Experiences, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, Travel

Abandonment Issues Triggered Over Driving Myself to the Airport

I drove myself to the airport this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve had to park my car while I jetset. It definitely will not be the last. But I was not supposed to drive myself. I hate spending money I don’t have to, and honestly, there’s something really lovely about having someone care enough to do the airport drop off and pick up dance with. 

I masked up. I was just alone and drinking coffee.

I booked this trip two weeks ago, and for me, that’s some pretty good advance warning. I spoke with my platonic life partner and roommate and best friend, all one person, about driving me. I had picked flights that would work with his work/life schedule. He agreed. It went on our household calendar. Last night, he got home from work. I was working at the table. He’d been invited out with friends. Great! Have fun. Remember we need to leave the house by 3:45 am, so just be home by then. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be home by nine so we can watch a show before getting some sleep and heading to the airport. 10:30 hits, and I head to bed.

When I wake up and head downstairs to leave… No truck in the driveway. No ring notification. No man on the couch or in his bed or anywhere in the house at all. It’s 3:30. You know. Still time. Four calls straight to voicemail while I’m brushing my teeth. I eventually leave a voicemail. “I’m not angry. I’m not even disappointed. I’ve just come to expect this.” The petty asshole in me responds to his midnight-thirty “Love you!” text message with “Then maybe you should be home to take me to the airport…..” “But I guess not.” I did not take the high road. Grace was not given. Not my proudest moment. I let all the doggos out and said my goodbyes before hopping in the car and driving my independent lady ass to the airport. I did cry in the car. Not a breakdown cry. The silent stoic tears of a war bride waving goodbye on a train platform in a 1950s black and white movie. Probably not that pretty, but you get the picture. Hurt.

I’m taking this trip because I miss my best friend; I’m going through an intensely tough time and need to get away; the day after I get back my life will revolve around the out-all-nighter because he’s having his hip replaced, and I’ll be taking care of him. This is me being punchy about the fact I’ll be his nurse round-the-clock for six weeks and he couldn’t make it home in time to take me to the airport. Not sorry. I am also not sorry for airing this information. I’m a writer. He knows this. Life is copy.

Two quick things before I get to what I actually want to talk about. 1) This scenario is not actually a huge deal and was easily solved. The emotional aspect… Different story. Had this happened ten years ago, I would be a proper mess, but I’m so much more healed now. So I’m a slight mess instead. 2) If this were an isolated incident, I would be mad or disappointed. The problem, it’s not. So I’m hurt because it never feels lovely to be forgotten, and it’s pretty terrible never being a priority or able to depend on someone. 

Trauma is a huge part of my story. I have issues. I am excessively familiar with all of my issues and triggers and the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the course of thirty-one years. I’m quite good at telling my people what I need from them to keep functioning as optimally as I can. These things are quite easy and simple because at the end of the day, they’re my problems and I hate being a burden. I wear my trauma on my sleeve; it just makes life and relationships easier when I’m not hiding things that impact me so deeply. So everyone close to me knew what they were getting into and decided to stay. To the extreme point that if I’m dating someone or getting to know someone as a friend I lay it all out there on the first date/hang out. Truly, all they have to do is Google me and so much is out there for consumption. I am old enough to know I don’t want to waste my fucking time on people who will judge me, not support me, are intimidated by whatever, think what I do is dumb, can’t handle it. Trial by fire. Their reactions say it all. 

Sad and hurt for too many reasons but ready for adventure.

When you have a relationship, platonic or romantic, with a person who has survived and lives with trauma, you have to accept that your actions, even the innocuous ones, can have a huge and sweeping impact. I struggle with worth, abandonment issues, being enough, and just feeling like an entirely forgettable human. Among other things. So when I was left to fend for myself this morning, the thought was “Alone. Like always.” Maneuvering the logistics of getting to the airport: so simple. Maneuvering the emotional toll of being forgotten and abandoned: not so simple. 

Trusting people is so hard for me. I’ve let people in and been hurt over and over and over again. Trust is built over time and in the little moments. Watching TV on the couch after a rough day. Text messages to check in after falling down the stairs. Sleepovers for funsies. Showing up on time or at all when plans are made. “Safe travel” texts before planes take off. Not canceling. Including people in conversations. Remembering how to pronounce a name. Randomly reaching out for no reason. Sending a postcard. Listening without judgement. All these little things are teeny moments building trust and relationship between people. Trust takes time to build and often so little to corrode or destroy. To protect myself and cope with a life of abuse, I keep people at a distance, don’t give them chances to build trust, and make it incredibly hard to get to know me. How I have any friends is quite the mystery at this point. I’m working on it. As shitty as it is to say, when one person lets me down, it feels like another tick mark against all of humanity. Like, welp, this person can’t be trusted, and they’re human, therefore all humans are ashtrays. Refer to the first sentence of this paragraph… I am aware this is a problem.

