The Punching Bag in Scrubs

The Punching Bag in Scrubs

I realize that today is one of the bigger days in history for politics and if I wanted to be relevant and current, I should write about my pride for living in a country that allows me the opportunity to vote.  But, if you know me, you know my level of aptitude for politics is equivalent to my knowledge of dietary nutrition, and frankly this morning I smeared peanut butter on a twinkie and called it breakfast. But I voted none the less, promise!

Anyway, this country that I love dearly and am thankful for the political freedom to alter my future by means of a ballot box in is also the same country that requires me to work a full time job to make ends meet. So, today I remember that I am in fact blessed to live a life unscathed by oppression and poverty, but I am also acutely aware of the smaller picture… working to live and living just to work. America, fuck yea.

Medicine is ever-changing. It’s subjective. It’s expensive. What it’s not is…avoidable. Some days, I just don’t know how my coworkers and I do it.

Watching human beings, care for other living things, I often think it comes as a surprise to pet owners that we aren’t here at their disposal for free. More people than i’m comfortable admitting  assume that Veternarian’s are just philanthropists who went to school for [sometimes] over a decade, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars out of their own pockets to provide educated services at no cost to the Good Samaritans who rescued fluffy from under a dumpster. GTFO. I know who has the audacity for this mentality, and frankly it’s more people than you’d think.

“If you really loved animals you wouldn’t charge this much”

“You aren’t giving me any options, I can’t afford this” *looking at options*

“How do you sleep at night knowing my pet died because I couldn’t pay you?”

Today I was asked if I enjoyed telling people that they had to take their pet home to suffer and die. That’s what this pet owner took out of our forty-five minute conversation about continued supportive care. Amidst a juggle between myself, an incredibly knowledgeable criticalist and this clearly upset owner, fluffy’s mom responded to our medical recommendations with a jab straight to our morality.

This woman, walked into our hospital, asking for OUR advice, and when she didn’t like the cost of services due to financial constraints she decided the best way to handle her frustrations was to personally insult everyone who didn’t give her what she wanted. These are the pet owners of 2018, and they aren’t getting any better folks.

1 in 6 veterinarians have considered suicide. Let that sink in. The practice of veterinary medicine is a selfless one. It doesn’t pad any bank accounts. It doesn’t elude to lavish vacations or short work days. It is a sometimes fifteen hour day, no meal  NO bathroom breaks….ending in an owner questioning your moral compass because they feel cornered by recommendations you gave for a disease that you didn’t create. I’d probably kill myself too if I had to take responsibility for not being able to save the world for free, change the outcome of the future, or READ FUCKING MINDS. 

In 2017, after a decade of being engulfed off and on in the veterinary medical field, I signed on with an emergency and internal medicine hospital as what my corporation calls a ‘financial coordinator’. Essentially, I am the liaison between a doctor and an owner. While your doctor and their techs are doing the medicine part, i’m explaining to YOU in layman’s terms why your pet needs to be sedated for a fine needle aspiration of it’s liver.  Why? Because fluffy is a loose cannon and the last thing you want is him flailing around while we stick a needle into his abdomen. Am i right? I’m right, that was rhetorical. Oh it’s an extra $100 for proper medical care? Does he really even need that? No, Karen…we just really could use that extra $100 to buy taco bell for the staff.

I am the punching bag in scrubs; the nurse of bad news. I spend every clocked in hour reiterating medical necessity while also telling owners that their 2004 furry Christmas gift is going to cost them their immaculate credit score.  And I get to do all of this while more than half of them verbally assault me as a person.

The reality is that someone has to be this punching bag until people stop punching the bag. Sick animals are never going to be a thing of the past. So when people ask how I put up with it, I remember that I’ve been doing this so long, it’s my duty to explain to the vastly uneducated pet owners the how’s and why’s of animal health.

Frankly, it costs zero dollars to be a good human being. And instead of spending this life- coupon on a healthier future for all parties involved, you’re bitching about how I had the audacity to present you valued services at costs beyond your means. I didn’t buy your three thousand dollar pure bred pomeranian so that it’s collapsed trachea would send your debt to income ratio out of wack, i’m here to give you options. And you’re here to take them or leave them, not throw a tantrum. Capisci?

For every five Karen’s complaining about inflation in medical costs, there’s a Stephanie who sends flowers to the doctor who misses her family while she stays late to pull the fish hook out of their dog’s esophagus. And that occasional floral arrangement is a great reminder to underappreciated doctors who are highly disregarded for their valiant efforts at keeping YOUR furry family members alive for as long as this life allows us, that we are in this for a reason. The reason NOT being that we would ever enjoy clocking in to schedules chalk-full of cranky pet owners hell-bent on passive aggressively tearing us apart until they get the services they can easily afford.

#endrant

#valuedservices

#thankyourfamilyveterinarian

Youtoo

Youtoo

Bravery is contagious. And not contagious in a someone-sneezed-on-the-office-coffee-pot-again-cause-they-forget-that-some-of-us used all of our PTO in January catch-everything type way.

The thing is, the nature of the events of this week’s Ford-Kavanaugh hearing are a he-said-she-said ping pong match that ends in someone’s life ‘potentially being ruined’ and that other person being Christine Blasey Ford. She doesn’t get to fear the potential, because she’s already lived it. Maybe all of the revisited events were just moments he ‘cant remember’, but at the end of the day they are also memories she ‘can’t forget’.

Rape stories will be prevalent until rape is no longer minimalized to irrelevance. Sadly, we put people away longer for crimes of graffiti than we do sexual assault and people still wonder why it’s trending. Anything that bares little to no repercussion without a grand jury review is bound to be a trend in my book. Instilling the fear of potential consequences is barely a way to keep crimes off the street, but at least it’s not contrarily telling it’s offenders “we support your lack of moral compass”.

Even more sad are the statistics associated with said rising assaults. To a degree, some would say the rise of admission is to blame for the rise in percentage, but why is that even a rebuttal? Just because the story is new to you doesn’t mean it hasn’t haunted it’s victim for decades. With that said, I more recently googled just how many of my friends and neighbors might be holding on to an untold secret, and 1 in 5 women have or will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. One finger on each of my hands is a symbol for the reality of the proximity of these casualties.

