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…

Hashtag Unfollow

Hashtag Unfollow

Risk had it’s rewards when I let it guide my twenties with an insatiable passion for being able to admit that I feared absolutely nothing; not even a broken heart. I navigated online dating sites coast to coast for a decade sure of one thing, “there is always safety in numbers”. Ok fine, maybe mom meant something different by her idiom, but she’s not entirely wrong. Quantity, when relating to desire, always gave quality a soft place to land when it realized that people were horrible and NOTHING EVER LASTS.

So whenever I have a hard time understanding why men can’t focus on one woman at a time, I graciously remember my twenties and all the eggs I put in vast amounts of “who wants to get drunk and cuddle with me tonight” baskets. And then I remember, I’m not in those pants sizes my twenties anymore and putting up with that kind of behavior is like ordering a drink at the dj booth; one of you looks stupid and the other person is just upset that you interrupted mediocre danceclub remixes.

If we’re being honest, men rarely attempt to commit to something great until it either starts dating his best friend or literally fucking dies. Like, there’s no in between. Either you play the game, or you lose your marbles…and then the will to live. I wish the ability to drive a sane woman to utter mental chaos took the same amount of effort it does to knowingly start following “Senorita Assclap” and liking three hundred of her photos on Instagram. Men are actually so dumb, that these kinds of public displays of idiocy are no match for their judgment.

Fun social media Fact: if a guy likes even two of my photos (usually one from this year and one from THE DEEP ARCHIVES) every girl knows he’s down to pound. So, save us all the feed space and wear a shirt that says “I need attention from multiple women at once or I struggle to function.” And thennnnn, we know not to fucking date you.

Not that the fair-warning will keep us from trying.

“Do the best you can until you know better, and once you know better, do better”.

Aint that right Maya Angelou? That saint of a woman also said “there is no greater agony than baring an untold story inside of you” and I honestly, I haven’t felt so connected to a dead person since Tupac’s hologram at Coachella 2012.

I digress…

There is a golden virtual rule and it goes something like this: don’t give off the illusion of having many choices because it will make it harder to find viable options.

The truth is, just cause you’re not doing anything that- bad doesn’t mean you’re doing anything that-good. This isn’t a by-default world.

Gentleman, I’ll have you know that when us women spiral, we spiral hard and if you think that social media is safe from investigation leading into interrogation and followed by 4 years of blocking- no parole…you’re mistaken. We know what you did last summer, last night, and it wouldn’t be too far off to assume that we already know what location you’ll be tagged in, blurry and unphased, by lolitagirl69’s tag marker next weekend. This is a social media world, and we’re all just living in brief moments of social engagement vs true persona.

Lastly, to my fragile and semi-broken ladies…get you a man who doesn’t just like your social media presence infrequently amongst a sea of other thirst traps, but actually appreciates the filter-less depth of the real and authentic (as crazy as you are) you. Because, remember, that everything is cool until it just isn’t anymore. Think, LimeWire. Think, The Harlem Shake. Think…Instagram in literally two years. #wastedthirties #literally #figuratively #whyarehashtagssomuchgoddamnfun

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.

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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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…

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.

Apology Tour 2017

Apology Tour 2017

I’ve dated quite a few of you. I use the term dated loosely; as in: you woke me up with good morning texts long enough to make me feel like there couldn’t possibly be more of us. (spoiler alert: there were) Maybe you asked me out a handful of times to places you wanted to experience with someone like me. We might have kissed. Some of you can say you know what I look like unclothed, some of you won’t ever get the opportunity. Whatever we were, I know I learned as much about you in whatever time frame the universe granted us. Because whatever connection I seek, I never cease to go deep.

I spent a month here, and year there, exploring a myriad of different men. And some would say I looked for something in everybody, childishly. Like I was settling for a sense of purpose in nurturing a poorly watered flower on the windowsill of love. But, when I look back on the handfuls of people who strummed the chords of my future for an entire decade, I know I played a role in lives that needed someone like me. And why do I know this? Because anybody who truly deserved the kind of exit you all took, wouldn’t deserve the apologies I received in due time.

