Dissecting Understanding, Part V–What’s Wrong With Me??



Now I know that I am not the only woman to ever ask this question…”What’s wrong with me?” There are different connotations to that question, different inflections, different interpretations and ways to answer it. Like, “What’s wrong with me, I am acting like a total loon!” I ask that question at least once a month, hahaha! But there seems to come a time in many a person’s life, when unrequited love begs the question, “What’s wrong with me?”

I, myself, have asked this question many a time throughout my thirty-one years of life. I have been obsessed with love for as long as I can remember–which is surprisingly pretty far back! But I have yet to really accomplish it. There were so many boys in school–I’d case out every class to find the “hott one”–that I would crush on so extremely hard, but not one ever asked me out. One in particular, I met in eighth grade. Bleach blonde hair chopped into that ridiculous bowl cut that was so popular at the end of the nineties, bright blue eyes, and even a chiseled-esque jaw at his young age. I even liked his name. The best last name ever, and there are quite a few notebooks covered with my practice signature for when I became his wife. Hahahaha! Oh, to be a young lady in the nineties! With The Backstreet Boys and ‘N SYNC singing sweet incomparable love ballads in our ears! Epic love affairs coalescing on the big screen–couples with seemingly insurmountable odds coming together in the end (Save the Last Dance, She’s All That, 10 Things I Hate About You….). So even though this boy and I came from the “opposite sides of the track,” I was so in love with him, and was sure, without a doubt, that one day we would be together. But Middle School transitioned into high school, and that boy transitioned into the stinky kid who DGAF about school or anyone in it. And still I did not rank on his love meter. Although we became very good friends, I would watch him fall for stupid girl after stupid girl, even going so far as to be suicidal after one that I just thought sucked beyond mentioning (probably just major jealousy there, hahaha). I watched him get his heart broken again and again, while I just waited in the wings, his ever-ready lapdog to lick his wounds. Gah, that was awful. And it took me almost 15 years and the death of my mother, to get over that fool, and my idiotic vision of us two living so happily ever after…

What was wrong with me, though? I hate to say it, but I wonder if it was because I was short and fat. In fact, when I met his mother, I was sure of it, since we looked a lot alike–he just didn’t want to be with his mom. He did not have a Freud-worthy complex, hahaha. (Let me just say right now that I loved his mother very, very much. She was a second mama, and in the end I even wondered if I actually just loved her, and he was my way of getting her as a mom-in-law. RIP M.N.L. Love you lots…) However, it could also be that I stalked him like no other, was shameless in my affection and profession of love, and was pretty much the girl that they talk about in How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days!! But my fear, my deep dark rarely expressed fear, is that it is, in fact, because I am fat.

See, I have been a “big girl” since around five years old, my mother said. As soon as I started school, my mom’s-mom’s genes started to make themselves known. This has been something that has rarely caused me worry in my lifetime. In fact, I would say at times I have been studiously unaware of the fact, as I attempted to wear the exact same clothes as my desperately thin best friend. I remember, after overhearing an opinion on the state of my weight, I asked my BFF, “Do you think I’m fat?” And when she had the nerve to answer honestly, “Well….yeah….kinda…” I flew off the handle at her. It was a pretty big fight for us. I berated her for an honesty that I had chosen not to see about myself. Weird.

So besides being big, I was, and am, also very smart, but it was, and is, all natural. As soon as I started school, I was way too into being cool and popular to ever put any effort into learning, hahaha! But I would get my A’s & B’s without effort–maybe some brown-nosing–so why would I bother to try. To the aggravation of most of my favorite teacher’s, I chose not to try, just to be. I was an excellent reader, but you would be hard pressed to find anything not horror-related nor horror-adjacent, capturing my attention. And I am still that way! Poor Lollipop has given me three whole books to read, non-fiction, and I have yet to complete a single one. While I have given her more than 20 Anita Blake Novels, by Laurell K Hamilton, and several Dean Koontz, and she has read all of them. I really cannot explain my extreme aversion, but it is almost a physical reaction, an intestinal loathing, that I possess towards literature outside the realm of my preferences. (However I am making a supreme effort to finish Eat, Pray, Love for Lollipop’s sake! At Chapter 3, I am at least enjoying Elizabeth Gilbert’s voice.) I have never been one for self-help, spiritual journeys, anything of the like. Which is rather unfortunate, considering all of the loss I have experienced…it may be nice to read another’s journey through all the stages of grief, but, “I just can’t do it, Captain! I just don’t have the power!” (Star Trek)