When I say it’s hard being female, I mean it. Sure, we have a laundry list of societal standards; a basic biological clock constantly ticking inside a highly emotionally charged hormone filled body, but we also have the immediate danger of becoming a statistic 15 times faster than if we had been born a male. And for that exact reason, I write this article.

If I had the choice, I wouldn’t choose to hold my keys between my fingers as I walk to my car at night. I didn’t wake up this specific gender to be told that I couldn’t wear a skirt on a summer day because of how it made other people feel about my body. And I most certainly never expected that I’d ever have my own story.

A man drove me home after a night of drinking and as he walked inside the gas station to get me a bottle of water, I quickly racked me brain for how it was I was sitting in a truck of a total stranger feeling completely taken advantage of. I immediately placed blame on myself for tequila shot number five. For not knowing how to get myself home safely. For trusting someone I had only just met (that’s how all great love stories start though, right? Wrong.) and as he got back in the car to a more silent version of my previous self he jokingly looked me directly in the eyes and said “You only said no twice.” To which I shrugged and said “Cool, that should hold up in court”. Its safe to say I think that I’m the wittiest, when I’m absolutely shattered inside.

And that was the last thing I said to someone I would never see again. Someone who would never know how uncomfortable I was because the lack of consent and humility turned him on and blinded him from the basic human concern of another person’s needs. He laughed at my expense as he handed me the water bottle- making sure I was hydrated while ironically dismantling me inside.

We don’t want to admit that abusers are our friends. That our friends are victims. That this world is filled with people who are selfish dishonest and cowardly. But, even if it doesn’t happen to you, it’s happening to people who you love and care about so by default it’s happening to all of us. I have to ask… if it’s happening to all of us, why are we still so afraid to believe the women of the metoo movement? Because of false reports?Because of political bullshit? Because publicly reliving criminal events in regards to sexual assault is sooooo uncomfortable….boo fucking hoo.

For the record falsely reported cases are so low in percentage that they aren’t even given a number.  Unlike the 20% of the people in whatever room you’re in right now suffering the pain of being an undeniable statistic of factual reports that will damage them for the rest of their lives. And politicians? They can go fuck themselves. Just don’t expect them to ask for consent when they do. 

Christine ford is the definition of bravery. I hold faith that her story was brought to the public eye not to haunt an already wounded supreme court justice nominee, but to remind the voiceless that although some may not believe you, enough people care and only in untold stories and silence, we may have never known. I believe these women because I have to believe that you would believe me too. And that is the entire basis behind the appropriately named movement that is bound to make history.

The Summer of 2027

The Summer of 2027

All the things you forget on my bedside table are just metaphors for the little things you leave half empty for me to take care of; for me to remember you might come back for, for me to remember you might not.

Wrong numbers are just right numbers you didn’t know existed. Until existence straightens itself out for fate to make an appearance. A series of numbers leading to a series of days ending in hoping I’d have hung up at the sound of a busy tone. But, you answered. For the first time, and a thousand times after that. And then never again.

Endless summers of ended summers where I told you everyone I ever loved hurt me…and you followed suit. Knowing my truths, so you could feed me lies. Shame on me for giving you the details.

The Sane Part of Insanity

The Sane Part of Insanity

Am I a fully licensed and accredited therapist now? BECAUSE MY DATING RECORD WOULD SHOW THAT I’VE PUT IN THE HOURS. Totally google-able, totally diagnosable.

I know what I’m doing here. Send my certificate in the mail.

The irony is, Im always the one who winds up being called ‘crazy’. Or at least being made to feel that way. Which, arguably, is way worse. Like, just call me crazy so I can write you off as a prick. Don’t turn this around and send me screen shots of my own text messages. I KNOW THAT I SENT YOU BOTH A HEART AND A KNIFE EMOJI IN SUCCESSION, being confused doesn’t make me unloveable, Chad.

So, get this….turns out, doctors don’t actually officially diagnose people as sociopaths vs psychopaths, but like…they exist. I date them. What the fuck are doctors good for anymore anyway? Pushing the opioid epidemic? Falsely representing the male population with fake diagnosis’ like: “hormonal imbalances”? No. Homeboy has no conscience, I checked for myself.

Literally the only difference between a sociopath and a psychopath is the existence of said conscience and honestly, I think it’s safe to say that this generation is lacking hard in the realm of defining right from wrong.

Right: call her when you say you’ll call

Wrong: literally any other excuse your ass can think up to get his cake and eat it too.

I’ve had harder lessons in how to brush my hair as a kid. Side note: rat’s nest Taryn came out strong.

In my honest opinion there shouldn’t be such an existential variable when it comes to the ability to consider another human beings’ feelings and act appropriately and accordingly. Everyone deserves empathy and frankly those same people also deserve the tools they need to understand a shift in behavior by anybody they’ve invested any [lengthy] amount of time into. ***This is where I should be defining “lengthy” for the crowd. Frankly my “lengthy” is always different than his “lengthy”. Cause this is where men go hard on their genitalia perimeters and dial it back for “time spent telling her that I loved her”.

If you say you owe a stranger nothing, you’re wrong. Strangers are the people who we should be giving just a little more respect to….because it’s not expected and kindness that is least expected is probably the only way out of this generational defect we’ve built around our emotional avoidance in the last two decades; or however long I’ve been alive and trying to co-exist with males.

I always told myself I wouldn’t settle. Not for anything less than what I deserved. All I truly know is….we all deserve not-a-sociopath, AT THE VERY LEAST. Boy did my standards get low…

Scale Jail

Scale Jail

My fitness goal has always been to get to the weight I lied to the the DMV about. Cute cops always check your eye color and lb’s. If you know me, you know how often I get pulled over and frankly I’m waiting for the day some badge-crab tells me I need to update my drivers license because 110 was clearly my birth weight. 

I updated all of you on my lack of numerical success after I finished my Whole30, and I’m back to the blog to admit that scale victories are a bigger waste of time than trying to get my ex to love me again. 

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Sometimes I forget that the most important relationship, the one between me and that number on the scale, is more private than anything I’ve ever held on to. One time, at a bar, a guy told me he could ‘guess my weight’. I was so in awe of his blatant lack of social normalcy that I almost let him throw me a digit. And then I stopped him. Cause either, I was going to be super offended or he was gonna seem incredibly ostentatious. Neither of which I had any desire to babysit amidst whiskey shot number four.

img_7145I still think back to that moment. It had such a make it or break it force behind one tiny guess. A complete stranger had that much power over me in those seconds of defining my head to toe appearance with a number. The wrong one, and I probably would have stopped eating forever. img_7146
But, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about how much I weigh? Unless you’re hell bent on postaging my body for sending somewhere, I think it’s safe to say that this number goes with me to the grave. Unless grave’s are base-cost determined by weight, in which case it goes with me to right before the grave.