I tear up at the fact that it feels perpetual; that everybody leaves. And without fail, everybody returns. This week alone I’ve felt more abandoned than ever and when I ask the un-named numbers that appear in my inboxes what they are getting out of their expressions of regret, all I hear is that I never deserved the way I was treated and that I needed to know that. But do I really need to know that? How is this for me?

It’s not. It’s for you. And that’s ok. I’ve always let it be about you. The part when you left, that was for you to figure out why you were too overwhelmed to continue. The part when you came back, this was for you to realize that being a coward didn’t benefit either of us. I’ve been meaning to tell every single person who knocks on the door I’ve finally closed that I am human too. I have feelings that are overwhelming and difficult also, but I never use them as an excuse to treat another human being the way you all did.

Apologies are hard. I’ll give you that. Pride is a salty thing to swallow. But so are tears. Words used to be such an influential vessel of truth to me and then they sailed away on a river of you-inflicted sadness. I can’t even trust my Australian GPS, because I chose to download him as a man.

Your lies may have been in the past, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I remember all of your exits vividly. They were dead phone lines, undelivered texts and ghosts of profiles. They were opportunities for me to go completely insane while I tried to figure out the difference between what I did wrong and what was wrong with you. And I hate you for that. But I forgive you just the same.

It’s funny how your apologies make me feel sane again. Sometimes being delivered within the year, others longer. They’re all different, built on excuses of poor timing or mental illness. But built on the faith that I’ll accept whatever it was that made you make the mistake. The things you said to me, the things you didn’t, whatever they were I didn’t deserve them. But, everyone deserves a little forgiveness. Of course, not the kind that excuses your behavior, just the kind that stops destroying my heart…

 

 

 

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. 

Big Talker 

Big Talker 

God I hate “big talkers.” 

More than slow walkers; more than faded Dockers and sidewalk gawkers, even more than misbehaved Cockers. (That’s saying a lot cause I despise “caution” pets who come in for routine visits) 

I don’t hate a lot of things, except for the title of this blog and everything that rhymes with it. Let’s be real; faded anything is my fashion demise. But most of all, I loathe the scum of the earth fakers that spend so much of our precious lives making false promises to the more-than-worthy human beings that stumble through these acts of fabrication with soon-to-be-slaughtered positive expectations. Face it, you can only hide so much before your actions become a direct map to your deception. Tell me you don’t like games while you are literally the creator of the one we’re playing. 

Nothing can prepare a good person for bad things, because to us, there is always hope. We never judge people by the footsteps of their shitty predecessors, we worry and wait for the trusted to prove their similarities, but we never assume that by default the world is evil. And that’s the fault in our love.

I am no better for my naivety. But I’m no worse for dusting myself off and trying again, and again, and again. Not because I have a time line (fuck it, were all gonna die anyway) but because we never stop being worthy of accepting new feelings. The good, the bad and the “I’ll make you feel so good it’ll hurt so bad”. 

The pain of watching something turn out the complete opposite of the energy you put forth into it is almost like a tiny death. Thank the god I don’t believe in- that it’s not. That it’s just a bruise or a scar, not the end.

Sometimes it feels like the end. Another conclusion to a quick and pointless cinematic-like piece of shit. Wasting my time on an hour and a half of something that’s gonna go straight to DVD. I deleted my tinder account to literally try the live version of an interrogation. Did you do it? No. Who did it? I don’t know. On second thought, just kill me already

Ok fine, spare this mug for maybe an ounce of lessons learned, but can I get a break long enough for an uninterrupted love-meal? When will I be able to see through this generation’s bullshit and formulate a way to protect and serve my mind, body and soul? 