I’m not someone who needs, wants, or even craves grand gestures. (Maybe I am, but I’ve never had anyone remotely try, so I wouldn’t actually know. I do love doing them, however.) Little things mean the most. A ride to the airport is not life altering, but it’s a little thing. Love, true love, exists in those little things, the quotidian, the quiet moments, the in betweens. It’s not always explosions or fireworks. It’s life altering in fundamentally consistent, persistent ways of sharing joys and sorrows, every big and little moment. Love is showing up and bearing witness to a lived life. Those tiny moments mean everything. To someone with trauma, it means everything and so much more. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need much. I probably need more than I realize, but I’ve been alone and self-sufficient for so long, I don’t know what it’s like to lean on someone or ask for help. Maybe someone will force my walls down and make me realize it’s okay to need things. To that woman, I say, “Best of luck. I’ll be quite the challenge.” Until then if ever. Fuck that shit; I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anyone. I got myself to the airport like I’ve done numerous times before. And I’ll take myself home. 

That doesn’t mean I’m not hurting. I’m not struggling. I’m not wondering if he forgot because I’m forgettable. Or he didn’t come because I wasn’t supportive enough of his night out. Or he didn’t think I was worth taking to the airport. Or that maybe I just don’t deserve someone to care about me. Or he just doesn’t want me in his life anymore. Or he never cared at all. Logically, I know all of this is untrue and it was an accident. But that doesn’t mean I believe it. Feelings and logic rarely coexist peacefully. 

When you decide to be in someone’s life who is dealing with trauma, you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into and that your actions have repurcussions. Your accidents and mistakes carry more weight. Little things mean the most, for the good and the bad. I know what it’s like to be on both sides. Being the traumatized and loving someone with trauma. It’s hard doing the loving, but I also know just how worth it it is. Then again, I also know how to be there for them because I know. And when you love someone, you just show up. Trauma or no trauma. Show up. That’s the bare minimum, and it shouldn’t be a lot to ask for. Then again, my bare minimum was “This one doesn’t rape me!” for the longest time. It’s been upped to, “This one doesn’t make me cry every day!” I’m fucked up. I know. 

So I’m sitting on this fucking plane, crying my big, gay tears next to a man in a MAGA hat, trying to convince myself that maybe someday I’ll find someone who will ask if I need a ride to the airport and show up. (Shout out to Amanda, who offered, but I “had a ride.”) It should be simple. But it’s not for me. The idea of my having worth enough for anyone to take me to the airport let alone love me does not exist. The accident of falling asleep at a friend’s house after a fun night out is small, but to me, it carries connotations of so much more. 

11..., Lifestyle

11… Disappointing Things I Have Shoved In My Mouth

Bad Banana Bread is up there in disappointment factor. | Sweater | Sports Bra | Yoga Shorts | Glasses |

I’m sure Freud has something to say about that title. 

When we’re children, we stick everything in our mouths because that’s one way we learn. It’s also evolution’s way of weeding out the real dummies. Kidding. As adults, we are more fastidious about what we shove into our mouths. But there’s really only one way to know if you’ll like it or not: open up and let your tongue decide. 

