappeared, I did not take it well. I was a fucking mess, a shit show of sadness, confusion and self condemnation. Man a fucking live. I was all like: “What happened? What did I DOOOO??” I was lightly but definitely devastated. Fyi.

At that point, I’d still not been able to stick with any guy past six dates. SIX! First the Red Cross only zone that was my BMX tornado of epic sex and intense personality issues. Then B not working out because I chose Daniel who then cut to black. I looked at all the scenarios and realized I was the common factor, therefore I figured I was the fuck up, simply by being me. Jesus. Harsh. But true.

Even Allison, the boy whisperer, given my entire play by play “relationship” with Danielcouldn’t call the fatal blow. At the time, that made me feel worse, not better. At the time, fuck all made me feel better except feeling like absolute shite. Do you know what I mean?

These were the early and dark days when I bounced like a medicine ball and I took every single little fucking thing personally. EVERYTHING! I was as serious as a heart attack, dude and it was killing me. KILLING ME. The overthinking and the overfeeling of being rejected made for the very unpleasant sensation of so much negative emotion with nowhere to go but deep inside. I felt physically swollen with acute disappointment – at myself. Only me. Never at Daniel #what

I had learned a wee something by that point, though, after the two months of BMX self induced madness. I realized that it was necessary to feel all those fucking awful feelings, to just immerse in self pity and the sheer wtfness of it all, to indulge in a full on pity party…FOR A WEEK. Ish.

I mean, I didn’t binge eat. I didn’t self harm. For me, at the height of my “woe is me”ness, I drank a few more glasses of red wine and blurted out a few more diatribes against men and/ or “why am I so stupid” litanies to my long suffering gfs. My thing used to be self loathing, as you can see and I can tell you – it was fucking deeply uncool. But. That was how I rolled back then, by pointing a knife at my own heart each and every time someone didn’t work out and bitterly blaming myself. SIGH.

I also realized that being in the dating biz is a ride – up, down, sideways, barfy good, barfy bad, flung this way and that. “Oh man, it’s so great!” “Oh man, I want to get off right fucking now”.  So when I hit the “why did I get on this fucking thing anyway? I suck at this. I’m a LOSER” rotation as I did with Daniel, I knew it was time to wallow like I was being paid. In cash. But only for a week. MAX.

Then I would pull up my big girl panties, slap myself metaphorically, and do my very fucking best to let it go. My mantra at the time was: “not my train, NOT my train, NOT MY FUCKING TRAIN” As you know, I’ve since co-opted the Buddhist analogy because muttering: “sky, sky, SKY” is just more succinct. Same same though. Then I would channel my gf Lesley, my dating Terminator therapist, and bark: NEXT! To myself, obvs.

Looking back, Daniel and I were in completely different places, looking at dating and each other from completely different POVs. The fact that he tried to make sure I was okay before he cut and run, then contacted me a few months later saying he missed me speaks of our genuine connection. It hadn’t all been in my head. Or just my own heart. And I was never ever a fucking loser just because I lost Daniel, or BMX or Christopher or any of the other guys that dumped my adorable ass. Ha!

It did take fucking DOG years but I finally FINALLY began to understand that just because someone doesn’t choose you/ leaves you doesn’t mean there was something wrong with you and only you. It doesn’t mean it was something you did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say. It doesn’t mean they never really cared. It doesn’t mean it was allyourfaultandyoushouldhaveknownbetterwhatthefuckiswrongwithyou.  And by you, I mean me. As per fucking usual.

But here’s the HUGE 411 that came with that epiphany:

What if it was because there’s something about you and only you he couldn’t take anymore? What if it WAS something you said or did? What if he fucking NEVER REALLY CARED? What if, really and truly, without any awareness on your part at all, it was your fucking fault?

What if, dude?

The definition of rejection is: to refuse to accept (someone or something); rebuff.

The definition of rejection from a medical standpoint is “to have an immunological reaction against” as in:

If tissue types are not matched properly, a patient undergoing a transplant will reject the graft.

So even as brutal as being rejected is, all it proves is on both an emotional and physiological level, mismatching just doesn’t take. For whatever reason. Meaning, no matter how personal it was, you don’t have to take that shit personally. Does that make sense? Because it’s not ever just about you even if it was completely about you. As soon as you add someone else in the mix, then it’s about them and only them. Even if it’s all about you.

It’s like someone loves the color blue. But someone else hates it. Or even better, the same person that used to love it now hates it. What does it mean? That blue is fucked up and defective because it doesn’t please everyone/ anymore? Does THAT make sense? #yeahno

Years later, I still feel my feelings after I’m kicked to the curb, however irrational or nonsensical they may be at the time. I embrace my emotional alloverthemapness, drinking my wine and spilling my guts hardcore. What I do NOT do is engage in self blame, self shame or self flagellation of any kind. At. All.

Rejection, whether it be medical or emotional, completely personal or completely not, is part of the process of trying on others for size as they try on you. For you aliens out there, it’s called “dating” or if you’re super lucky, “ONLINE DATING”. Like Cinderfuckingrella – thank you, “Pretty Woman” – if the shoe fits, wear it. If it stops returning your texts and calls and literally disappears from your closet, they weren’t the shoes for you #newsflash Forget about them and try on a different style. Or ten. Whatevs. I mean, after sobbing your heart out, convinced they were the perfect fucking pair and where are you going to find another just like that and what was WRONG with your feet that the shoes just did not fit anymore…FOR A WEEK.

Rejection. It’s part of the process of dating and of life. It’s not the end of the story. Lord, not even close. If you’ve really got your shit together, you’re thankful for sooner than later and off you go, onto your next date/ match/ pair of Jimmy fucking Choos or Keds, knowing whatever you put on for however long you put them on for regardless, you KICK. ASS.

How do you deal with rejection? Is it still a concept that fills you with dread or has it become just a word to you - after a week? Please share your “I’ve been dumped” coping techniques. I certainly do.

xo Lucy