One of the greatest things I’ve learned the past two months is that the less expectations you have of yourself, the more surprised you get to be when things change before your eyes. All of the fitness blogs these days are about ‘goals’ and honestly, my goal is to just not be who I was before. Of course, that’s even an expectation sometimes out of reach.

I had a literal melt-down last week and cried directly into a donut. Like, straight up stared at it, knew it was gonna win, cried about the potential of defeat, and then ate the soggy bastard like the glazed sin we all know it is. I blamed my period, my period blamed me. It was a vicious cycle. I had beat myself up for nearly three hours, fell off even further because I was depressed about the original mess up, and then I went dress shopping this weekend and slid into a size 6. A SIZE MOTHER FUCKING SIX.

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That my friends is what I like to call over-reacting. I’ve been so amazingly good to my body for the past 8 weeks and in my unstable and often debilitating mind I assumed that one (or two) mistakes reversed everything I had been so hard at work on because the number wasn’t moving, the cravings weren’t subsiding, the guys at the bar weren’t begging me to guess my weight…

Non scale victories are the battles we want to be winning. Our clothes fitting better, more energy, improved endurance, feeling healthy. Society feeds us these warped perceptions of what is right, and frankly I can’t afford to keep obsessing over a number that nobody else will ever know. I’ve been busy waiting for a weight loss and while the scale wasn’t changing, my body was.

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6/17/18

 

Suicide Notes

Suicide Notes

Disclaimer: If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

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This world can be a terrible place. Even in all of its moments of beauty, the allure of a full life expectancy can cease to exist within a mind so dreadfully lost. Those are the minds attached to the hands I wish I had enough of to hold.

People who commit suicide are brave, i’ll give them that. Not to glorify the act of killing yourself like every new Netflix Original Series, but there is something to be said about the kinds of people who are at peace with an expiration. They are the same people who look death directly in the eyes and choose it whole-heartedly.

Because nobody just kills themselves on a whim.

Like, “Is this whole milk in my caramel frapp? I asked for soy.”

*hangs herself*

or

“Fuck man, the first thirty seconds of this NFL championship game is the pits”

*shot gun to the noggin*

These people had time to think about what not being around to deal with the agony of losing control of their own thoughts may feel like. They are well paid celebrities. They are the quiet ones. They are the “Oh, yea I saw that coming’s”. But most importantly, they are the kinds of people who were looking for a way out, and found it.

There will never be less problems here on earth, just less people who can handle them. When I think of suicide, I often associate it with being selfish. I think about how those who make the decision to exit stage left prematurely, ruin the whole damn production for everybody else. But, who’s really being selfish here? Not my body; not my choice.

Society has taught us to reach out to the people who seem troubled; to have them hear our messages of love and to try and stop them from making a decision that could hurt more than just themselves. What society seems to be forgetting is that I don’t have control over anybody but myself; that my responsibility to others is solely to cultivate a safety net for mental health and open lines of communication in times of struggle. Suicide is not my answer; but if it’s somebody else’s…they aren’t wrong.

I’ll be honest, I’ve never been so deep in the downward spiral of depression that I’ve contemplated not being alive to dispose of the burden. I’ve for sure thought about what kinds of eulogy’s will be spoken at my funeral (I see you guy I blocked after our sushi date in 2015), but that can wait another couple decades of agitation. With that said, after all the pain and unbearable agony that comes with even getting to the point of attempting suicide I hope that if there ever was a need to make the decision to die, that people’s words to describe me wouldn’t include “selfish.”

What’s selfish is the thirty eight minutes I spent trying to talk a friend off of the ledge the other day. I realized half way through the plea for understanding that I barely knew any of the struggles he was going through. I mean, I imagined it had something to do with a failed relationship and a deep-dark sexual assault skeleton in his closet, but what the fuck do I know about his purpose here on earth? I’m not a therapist, I just did what Facebook tells us to do. Watch for trigger posts, reach out with concern….mildly ambush with an intervention.

Committing suicide is a bold move. Maybe not as bold as the font people use to type up the note saying goodbye to the one person who possibly gave a shit, but I guarantee the signature at the bottom of the paper doesn’t belong to a human being writhing with anticipation for how guilty everyone feels about bringing this moment to fruition.  Some people like their gift of life, others just want to return it, no cash back…no exchanges. Countless people die everyday by accident and nobody bats an eye, someone purposefully and sometimes thoughtfully (fuck you guy who chooses to bleed out in a rental property bathtub) kills themselves and all of a sudden Robin funny-man Williams is a MONSTER.

I just keep circling back to being pro-choice. Pro-whatever the fuck your heart desires because this is YOUR life and adults don’t get to make decisions for other grown adults. Who better than oneself to decide when to die? Regardless of how I feel about what is right, or who should or shouldn’t feel a certain way, suicide is not my answer, but I’m not here to tell you that it’s not yours.

With that said, moments are often only just that…passable moments. Some of them are dark and painstakingly intolerable and…ugh…frankly I want to insert a bunch of insanely deep Pinterest quotes about hope and change, but if you’re on the edge of contemplation about being here or not being here, there isn’t a damn thing I can say to change your mind. That’s apparent in every single story about the rich celebrities who we thought had enough money to fix their sad’s. If you’re gonna go, go. Know that nobody wants you to. But, do you in the last moments of being a you. Authenticity; the truest form of a proper send off.

The Great Depression

The Great Depression

The other day I left work because I couldn’t breathe. I’m not asthmatic, I don’t suffer from anaphylactic allergies, but I do live with occasional debilitating depression, and that was enough to knock the wind completely out of my Wednesday.

I sat in the locker room and tried two separate exercises I had read about online. First, I’d put my head between my knees, breathe in for five seconds, hold for three, and breathe out for seven. Secondly, when those lamaze techniques failed me…I’d walk the fuck out and cry for the entirety of my drive home. Ok fine, that second one wasn’t a Facebook-found life hack, but turns out, watering my lap was crucial to ridding my mind of its toxins.