  1. Bland Indian Food This deserves to be number one for a reason!!! (The rest are not in numerical order, but this one is.) Bland should never be an adjective for Indian food. They just don’t go together. But I have had bland Indian food, and it was the most disappointing thing I’ve ever experienced. It hurt my soul and sent me to Yelp, which never happens. Zero stars. Go somewhere else. 
  2. Bad Banana Bread Is there anything worse? Absolutely, but this is disappointing. Dry banana bread is the most disappointing, but I made bad banana bread a couple weeks ago. (Pictured) It was totally done on the outside yet pudding-like on the inside. Why? Because I ran out of regular flour and used whole wheat flour to finish it off. Nope. Doesn’t work. Don’t do it. DISAPPOINTING.
  3.  “World’s Best [anything]” It’s not. They just put it on the sign to make you stop and steal your money with their disappointing world’s not best whatever. 
  4. This One Dude in College I’ll keep it at: disappointment. Wherever your mind wandered, subtract all of the inches and it’s still more than what it was. 
  5. Anything Chocolate Chip When You’re Expecting Blueberry I’m weird. I don’t like chocolate chip muffins or cookies or really anything. It’s such a disappointment when it turns out to be chocolate instead of blueberry, which I don’t love, but give me a free muffin, I will take it.
  6. Post Five Second Rule In my house, if it hits the floor, it’s the dogs’. There is too much puppy glitter – aka dog hair – for me to put anything in my mouth once it hits the ground. I found this out the hard way. Water only does so much.
  7. Dog Treats That Look Like Human Cookies I love giving my dog pretty treats. They deserve nice things too. But when I grab a cookie out of a jar, I want it to be a human cookie. Label that shit!
  8. Tea Bags I mean tea bags with tea in them not the other thing that dudes do [Although, that’s pretty disappointing to have in your mouth too. Balls!]. Once you’ve gotten used to that high roller life of loose leaf tea, tea bags are just not so good. 
  9. Cilantro Everything There’s a genetic component in this one, which doesn’t apply to me. Cilantro doesn’t taste like soap to me; I just don’t love it. I don’t hate it, but it is a continual let down because it’s never as good as people say it is. 
  10. Folgers My high school AP U.S. History teacher (Mr. Mooney was the best) referred to this as the F word. He’d rather hear “fuck” than “Folgers” in his classroom; neither were encouraged. It’s not the best part of waking up. Don’t lie to me like that Folgers. 
  11. Real Milk When You Ordered Almond Milk This is disappointing because it tastes so good and you realize it tastes so good because the barista did it wrong and gave you the thing you can’t have instead of the less good thing you can have, and it’s the worst because you think, “Man, they have some bomb almond milk” only to realize “Nope, almond milk still tastes like almond milk, and this is good because fat.”

bisous und объятий,
RaeAnna 

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Books, NonFiction

How to Date Men When You Hate Men by Blythe Roberson

Worth a Read Yes
Length 272
Quick Review A humorously philosophical look into dating while being a cognizant human in this weird-ass century by a befuddled, professional twenty-something lady, who doesn’t hate men.  

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Stay away from me crazy man!

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Dating is awkward like this picture. | How to Date Men When You Hate Men by Blythe Roberson | Skirt Set | Headband |

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Kidding! We like each other 96% of the time. 

Dating, love, and relationships are weird. I think it’s always been weird, but it’s only getting weirder with technology and awareness about gender equality and all that jazz. Love has always been a topic of discussion, a point of ponderance, and the source of much pain and misery for as long as the written word has existed. Men and their thoughts have always been taken seriously. Women are still working towards that, but that didn’t stop Blythe Roberson from writing her own book on the topic. When I have a bunch of money, I will be handing out How to Date Men When You Hate Men to all my single lady friends. 

I may not completely understand or agree with all everything Blythe Roberson writes about the dating world, but that’s because we’re different ladies with different lives and different men have crossed our paths. She and I do say a lot of the same things like “53% of white women voted for Trump.” She is far better versed in pop culture references than I am, but I do love her inclusion of science, comedy, and literary references. She also mentions one of my favorite quotes by Edith Wharton in The Age of Innocence “Each time you happen to me all over again.” Bonus points.   

How to Date Men When You Hate Men has a few minor grammar errors, but they are easily overlooked. Roberson is completely open about romantic misunderstandings and how dating and men are hard. Because life and love is hard. It doesn’t get easier the older you are, but Roberson manages it with a sense of humor.

Roberson has this amazing writing style. There are moments of great depth followed by a cutting wit and silly observations. She’s smart without being pretentious and incredibly comfortable in her own brand of weird, “But there is something gratifying about being a social catastrophe.” She has long winded sentences akin to streams of consciousness bathed in humor peppered with personal anecdotes and side thoughts marked by parentheses. She writes like the 27 year old woman she is as if she’s pulling a friend into a fun conversation. How to Date Men When You Hate Men is honest, vulnerable, strong, funny, and insightful. 

I love the honesty Roberson has with her crushes, emotions, and obsessions. Although, she may have an unhealthy obsession with Timothee Chalamet… Then again, I have an unhealthy obsession with Scotland, bagpipe music, and men in kilts. So, who am I to judge. 

If dating is hard for you, read this. It won’t help you at all, but you will find a soul sister and a good many laughs between the covers of How to Date Men When You Hate Men. Even if dating isn’t hard for you or you’re happily hitched or you’re not interested in men, there are a lot of modern day funnies. 

Memorable Quotes
“though I adore men as individuals, I believe that as a group they’re systemically oppressing women.”
“It’s like trying to kiss your sweet crush while a cement mixer operated by Woody Allen is dumping raccoons on you.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Barnes & Noble | Buy on Book Depository
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Title: How to Date Men When You Hate Men
Author: Blythe Roberson
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Copyright: 2018
ISBN: 978125019421

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How to Date Men When You Hate Men | Skirt Set | Headband |