So, this smart, short, fat, little girl graduated high school at 17, a semester early (would have been a year, but my school district does not offer graduation that early), top of my class, second in the school. I cannot be too proud of that accomplishment, however, seeing as I graduated from an alternative high school, with a graduating class of twelve, and a total of about fifty kiddos in the entire school, haha! (Why did I go to alternative school? First of all, my BFF was there. Second of all, RUMORS!! Rumors suck…and those particular rumors greatly impacted my love life as well). I had a handful of “relationships” under my belt–the longest official one being a month, the longest unofficial-we’re-going-to-do-everything-but-make-it-official one lasting over a year. A whole year begging a boy to admit that he sees you in the dark recesses of a lonely vehicle, and he likes what you do, so please admit to your friends that you like me “that way”…..yeah, that boy broke my heart and made me feel like dirt!

And that “relationship” led me screaming into the very arms of the last person on earth that anyone had ever thought I’d end up in. A marriage proposal on my eighteenth birthday in the lovely Motel 6….five years later only turmoil and more heartache. In fact, that person was so bad, that I have discounted that entire bracket of people as lover possibilities. My one and only “real relationship” ended as a joke, a ginormous mistake, and left me feeling an unbelievable amount of guilt. It’s probably the reason that I became so devoted to my family once I moved back home. Especially to my brother–I had basically ignored him for the last five, as per my fiance’s wishes–so I had to do everything in my power to make it up to him. This led to several bad decisions, but in the end, it led to my brother being one of my best friends, and his best friends becoming my little brothers too.

And therein lies another trap that I have created for myself. Although I call them my brothers, the part of me that is obsessed with love sees them as potential mates. Now that they are all grown up, I cannot help but notice how beautiful I honestly think they are. With a few exceptions, my brother’s entire group is worthy, in my opinion, of the love that I fantasize giving. The “perfect wife” scenario, that involves dinner always being on the table, massages after a hard day’s work, and plenty of praise to ensure that he knows no one else could ever take his place. But these are bad thoughts. Bad bad thoughts to be having about my brother’s friends….right?

My boys do help perpetuate my bad thoughts, however, by frequently assuring me that they, “would be with (me), but they’re not good enough for (me).” Apparently, I deserve a whole helluva lot, because I would do darn near anything to get one of them to love me like that. I 100% believe that they are all stellar individuals worthy of true love….hmmm true love…what in the world does that mean?? Either way, I keep getting myself stuck in a position where I want to do anything to convince the one that I want, to want me back. And the self-conscious, low self-image, depressed raggedy girl that I had successfully repressed for twenty-five years (I did not fully realize her existence until my mother died), rears her ugly head to holler, “If you were skinny, they all would be clambering all over each other to get to you…” Ugh! Well that’s not a pleasant thought!

Despite all of my attempts to find love–which is darn near everything up to internet dating (I tend to be rather honest when able to use my hands to speak, versus my mouth, which can be rather frightening; let’s be honest)–I have been as single as I was the day I walked out on my fiance. Which in less than six months, will be a full decade. 10 years of being single. And, like I said, I have been trying. Yes, I have shied away from internet dating, but I go out. Not only to bars and house parties, either. Since getting my current job in 2013, I have expanded my haunts exponentially! Now I go to hockey games, and Comic-Con Conventions, and “Frozen Dead Guy Days.” Striking up random conversations and putting myself “out there,” still to no avail.

Now there have been a few in my lifetime that I have “turned down.” Why? Well, turns out I’m shallow too. Some I refused because they were overweight. Pot and the kettle there. Some because of age. Even though I have passed that dreaded 3-0, 40 still sounds so dang old to me. Some because of their name. I refuse to date an Anthony or a Tony–for those of you who do not know, that is the name of my father and my brother is the second. So what about the ones that I have pursued? One was an admitted alcoholic with some pretty terrifying demons–of whom really came out in his artwork–who was skinny and weird. Skinny and creepy are jokingly seriously my type. Another was a fairly big boy, whom I thought I “had a chance with.” Nope. A toothless tweaker, whom I had known for many many years, was lucky enough–but he lost me when he said he would help me with my sorrow after my mom’s death, but as soon as I tried talking about “I need love to save me, ” that fool had the audacity to think I was talking about him! Hello! We’re supposed to be friends! And even I know that you are not good enough for me!! There was even a face tattoo in there somewhere, and I was still pretty upset that he never called me back. I went after a skinny, creepy, virgin; and it went nowhere. And the one that hurt me the most–I will still make excuses for that boy! I even said, “Well I can forgive him as long as I don’t think about it logically. Because if I do that, then I am still burning, hating, mad!” Point being, I don’t believe I’m so shallow that I feel as if I need to make amends for it…