Side note: I just googled how many fatalities came at the hands of a panic attack and turns out nobody has actually died from one.Could have fooled me.

I beat myself up for hours about not being able to keep myself together enough to function as an adult at a job that hired me to literally just not leave when I’m having a bad day interact professionally. I realized at the end of my panic attack, between my depression and now-guilt for having either of the fore-mentioned mental health glitches that I didn’t need to feel this way about needing a moment. And if that moment turned into a couple hours, which ended up being a whole day…I deserved it, no questions asked.

Im totally aware that when I was a teenager I wasted very undeserved time off on nursing a hang over on a Monday, or bowing out early to Vegas on a Thursday night. And I wish I could go back and tell the drunk and irresponsible me that I’d need those Karma points for half days off work when life might be too overwhelming.

Who am I kidding, 23 year old me would have just handed 31 year old me a beer.Point is, mental health days should be a thing. And as much as them being a thing, they should be advised, not taboo, and if it were up to me…paid time and a half mandatory.

Half of my coworkers would throw a fit if I showed up to work with a cough, but I don’t see any of them cheering me on for staying home when I have the “sads”. I’m aware that you can’t catch my depression, but I’m certain you’d want all the H1N3’s over this prison sentence anyway.

I have to admit that my supervisor and office manager were both super supportive about my premature exit mid week, but I fear that maybe some people with the same prevailing symptoms might not be so lucky. And in that realization, I worry that people sometimes forget that we work to live, we don’t live to work. Unless you’re Britney fucking Spears. We’re killing ourselves pretending every single day we wake up is a day nothing hurts. Being “on” without fail is unrealistic. And covering up the need for a day without added distractions with a “stomach bug” is equivalent to pretending that guns kill people; not the mentally ill. When people asked where I went on Wednesday, I told them I needed a mental health day. And I told them they should take one too if they ever feel like they’re neglecting themselves to the point of tears. In a world of hashtags like #fitfam I can only hope mental health, in its continuum, shows more and more improvement. Having a proactive approach to self care starts with finding ways to avoid work place break downs and providing ourselves the ability to take the time we need to appropriately function. Or else…

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

2018 was supposed to be my year of silence.  The kind of year that if something bothered me, I was going to turn my gaze inward and rationalize it before I tore it apart in a social media setting. I wasn’t going to be the man-hating, world-revenge-seeking, malevolent and scorned lover I had portrayed on Taryndownwalls for two-too many years.  It was about time I pledged to be a good girl friend, a quiet-feminist, and a self-respecting human being.

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WHOOPS. 

If it means anything, 2018 was also going to be the year of less shopping online and I’m fairly certain that being on a first name basis with my mail guy (shout out to Efron) proves my resolution’s batting average wouldn’t get me past little league.

So, I’m not good at making promises. Thank god I’m good at keeping secrets. Did you guys know that the literal definition of Secretary is “the keeper of secrets”? All those years of working front desk’s and I didn’t even know I was responsible for things beyond my job description. You all need to un-classify your skeletons, cause I’m a god damn professional. giphy.gif

Anyway, the end of 2017 was a quick goodbye to bitching about things out of my control on a website that got less hits than 2009-Rhianna, and suddenly became a quick hello to a blossoming relationship. A long distance one mind you. I know what you’re all thinking and he was hot, like smoking hot. I had no control over my own thoughts roughly 109% of the day. The whole relationship was just me toggling between airfare apps that would get me the fastest flight to his face, and failing miserably because NOBODY IN THEIR RIGHT FUCKING MIND HAS TIME TO DATE SOMEONE 800 MILES AWAY.

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Lesson learned. Side note: loss is a lot easier to swallow when the fear of running into it again at the bar is nonexistent. Cheers to dating outside of your own backyard so that you may never wake up hung over and next to a recent ex. I knew there was a reason I set my tinder radar so far. 

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Without further ado, I’m back. And I’m probably still going to speak my mind about political indecencies, bad hygiene products and the dates I go on with men that make me never want to raise a little girl in this world. It didn’t feel good to bottle up all my feelings (even if it did score me a man for like an entire season of Vanderpump rules) and it certainly doesn’t feel right to not share the highs and lows of this roller coaster that is my life. Taryndownwalls is now {re} open for business.

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Singled Out

Singled Out

Being romantically un-involved used to be an insecurity of mine. One that was carried around with me like a mole I refused to get checked. That was until, I went three plus years having the daunting misfortune of being single without any answers as to why it was so. At some point you just have to come to terms with your fate. Like being significantly tall with a love for heels or tone deaf amidst a family of singers. Most of the time I pretend it’s poor timing or bad luck, but I’m not so naive to believe i’m just not everyone’s cup of tea.

Right around year two I found myself noticing potential reasons, and verbally proclaiming “Yup, this is why I’m single” out loud. The list grew and frankly, if society can’t cope with my quirkiness, fuck it, I hope I never have to commit to being anybody other than me. Not even for frequent sex or someone to help paddle the boat back to shore.

My friends try to make me feel better by throwing Hail Mary’s like: “God’s just not done writing your love story yet”. That’s cute, but I just told potential suitor #1 that I’ve been known to make out with my dog longer than three seconds. Whoops. 


There are handfuls of explanations as to why I’m not married; most of them being because I’m really good at being single, and why screw up a good thing? Do something long enough, and we’re all pro’s. But below are what I think are some of the main causes in no particular order:

  • I’m temperature sensitive- meaning, I can barely think about anything else but being comfortable when it’s too hot or too cold. Some guys find that the amount of times I get up and down to turn on and off the air conditioner is in direct correlation with how indecisive I can be about literally everything else that I have minimal control over. Climate change is only making me more single. Personally, I think I look really cute in your sweatshirt AND also, absolutely nothing. I’ll inevitably tire myself out complaining about the weather, so in my defense…you’re welcome.
  • I’m a grammar Nazi- in light of the recent Charlottesville attacks, I realize that this verbiage may be too soon. But, that leads me to another reason why I’m probably single and that is that I forget the importance of filters. Also, I refuse to date a moron so when your dating profile is riddled with illiteracy I’m privy to assume that you’d turn me off quicker than a clap on lamp. People fancy being dumb, look who we elected president. Men these days don’t want their love letters spell checked, and I get that. But I’d rather be alone than receiving ‘cumming home to ur fine ass 2nite’. #killme
  • I realize dating is a game, and I’m done playing it- three years ago I hosted a personal walk off. I came to terms with the fact that there was nothing in the relationship I was in that would keep me interested in the sport forever. I got back into it; a couple innings here and there. Struck out hard. Not because I was afraid to swing, but because there were hecklers in the stands distracting me from a good play. And also because nobody plays fair. We live in a world where the only way out is cheating. Remember when we were kids? If we caught anybody peeking during heads up seven up, they were dead to us. Frankly, that’s how I roll out my rules as an adult.
  • I’m transparent- for a very long time, I refused to acknowledge that society would view this as a negative. But, I write a blog about bullshit that infuriates me, about the kind of love that excites me, and about reflective moments that I feel everyone can relate to. It’s a blessing and a curse and I see it from more points of view than most people think, but for every man it frightens it allows me a tiny bit of relief, and for that reason alone, I’d rather be single than be quiet. I remember a time when men would complain about their women not telling them how they feel, and making them “guess”. Give me three to five business days and you will have a full article on why I didn’t appreciate you eating the last yogurt… #noteveryonescupofyoplait
  • I’m compulsive- Sounds thrilling, right? I am certain there’s a guy out there for me, but if we are talking majority…I see why most men would find my bucket list overwhelming. I just want to make it to every country before the end of the weekend. Is that too much to ask? Not to be confused with spontaneity, because I usually think these things through way in advance, it’s just that once I set my mind to something I let it control me almost immediately. LAY OFF ME I’M STARVING.
  • I can’t dance- no, like I can’t even do the choreographed songs that come on at the bar. At all. Sweet Caroline? Too many bum-bum-bums…every time. I have less swag than a box of cracker jacks. My generation speaks in movement and I can barely fake-reel-in my dance floor fish without tripping over both left feet. I presume guys are more attracted to the stripper in another life type women. You win this round, twerk-angel.
  • I’m too busy sleeping- last, but certainly not least. If I could date a nap, I would. There is literally nothing more exciting to me than being unconscious from the world for 6-10 hours a day. And unless we meet in my dreams, I doubt we could make this work. I work long hours, on my feet all day and there’s just not enough minutes in a work day to completely be engulfed in a relationship sometimes. Whoever finds themselves changing my relationship status is going to be a professional pajama wearer, thank you 30’s!

I always believe that there’s no reason to be in a relationship until you meet someone who makes your life better than it is when you’re not in one. When I put it that way, it sounds like quite the feat. But, I’m not at a total loss just yet. There’s always hope that someone is going to be a genius wordsmith with dashing good looks, minimal interest in dancing and zero fear. Did I mention ‘smells like bacon’? Hey, a girl can dream…

10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

1. Being crazy wicked hot.

I remember burning my nipples off in a tanning bed for hours just to tease my bartender boyfriend with tan lines. These days, you’re lucky if I remember to shave my legs. It all started with an unwashed high bun, gradually progressed into covering up my cleavage with loosely fitting sweaters and now the only time I’m camera ready is with a strategically placed dog and three layers of Snapchat filters. I’m at the age where I care less about how bang-able you think I am and more about how far in proximity you are to me so that I don’t fall asleep in the time it takes me to get from my house to yours after work.

2. Taking your birth control on time.

I used to set an alarm clock. And keep those tiny white life-savers (or life-enders, however you want to swing it) in a discreet [but super cute] pouch. Because promiscuity could be dressed up or down when you were young and naive. To be totally honest, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, aside from suck the semen out myself, to ensure I wasn’t impregnated by someone I didn’t want to raise a tiny human with me. Statistically I’m about out of time here to procreate, so to terminate any possibility would be dumb in my eyes. Not saying I’d keep any accident that occurs, I’m just saying…In my thirties I’ve hit the snooze button on that reminder more often than not.

3. Having the perfect boyfriend.

Remember team Jacob? My 30s are more like team wakeup– he doesn’t exist. These days I’m less likely to care about what kind of candy will be proudly displayed on my arm and more about who’s gonna judge me the least when they find out I pee in the shower. If we took the amount of energy my teen self put into locating the perfect life long suitor, we could have probably powered the whole damn town. It took me ten plus too many years to realize that being in a relationship isnt all instagram posts and rainbows. It was mostly just fear of being cheated on and spending twice as much money feeding someone who’s face you’ll fuckin hate in two years.

4. New Years Eve.

Staying up til midnight watching the ball drop to the auto-tuned medley of some girl band Simon Cowell created? Ha, that’s cute. Just DVR it, I’ll watch it this weekend.

5. Happy Hour.

The happiest of hours for me is the 60 minutes spent in Target with my phone on silent. I remember a time when it was dirty martinis at half price and nachos that none of us would ever be able to finish, but if you want to talk about true happiness in intervals, tempt me with a paid off credit card and endless rows of dollar bins to sift through.

6. High School Reunions. 

My ten year came and went, and despite what Romy and Michelle advertise, it’s not totally mandatory. I remember thinking any type of coordinated party with people I hadn’t seen in a decade would probably be exceptionally liberating. Except when you realize that everything and then nothing at all happened in those ten years. Prom queen got fat, your home room crush is a an under paid musician and you’re at the punch bowl still “thinking about starting a family”.

7. Other People’s Lives.

Believe it or not, people aren’t walking around trying to point out your mistakes or keep you from proudly making them. People, by nature, are selfish. So selfishly busy trying to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other, that they could care less about your third failed marriage. There have been days where I’ve tried to take the spotlight off of myself and roll around in someone else’s shit, but frankly it always comes back to home base; where you is the only person you ever have enough energy to worry about.

8. F.O.M.O.

For the longest time I thought this meant Fear of Mom’s Opinions. Which, in my defense is a true acronym for a constant concern in my life. Maybe that’s cause I’m 30 now and if I missed Sam’s [tenth anniversary of his 21st birthday] bash #inserteyeroll it’s probably in exchange for making some bomb ass crock pot tacos and indulging in a life changing book. Don’t judge me mom!

9. Being friends with Idiots.

Pretty sure there was an unspoken rule as a teen that stated the dumber your friends were the cooler you were by association. Forget knowing algebra, if Joey from second period–the guy who supplied paint cans for getting high in the bathroom–wanted to be my friend, nobody else needed to audition. Call me crazy, but nowadays I like to surround myself with people who can hold a job, a political stance…a baby. Adulting is hard enough without the added stressors of poorly-matured friendships.