Speaking of souls, mines pretty old. I know this because often times I feel like I’ve done this before. Like I’ve lived through a thousand different heartbreaks and it didn’t make me any better or worse for it. It just was. And what was, was my purpose.

I never truly understood why so much misery and chaos exists around me. That’s the burden that lingers on a soul that’s seen it all before. We carry the weight of having all the answers but knowing sharing them will never be enough. We are the deep insight that fights to feel something beyond today’s predictions. Something more permanent and less forced; a forever bond that transcends all lack of truth and continues to be a never ending entanglement of brutally honest connection.

That’s some big talk, you may say. With big talk, comes bigger action. From me at least. It’s unfortunate I still can’t date myself fulfillingly. Maybe in my next life…

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.

Double Standard

Life’s not fair. 

 

*end article*

 

 

 

 

 

Ok, fine. Even though that’s the gist of basically everything I have to complain about currently, I might as well divulge my frustrations in entirety as to not leave my audience without some, as-always, dating irony. I am human, hear me rant 🙂

Our minds are beautiful things. Sometimes taking us to the most enchanting corners of insanely magnificent ideas. While other times they drop our pitiful-gutter-thoughts off at inopportune times that create a whirl wind of perverse commentary; proudly labeling us as the town hoe.

If you haven’t used the monkey with it’s hands covering it’s mouth emoji before, you probably don’t know what i’m talking about. Mouth, *insert foot*, type Freudian slips. The kind of text messages that would make your Grandma blush. You tell him it’s hard for you to trust men and he tells you he’ll ‘show you something hard’.

Game over. Her well is dry. She thinks you’re a pig.

Twenty minutes later she sends him a button-down cleavage shot with a winky face and he wants to know why CHICKS ARE SO GOD DAMN CONFUSING.

I get it, double standards times infinity. Let me break this down for you though. Since the dawn of time men have been, without a doubt, considered the more sexually charged partner in a relationship. By instinct alone, sex is on a man’s mind before he even know’s his penis is primed. More often that not, this innate desire for intimacy has proven to increasingly place pressure on women who’s fancy’s are usually tickled by less bang and more hang. But that doesn’t change what is already programmed. Something, that no matter how much he says’s he doesn’t want “just that”, is there. It’s hungry. So, when a man brings up anything correlating to sexual desire, it’s fair to assume that’s where his mind is going. Actions to follow. Because, history.

Men want immediate pleasure, not to be mistaken with instant gratification which can be found in the opposite sex. Ask any 14 year old teenage boy playing pocket pool under the table at school for his entire lunch hour. It’s mandatory. Once satisfied, men move on to pursuit. The pursuit of continued indulgence. Followed by finding out if there’s any interest beyond achieving climax.

Women however, organize differently. Interest, pursuit, pleasure.

In order for us to be pursued we have to gain interest and therefore achieve pleasure. Which equals throwing out bait that the fish will bite. What bait do men bite? Things that give them pleasure. So we are now originating our tasks by fishing with our own end game. And frankly, it feels like the only way.

If I hear that this isn’t fair one more time I’m gonna take a knife to a kitten. This is an earned fairness, in my opinion. Why do we get to talk about our nipples getting hard at the sign of an early winter, but you can’t tell us that you got a raging stiffy from a Carl’s Jr. commercial? Because, only one of us is turned on by the thought of the other’s comment.

Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ get some side boob in the picture of me asking if you ‘like my new socks?’. But when you ‘accidentally’ get your whole dick in a photo of you inquiring if I ‘love your new watch?’ NOBODY WINS. There is some sort of unsaid truth about dick pics being the most unsolicited genre in maybe the entire existence of photography. And yet, men still send them. We barely want it in our vagina’s, let alone burned into our thoughts with a sepia filter. What do we want? You to tell us that our side boob is everything you’ve ever dreamed of…and oh, our socks are cute too. #instantgratification

I get it, it’s not fair. But….life’s not. Blame the idiots before you who led with their main veins. If that’s not enough dammit, us women grow babies for almost an entire calendar year’s time. The least you can do is give us this one up.