Still though, I am single. I am surrounded by beautiful men (now), none of whom want me. What’s wrong with me? You love the way that I treat you as a friend, imagine the way that I would treat you as a lover! There again lies a problem….I want to convince these people that I am what they want, what they need. I am not really looking anywhere else as long as I am waiting for them “to wake up and smell the hottie!” (Surprise, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 2), now am I? I do not want to accept their reasoning, especially if their biggest excuse is that they’re “not good enough for me.” But what if they told me that it was because I was fat? Could I handle that?

I asked one guy one time, why he never went for me. After stuttering for a minute, I offered, “Is it because I’m fat?” “….well…yeah….” I was 25, he was a friend’s brother, and someone my own brother and “brothers” would never approve of, but it sucker-punched me! That was about five minutes before I slipped into my first blackout drunk phase.

But would they lie to me? All of them? Tell me that I am perfect and “so obviously above them,” when really, they just think I’m fat? That sounds a little far-fetched to even me, hahaha! Especially when I have expressed to more than one that I fear that love will be the only thing to save me? I will get into what I dub “The Abyss” on a different Philosophy Sunday, but a major point to that whole thing, is that I consistently live in a world where I want nothing more than to be with my mom. And I fear that the only thing that will stop that desire would be for me to have a tie here on earth–a reason, as it were, to want to live. **Please note that this does not make me suicidal, per say…I don’t hate life, there is just an overwhelming desire to be with my mother, who is dead. I have an ex-friend who never understood that concept–every time I would try to broach that subject, she would always throw all of these “amazing reasons for living” at me, which inevitably annoyed me to no end, basically because all of those things are well and good, but none so good as basking in my mother’s love. I’m not going to take the necessary steps to join my mother where she is, because death isn’t in my cards right now–especially by my own hand–but I do wish that there was something here that could compare, because it is really hard to lose something so amazingly good. My mother made life worth living. Living hard and fast, and enjoying it with all five senses. Without her, it is like the sun has gone away.**

Anyway, at least a few of my crushes know about how I feel need love, and still they don’t want me. Could it really be because I am fat?

No. I refuse to believe it. I refuse to believe that that could possibly the sole reason as to why none of my best friends want me, and everyone else in the world. I watch TV; I know that big girls find love every day! And I truly believe that I am a monday-quotes-love-yourself-9pretty darn good person. All of my estrogen-laden friends assure me this is so, won’t even hear of me getting down on myself! I also don’t believe that it is my depression, my bitch resting face, or my aversion to online dating is to blame for my lack of a love life. It could be my strange ability to get hooked on one person and put out the unobtainable vibe, until I am completely sure I cannot talk that person into me. Maybe. It could be my subconscious fear that any love of mine will undoubtedly meet an unfortunate end, just because I am “doomed to watch those I love around me die, while I get no such solace myself.” Yeah, that fear runs pretty deep. I often accuse death of being one of my best friends–he’s been around my whole life, always hanging out right there on the fringes. But he won’t come for me, because he’s my best friend! Of course he doesn’t want me! Hahaha, dark, so dark. Welcome to my brain!!

So what is it? I am going to chalk it up to fate. Love, like dying young, is just not in my cards. I am not even allowed those crappy random relationships full of drama and spite. I got my one. I fought for it. I changed for it. I regretted it for a long time.