10. Dying. 

This could totally be a just me bullet, and that’s fine. 20 year old me would have cried like a bitch if you talked about exiting stage left too soon, but I’ve lived over 11,000 days on this planet and frankly when it’s time, it’s time. When I was younger, there was an instilled panic to create a life worth living. [Go to school, marry a nice guy, buy a house and raise some kids] I literally have accomplished zero percent of that and I’m closer to death than I was yesterday, seemingly just as happy.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m well over a third of the way through the female life expectancy that makes me reminisce. Surely I’ve left enough marks to satisfy a proud blooper reel for generations to come, right?

You down with BPD, yea you know me

You down with BPD, yea you know me

I hated the work books my therapist would have me add to my Amazon cart. They always came equipped with an “also purchased” display of herbal sleeping pills. Because people like me were insomniacs. They ate anti depressants in their cereal and kept a journal of poetry about their suicidal tendencies. They were also my friends and my family; people I’d never know weren’t firing on all cylinders. 

For a couple of years there I wanted everyone to walk around with a Hello My Name Is: Manic-Depressive sticker. Or Hello My Name was…is…used to be: Acute Stress Disorder, Body Dysmorphia Syndrome, Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. Like the dumb little avatar Sims characters or everyone’s mom at their first PTA meeting. Something, anything to feel less alone. 

In my head, we all suffer. And in my search engine, I wasn’t too far off. According to google there are over 200 classified mental illnesses ranging from more common to less wide spread. All of them being a label that none of us want to wear; none of which any of us can diagnose on our own. 

“Mild to severe disturbances in everyday thought processes” sounds like an easy equivalent to any of my Mondays. But it’s the literal definition of a term that gets more bad publicity than our own fucking president. Mental illness is exactly what it sounds like; an illness of the mind and you wouldn’t walk away from a cancer patient, so where’s your empathy for a schizophrenic? 

It takes a real champ to stand up to their own unwavering ego. The voice inside our head that speaks at a painful volume with little remorse. When I was considering treatment for the diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (get this, it’s just a work book, some flash cards and a yoga membership) I toggled with the list trying to find one that sounded more concrete. Because BPD made me feel like I was labeling my ongoing incompetencies as a head cold and nobody would take me seriously; not even my own ego. 

Below are some of the signs and symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder: 

* Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment 

* A pattern of intense and unstable relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often swinging from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation) 

* Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self 

* Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating 

* Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days

* Chronic feelings of emptiness

* Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger

* Having stress-related paranoid thoughts

* Having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality

Maybe you check off one of these, maybe you feel deeply about them all. Or maybe you think I’m completely insane for being any of them. (Wait until we outline pedophilia for that kind of judgement). You don’t have to be sick to understand crazy. You just have to be open minded to the fact that it’s not a choice to be ill. It’s a choice to be critical and unapologetically unhelpful. 

All I know in this life is that your mind is a terrible thing to waste. It’s either working for you or against you. Those of us who are at war with ourselves have a never ending internal battle that should be externally acknowledged and offered a hand. Nobody fights a war alone, that would be silly. So is mental illness being more taboo than weed in the year twenty seventeen. 

You wouldn’t call the morbidly deteriorating leukemia victim “ugly”, so don’t call us crazy. Call us…more often. To break everyone of this stigma that mental health is a facade of a generation unable to express itself; an excuse to be absolutely out of control. Nobody chooses to wake up and be overwhelmed by their own existence. Your poorly chosen name calling and ignorance to mere science are triggers. 

Work smarter, not harder at how you speak to everyone you meet, know, and may already love. You never know which of the 200 are plaugung their thoughts daily. Or maybe it’s just me, and the rest of the world is perfect. Who am I kidding, that’s just my bpd speaking…

Famewhore

Famewhore

Stop trying to be a headline. Or an article. Or the feelings-accelerator to my anger flame. There’s this never ending “if you can’t beat em, join em” mentality from potential suitors lately and I assume it’s cause I’m as transparent as a glass door. 

Be you, and if you warrants a 450-word count about why the fuck I can’t stand you or why I did everything in my power to try, then, well…you’re welcome. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing how other people feel about them.  [I bet it’s bliss] If I’m being honest, it’s happened to me a handful of times: Getting on a plane and finding out too little too late that I was somebody’s one who got away. Far from bliss to me, cause in my world, knowing is my only euphoria. 
              Maybe we could have been something. 

When I’m asked what super power I’d want if I’m ever to meet the opportunity, without a second breath I choose the ability to read minds. Sounds exhausting. Like the amount of stairs I’d take instead of just choosing the gift of flight.

Whats even more exhausting is meeting a new person everyday and trying to decode them like the pile of genetic flaws they are. What better way to sift through intentions than with the ability to hear unfiltered, raw emotion. It’s 2017 and my dog can get hand delivered treats from a robot on the counter that I’m talking to from my phone at work but I STILL CANT READ MINDS. The amount of time I’d save in a day would be unparalleled. We need this guys. 

Trust me when I say, I get it. I understand why you want to be a post.  I know you think I don’t, and that’s fine because that allows you the option to live with your choices unjudged. (People who don’t understand can’t judge you, right?) but I get it, I’m not stupid, you’re not stupid. We all want to read minds, and mine just so happens to be public. 
Just don’t push me to hate you because you aren’t totally sold on the ability to make me feel anything else. When you’ve hit a wall with me, Im probably not going to write it out. You’d be one lucky son-of-a-bitch to even have me scribble a haiku about your good hair on my hospital locker. 

My point is, you need to stop striving to be an article. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time I got asked “Am I gonna be what you write about next?” I wouldn’t have to write, I could pay somebody to do it for me. I can’t read your mind, yet…and that’s a total bummer. But I can imagine the whole idea behind infamy is wanting to feel like someone acknowledged your incompetencies and praised you for how amazing, awful, or amazingly awful you were. Because a life undocumented these days seems like a total fucking waste. Like the amount of days I spent trying to read your mind before I found out you were only sticking around to find out what I’m like between the sheets and if I’d write about you in the morning…

Rest in [finding your] Peace.

Rest in [finding your] Peace.