Guys be like…


Like my new watch?!

Fair Trade

“It’s up to you Taryn…I can tell you how to do the right thing or I can teach you how to manipulate the situation to get what you want.”

Advice; something I’ve never been short on. 

I guess when you’re trying to find solutions to life’s never ending problems, short cuts tend to give the quickest satisfaction. It’s just that they are usually made up of a lot of things that don’t help me sleep at night. Like inspiring fear and following that up with relief. Or being completely unreasonable until I get my fucking way.

I used to throw tantrums in grocery stores until my mother left me cold and alone in the ice cream isle pondering my life choices. But, enough about last week. Those tantrums worked just as well on my stubborn parents as they do on today’s men. And by ‘worked’, I mean…i’m still cold and alone in the ice cream isle at 30.

I [almost] always want to do the right thing, that’s for certain. The right thing is just fifteen additional steps involving selflessness that frankly I’m too exhausted to execute. Manipulation smells a lot like success especially after years of failed attempts at altruism. Does that make it right? no. Does that make it desirable? fuckyea.

I was in sales for like half a minute last year, and, honestly, an unintentional slum lord to some of the nicest people. Lately, that’s how I feel when I’m dating. Like I’m selling the hell out of some damaged real estate, but who cares? It’s gotta come off the market some day. WE HAVE QUOTAS! Ok, so I’m not that mangled, but I know there are women out there with a lot less insecurities. They just aren’t as funny. And I bet you all the dollars in my wallet that they can’t make cupcakes at high altitudes with three separate substitutes for eggs.

That’s where I’ve learned the art of manipulation. Which, by definition sounds like I’m about to make victims out of my suitors…but believe you me, this is better for all of us in the long run.  Realistically it’s just about perfecting persuasiveness; something they make you master before you can pass your speech class in college. So why not utilize honed skills to make an honest woman out of myself? Oh, the irony.

The world is a very dishonest place. It’s filled with people who need direction. I know the right thing is to ‘be yourself’, stay truthful and be modest. But, sometimes you just gotta let the sex kitten out of it’s cage, tell people what they want to hear, find what makes them tick and strum that cord. Fish with some bait in an otherwise un-stirred pond. Ladies, manipulate the damn situation to get what you want. ‘The right thing’ usually leaves you with things you don’t want. Like, friend zones, childless homes and clean driving records.

img_2484

Valen-time and time again

Valen-time and time again
I’ve dated myself ever since I became cognitive enough to experience the feeling of self-inflicted satisfaction. For some, it was banging their privates into anything that would involuntarily push back. For me, it was sending myself love notes before anybody else could.

Dear me,

There’s a whole lot of romance in my absolute devotion to you. Let me be frank, your love is all I need. 

I remember our first date like it was yesterday, because it was. It was yesterday, and the day before; and the day before that day before. It’s been every day. Firsts, lasts, almost’s and in-between’s. You’ve been my saving grace. My easy escape. My god, with you…I am safe. 

I love the way you break up with anything that doesn’t serve your existence. And the way you look at me in the mirror before work, rooting us on for a day of excellence. There’s nobody else in this world that I’d rather spend every minute with. Minutes aren’t even minutes when we’re alone. They’re hours of days that we’ve carved our dreams into; together.

I am enchanted by your stubbornness, for it’s the only reason we’ve made it here today. I hope you don’t chase a single minute blinded by other’s manipulation. Your intuition is the only truth you cannot see. Truth should always come before acceptance. See that through and our love will be eternal.

Not a day passes when I don’t think of you. About your intricacies and your flaws. And the way you’re not afraid to share any of them with the world. Each one of them makes me love you more, not less. They are your poetic and humble handbook to creating the most love-able version of yourself.

Keep learning. Keep progressing. Keep unfolding. You’re beautiful, even in the darkness.

                                                                                            Yours Truly,

                                                                                                           Taryn