The Thoughts I Just Got Finished Having
Forget that stuff I said about only sleeping with guys who’re in love with me. I don’t care about that anymore – especially if I’m not planning to be in love with them. Now the thing I’d enjoy is to sleep with guys who either a) love me or b) think I’m hot or c) (preferably) both.
Lately I realize, over and over again, that the most important thing – the ONLY thing – I can do is love myself. No, I don’t mean masturbate. (Although sometimes that’s encompassed by the concept I’m about to relate.) I mean to take care of myself the way the best boyfriend in the world would take care of me in my fantasies. I mean that when my feet are cold, I will put on socks. I mean that when my legs are cold, I will put on sweatpants. When I’m cold on the couch, it’s okay to get a blanket. When I don’t feel like going out, it’s okay to call the people and say “I don’t feel like going out,” or even to not call them – just flake on them. Just turn off the phone. (As long as you’re not rude about it.) It’s okay.
To quit being so stoic all the time and tough on myself. To wear what I want to wear, whether I think it’ll look pretty to someone else or not.
And that’s the other thing. The prettiness and the worrying about it. God, yes, it’s important to me to be pretty. I never tried to deny that fact (only to hide it). But Tad (my ex bfriend) says I’m obsessed with it now, that it’s all I ever talk about. But I say I only talk about it to him, because I want him to know that other men find me pretty, because I never thought Tad thought I was pretty enough, and maybe that’s why we broke up. (And Tad says no, that’s not it, but he did find it annoying that I analyze shit like this to death, so insecurely and neurotically – that that could get really old after a while. And he’s right. I can’t blame him for feeling that way. But that’s a whole other issue. I’ll cure myself of that in my own good time.) So the real problem is not that Tad did or didn’t think I was pretty, or that Julio or Roger or Sigmund do or don’t. The problem is that I give a fuck, as if “men thinking you’re pretty” = “love”. When I already know it doesn’t. God, it totally doesn’t. But is it the first step? Or what? Or can I not be loved without the prettiness?
But all that aside (Christ – ALL women worry about being pretty – society MAKES us), why do I need to be loved? Should I blame my parents? Did they not love me enough? And, if that’s the case, can I expect them to do anything about it now? Maybe they loved me as much as they could, and maybe that was or wasn’t “enough”. And maybe some day I could meet the “right” person who would love me “enough”, for the “right” reasons, and that could make me happy.
But what if I never do? And, what if, as I’m always telling my mom when she goes on and on and ON about her worries that my dad and other men don’t find her pretty… what if some day I am (or my mom is) in a car wreck that not only severs all four limbs but also totally destroys my (or her) face? And there’s no fucking way I can ever, under conventional standards, be pretty again? Will I still love myself then? I think my mom would probably kill herself. And that makes me sad, and it makes me mad, too, because she’s the one who set the example for me. (And I know she’s mentally ill now and so you might think it’s mean of me to discuss her neuroses like this – but, fuck it, mentally ill people are people, too, so I’ll criticize them just like I’d do anyone else.)
I like to think that I’m a lovable person, even with no limbs and a burned-up face. I like to think that I’m smart enough, witty enough, kind enough, and gosh darn it, people like me, that my life would still be worth living. (Shh – let’s not talk about what would happen if I lost my mental facilities or became a vegetable. That hypothetical situation doesn’t serve my current purpose.) So I like to think that I’d still be a lovable person…
And if that’s the case, then why wouldn’t I always love myself?
My legs were cold so I forced myself to put on socks and pants because, god damn it, I’m the only one here, and I have to be my own perfect boyfriend. And I will, because I’m worth it.
I have an old picture of myself as a teen. In it, I’m getting ready for a show. I have no makeup on, my hair is sticking up straight, I have an unflattering shiny beige unitard on, cranky facial expression, and the lighting isn’t good. When people see that picture in my photo album, they say, “Gah! What an unflattering picture of an otherwise sexy/pretty/not-fat teen!” But I’ve always loved that picture, because it looks just like me. And I like me.
Some day I will cure myself of this supreme insecurity and neurosis and tendency to over-analyze things. I’ll do it so that life is easier for ME, and only incidentally will it make things easier for future boyfriends who may or may not exist.
But in the meantime, whether I ever cure myself or not (I might be too busy with the writing thing and the day jobs), I’m still going to love myself better than anyone else does. Even if I have to remind myself to do it every freaking day.
And that is fucking enough. That’s all I’m ever gonna need, isn’t it? Yes.