I am a good person. I am beautiful, with my over-exaggerated hourglass figure, my never-been-perky-breasts, my foul mouth, funky teeth, and my scarred hands; I am a knockout. Although I accuse my hope of being a tall and skinny bitch who thinks she deserves a whole lot more than she actually does–I still want to keep my high standards. As my brother told me, “We are hott! And my sister will NOT date under a 6!!!” I willingly sacrifice for my family and friends, with not near enough appreciation to compensate for it. I cook my dad dinner every night, even if I will not be home to eat it. I do my brother’s, and his friend’s, laundry and clean up after them. I spoil my critters. I changed my grandmother’s diapers and bathed, changed, and fed her. I took my mother to almost every single appointment, and when she tried to apologize to me for having to cart her “big ass around,” I assured her it was good exercise for my own big ass. I am a good person. There are several people out there who would miss the tar out of me, if I were to die. I am special and I mean the world to them. There may even be some for whom I am as important to them as my mother was to me. I am loved. It is not vain to acknowledge these things, in my opinion. I need to be aware that I am special and beautiful and loved. I need to believe that it is not my weight that has kept love at bay all these years. I am not surrounded by shallow people, and I myself am not ridiculously shallow. I reject people for a reason, and it actually makes me feel better to know that I haven’t allowed my lack of love to make me so desperate that I will accept anyone!

There are so many things in my life that I have to feel as if there is a reason behind it! I need to believe in fate, in destiny. I need to know that all that pain my mother felt, happened for a reason. It was meant to be. Just like my perpetual singularity. I do put myself out there (as far as I am willing to go), and I do get out of my comfort zone and engage with people outside of my realm; therefore there is a reason as to why I am not producing results. It’s not because I am a fatty living in the new mecca for vegetarianism and healthy living. It’s not because I am a smoker, or have tattoos, or pink and purple hair. It is not because I have the awesome ability to find the prettiest people to pal around with (Desiree!!! Hahaha!). I know who I am and what I actually have to offer. Which is pretty substantial.

I will, however, say that I am a special breed. I am a unique little bird, and it would take a pretty special person to meander down the less beaten path with me. Not of the norm is hardly cutting it, hahaha!

I have a current crush that has actually been wreaking a little bit of havoc in my world. So much so, that while scoping his sexy self on FB, I decided to conduct a Tarot reading, problem-solution-resolution, about that poor bastard that is my current item of affection. Problem? I am obsessed with love. Seriously, that is the card I got. What needs to be done? An external force is going to crumble my world, and the resolution will be that I may rethink my entire outlook. Well, all of that could happen in several different ways….what will be the external force? Will I still be in love with love? Or just in love? Will I stop looking for love? Will I realize that it is because I am fat, and finally care about that enough to do extreme dieting? Fat chance there. I love food, and I cook it well. I guess I will have to wait and see. Maybe I will just stop crushing on this fool–he’s not really a fool, hahaha. But if I were to list all of the things that I don’t want in a prospective mate, then he’d definitely possess some of those qualities. Where I got lost in this one, is he opened my eyes to things I didn’t even know I wanted in a mate–like finding deep meanings and hidden social commentary in Dean Koontz novels. Who’d have thunk it? It wasn’t your seriously handsome face, good body, or your ability to listen without judgement, that pushed me over the edge, it was all of those dog-eared pages in Twilight Eyes, that moved me to tears. WTF?? Have I really told him any of this? No. It doesn’t turn out well when I express my love to people….

Most likely, he is not my one. But I’m going to enjoy it while I can.

Maybe it really is not in my cards to fall in love. Maybe I am not meant to be a mother. I mean, I have practiced way too much unprotected sex, without even a hint of a scare (except for the time when I was watching too many episodes of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant!), so there’s that. And I know I will not go for artificial insemination. I would adopt, if it wasn’t so expensive, and if I could even qualify….so you want to adopt a kid…with your dad?? Weird, hahaha! But that is another thing–my dad is a widow who lost his wife and his mother in his house. I cannot imagine him jumping onto the dating wagon anytime soon, and I refuse to allow him to be alone. So even if I found love, my father is part of the picture. So maybe it just isn’t for me. None of my cousin’s on my dad’s side that live in this state, have children either. Neither, surprisingly, does my brother. Maybe it’s just not for us. Plus, truth be told, children fall into my whole theory about death taking everyone around me. The only thing worse, that I can think of, than losing my mother, would be to lose my child. I get heartbroken over breaking up with friend’s who have children, because I miss the kids!! So it is probably better that I don’t have them.

So, what’s wrong with me? Absolutely nothing. I will keep putting myself out there and keep doing what I am doing, but I will trust the universe to give me exactly what I need…..


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