There are a lot of things I am willing to fight for. My family, my friends, my integrity. If I’m being totally honest, I wish my defensiveness subsided with my growing pains. But it didn’t. And if you call me a liar, I’ll show you a liar who’s also hell-bent on making sure you know better than to call me a liar again. If that sounds scary, it is. I deal with that kind of blind rage from time to time and only a handful of people in this life have provided me with tools to combat the intense need to get my point across. I’m not proud of it. Nobody’s proud of how they got here, only that they made it.

This week I learned an invaluable lesson. I lost my best friend [and a mother to the same scenario in earlier months] but gained a huge perspective about my role as a human being.

I am not here to fix you.

I will only love you as much as you let me without hindering my own happiness. 

“Adults don’t get to tell other adults how to behave” she said, as the pain of my mistakes drew whatever was left in the salty canals of my bloodshot eyes. My sister has a way of always reminding me that whatever sadness I’m feeling is only in direct correlation to a poor decision on my part. On letting someone do damage, by giving them a platform to upset me. She was right. She’s always right. 

Since when was it such a crime to tell others that what they were doing wasn’t OK? Especially if you weren’t totally convinced that they knew better. And I wasn’t. But that wasn’t my place. I’m an adult and adults don’t get to offer unsolicited advice; the downfall of so many relationships.

Nobody was there to prepare me for the kill. Just like that, I fired the bullet directly into the weakest part of my favorite friendship. And silenced it’s existence in one shot. Looking back on it, sabotage is just my guide’s way of making sure I pull the proverbial trigger quick enough to blast any opportunity of survival straight out of the park. They know I hang on to pieces. They couldn’t let me find pieces.

I entertained the idea that enough good outweighed the bad for entirely too long. I made sure to make excuses for the things that brought me anxiety and only highlighted the moments I knew you weren’t sick. But, we’re all a little sick when it comes down to it. I was sick of you and your were sick of you and we were both pretty fed up with pretending we weren’t always one “I’m running late” text away from giving up on each other.

But we were soul friends; the kind of person you could sit in complete silence with and feel comforted. I loved you like a sister, down to making sure whatever happiness you needed me to create, I’d manifest at my soonest convenience. I knew you better than you wanted to believe I did, and I probably won’t ever get enough credit for the way I handled the pain you created every time you abandoned me without reason. You knew exactly how to fail me. And in letting you do that, I failed me.

Nobody to blame, but myself.

Rest  in (finding your) peace.

Vigilante of Love

Vigilante of Love

I am an advocate for healthy relationships. Don’t let my all-too-often cynicism make you skeptical of my allegiance to love. Or romance. Or that [sometimes] painful, but ultimately raw intimacy that only a few of us find in our life time. I believe in good people and I hold constant faith in a humanity that has let me down time and time again. I always keep hold of it, because we only allow opportunity to cease when we stop believing in it’s ability to exist.

Somewhere between wanting to fall in love myself, and watching everyone else fall in love around me, I found a bit of a knack for drawing from people, their truths. And even when they don’t want to give it to me, I sense their lies deep within my core. One small reminder that I’m not the kind of girl who’s eyes are easily covered with wool and people just kind of share their skeletons before either of us know what’s happening.

“I’m a heroin addict. I want to cheat on my girlfriend. I hate my wife.

The only thing that feels good is this. New interaction.”

I’ve been told I feel comfortable. I assume people mean that they lack a filter in my presence and it feels….well, OK. I want every time I hear this to be special, because it’s nice to be able to console another human being with just your presence. It’s even nicer to change people’s lives by simply lending an ear. The truth is, being comfortable to strangers has found a way of making me less-than comfortable more often than not and holding too many secrets is a sure fire way to make yourself miserable; or so I’ve learned.

Earlier this year, I lent an ear. And then I lent some advice. And then I totally used all of the intel I received against the person who I made comfortable enough to give it to me. But, frankly…he had been cheating on his girlfriend for too long, and fuck you, girl power. I’m not telling this story because I want to rat myself out for being a rat. I want to share this story because it went from a tiny step to clear my conscious, to one of the bravest and most important things I could have ever done for a stranger.

We swiped right on each other. His profile suggested he had been single long enough to be serious about a real connection. A handful of messages back and forth lead to the exchange of numbers and then almost immediately a phone call. He told me he lived with his friend, that he couldn’t wait for me to meet his dog, and that he had an ex who was ‘crazy’. As progression would go, I found his facebook profile a few days into our dialogue and there she was. A girlfriend of a lot of years.

It’s happened to me a few times, but usually when I call a man out for his blatant display of a relationship on social media he back pedals and apologizes for wasting my time, then ghosts like a true millennial. This one was different. He spent hours, days, weeks telling me sob stories about how he was being emotionally abused by this woman he barely sees anymore.

Fast forward to a month later when my gut tells me to reach out to the girl in the photos labeled ‘in a relationship with: the tool on tinder’. I went into it thinking I’d be a fool to think she would even believe me. Broken relationships are always filled with denial. I would know, I frequent that step of the grieving process often. She didn’t believe me at first; shocker. I provided her with months of back and forth conversations that otherwise deemed all of his stories a lie…down to the revelation that his roommate he spoke so frequently of…was in fact…her.

Man did that suck. Relaying to a woman who knew her relationship was rocky, that it was even rockier on the outskirts. And that someone knew only half truths about the woman she was because her sociopathic boyfriend confided in a complete stranger about their relationship, seemingly using the foundation of his twisted story to fuel compassion. He lied about the way she treated him. About the seriousness of their status. But most importantly he lied about being a victim to someone who truly played the part, every god damn day.

This story has a happy ending folks…cause when she found out, she eventually left him. It took her a couple months, as most many-year relationships do, but it finally happened. And despite how horrible it sounds to break two people up, I’m so grateful I was given the opportunity to do so, and did it without fear of repercussion.

This shit doesn’t fly with me anymore kids. I can smell a liar from across our cell signals these days. Don’t play me for a fool, or I’m gonna make your current girlfriend my more current best friend and we’re gonna roast the fuck out of your dick pics in the comfort of our own single-hood. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like a superhero, but if being online and trying to date makes me a vigilante for love, keep me logged in and signed up,  cause I’m ready to detect the bullshit you douche-canoes keep feeding me.

 

Boom. Nailed it. 👍🏻

Plateau

Plateau

Rock bottom isn’t just a bar and grill, to some, it’s a platform for change. I’ve swam pretty damn close to the depths of sunken debris, where fellow friends visited and found permanent residency in the strength it provided. But, my lowest of lows never seem to be “bottom” enough. I haven’t been an unlucky divorcee, I know nothing of addiction, and frankly even amidst my saddest hours soaked in misunderstood tears, I’m still not seemingly low enough to always find a higher self. 

I find a bit of guilt in wanting to seek a lower-low for the sake of a higher-high, but this is a cliche and monumental line that makes me think about the what if’s of its potential. What if I already hit my rock bottom and did nothing with it? What if one persons rock bottom looks nothing like someone else’s? What if rock bottoms aren’t for everybody?

They aren’t. And it’s fucking purgatory

A place where we stand in limbo, totally dissatisfied with where we are; destined for neither hell nor heaven. What do we do here? Funny I should ask, because I’ve been told that the definition of hitting it is the moment you begin to question everything that you know to be true. 

I’m here. It’s happening

I never thought I’d long for a crash so fatal. The kind of carnage that leaves me with just a skeleton of shambles that need rearranging. For too long, I’ve been lost, playing hide and seek with myself over fifty states and too many years to count on one hand.  

At the bottom, you can look up and see how far off course you were. Staring at a road you paved with other people’s ideas of someone you never wanted to be. At the bottom, all of your previously-ignored defective behaviors are projected into the light. Finding each of your faults floating freely; as you sink deeper. At the bottom is a fresh perspective; a positive perception of a life that felt unsatisfactory. At the bottom is responsibility, humility, but most importantly prosperity. 

I’m starting to think “hitting the bottom” isn’t a once in a lifetime occurrence. It can facilitate its way into our lives on a weekly basis if we aren’t cognitive enough of it’s purpose. Just when I thought my bottom wasn’t as low as others, I realized quickly it was bottom-enough for me to hit restart and re-establish the person I am. Not only that, but publicly. 

This blog is a constant rock bottom. I come here to recognize my failures. To accept self pity and take responsibility for how my life is lived. It gets me out of hiding and allows me a platform for vulnerability when my feelings feel hardest to feel. It allows me to loath, to be thankful and to sometimes be completely numb to everything I just stated above. I witness it connect me with old friends, and often times it connects me with complete strangers; but most importantly it connects me with me…time and time again.

The Coward With The Key

The Coward With The Key

I think I’m going insane. 

Not the kind that voids me of being a productive member of society and forces me to medicate pharmaceutically, just the kind that makes me cry on my drives home from work to songs that are other-wise meant for dancing. I used to chalk it up to mother nature; engulfing my hormones into a fiery inferno of mass hysteria every month like clock work. Making me eat chocolate chip cookies by the handfuls and overreacting about literal spilled milk. [I’m clumsy, it happens.]

But this, this isn’t my menstrual cycle anymore. This is a men-suck cycle; this is war. Some would say I ask for it. And those people aren’t totally wrong. I ask for the attention by way of social media, by the way I wear my makeup or the low top cut I adorn. I ask for it on the dating profiles I solicit; in the blog I post publicly for everyone to read. It’s funny cause I rarely get what I seek. The kind of attention that is more than just a hit off the pipe, the kind that starts as a friendly gesture and could manifest into a true connection but finds its way instead to be reckless and debilitating.

I may have asked for ‘it’, but ‘it’ is vastly different to two totally different people who’s lives have yet to collide on anything deeper than a filtered selfie and a couple of drunk late night “I miss you’s”. These days, I miss you is equivalent to “I miss your body”. I want you is just backwash for “I’m scared to be lonely”. It, to me, is always just some sort of foundation of reliability from an outsider. The ability to come together as two humans with similar interests and mutual respect. Day one, we’ve got it. Day thirty six, it’s gone. 

I wish people who plant trust-seeds in strangers’ hearts and forget to water them weren’t long for this world. I’d say I understand the idea of being selfish, but I really fucking don’t. Even people whom I don’t believe deserve a second more of my time, got it. Why? Because communication is the key to mental health stability. And everyone’s just walking around with all of the answers in their pockets; tight lipped…destroying society. You know what changes the whole game? Not even playing one. Just being as straight forward as it’s physically possible to be to make sure that every word you say is followed by a similar action.

Because, when things don’t make sense, and the world seems so very fucked…that’s when the mind gets weaker and the heart grows an aversion to love. And frankly, that’s all we ever need in this life. To love and be loved. The idea that someone can strip us of that possibility feels like murder: Death by coward; the one with the key. 

Ex Marks The Spot

I get it, Ex’s are an ‘off-limits’ topic. They fuel insecurities and create unnecessary reminders of lost time. But, most importantly they are pieces of our past. A past that molds who we are today.

Understanding your current partner’s previous relationship is equivalent to taking Calculus your senior year. Nobody wants to do it, it’s going to seem like a giant waste of time, but in the end, it’ll get you to where you want to be much faster.

The Ex is around somewhere. They exist. Find them and research their failures. Or, when that feels entirely too invasive, simply…just ask your partner. Your significant other’s ex’s faults are a streamlined path to triggers that could be easily avoided with the knowledge of their existence. They say, that what we don’t know can’t hurt us…except in this very instance.

What made him leave? Why was their relationship less than successful?

Before doing some irresponsible social-media stalking take a moment to engage with your partner and find out from them what they were looking for, and didn’t find, in a potential spouse. Sometimes you will get the ol’ “She was crazy” which you will come to find out translates into “stayed out late drinking and fucked my best friend”. Note to self: don’t do either cause it doesn’t label well. Clearly infidelity is a huge turn off for everyone, but more specifically it’s important to remember that the partner with this kind of “EX-file” is probably more fragile when it comes to trust.

You may even get the “She wasn’t my type”, translating into: “She let herself go about four months into the relationship and by the time we moved in together she was able to eat a slice of pizza off of her belly Fat-Bastard style”.

Whatever you get for a response about what was enough to end their relationship, it’s enough to help you not end this relationship. And that’s such a one up, it’s absurd. Grab a front row seat to any kind of evolution, even if it’s a taboo topic like who your boyfriend used to bang. Honestly, being aware of you AND your partner’s boundaries is probably the single most important influencer in the confidence people need to create solid connections.

Normalize your past, align your objectives and TALK ABOUT YOUR EX’S.  It’ll make things so much easier for you when you realize your not asking someone to repeat any former regrets. You’re setting them up for success by giving them the tools they need to not be another tool you don’t need.