The Elle Note

Author: Ellen

  • But you work…HERE!

    Author’s note: This is fiction but for one year, in college, I worked at a couple’s store. This job was one of the most interesting of my life. I learned a lot about myself during that time. One thing is for sure…I was never afraid of public speaking EVER again.

    Herald, or so he called himself, came into the Love Den with his “sister” on a quest to build, what he described as, a “highly pleasurable” sex machine. “I already have a motorized saddle.” He said with a smirk as he looked me up and down. “All I need is a dildo to complete it. The biggest one you got that stands up straight…oh and is pretty for the ladies. Do you have something like that?” He said as he glanced at his “sister”. I wondered if she was his actual sister or if they were in a cult where everyone was pretend siblings. 

    As he stood there in his dingy blue sweatpants with a mystery stain by the crotch and oversized gray sweatshirt, I realized how much he looked like Richard Simmons. They could be cousins. As I stood there imagining them at a family reunion where everyone wore 1980’s workout gear, Herald was trying to assess the level of shock on my face. Some people really get off on that kind of thing, shocking people. Fortunately for me, I was hardly paying attention to his pining gaze and was very much focused on what a he and Richard Simmons would dance to at a family reunion. My mind wondered to further questioning, “Would carbs be allowed at the reunion? Wasn’t Richard hell bent on getting rid of fats? I think I saw that in the Nutty Professor once.”  Herald’s intense gaze snapped me back to an unfortunate reality, a grown man and sister asking a 19-year-old to help them engineer a sex machine. 

    I walked the couple over to the wall of dildos. The section was decorated with names like, ‘Mine’s Shaft’, ‘Tubal Stimulation’, and ‘The Tickler of Os’. The kitschy names of the toys did not make my job any easier. It is hard to be professional when trying to explain how something called, ‘Bean Snapper’, works. Regardless, it was all part of the job. My coworker Candice and I would often practice saying the names to each other with a straight face when the store was empty. Part of the training was to come up with both realistic and outlandish scenarios and sell the product. Throwing in an occasional oddball scenario really helped for days like today. Being able to navigate unique situations without laughing was paramount to making someone feel comfortable. I always try my hardest not to laugh or crack even a small smile. I never want to shame anyone, considering I am studying to be a couples’ therapist. That was the main reason why I applied for this job. I wanted to get comfortable talking to people about sex. Most days I managed to control any outward emotion, at least until costumers left. If it is a dire situation, I excuse myself and go to the break room of the store and regain composure. Lately however, I had been feeling extremely anxious and some of my emotions were leaking into work. I am one of those people who laugh at anything that makes them uncomfortable. I don’t at all think that uncomfortable things are funny, I once laughed after I was in a car accident, but there is something about the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface that my brain registers as some sort of psychological tickle that only laughing can release. Laughing makes me feel like it can’t really be that bad because somehow I am managing to smile through it. 

    Today, I am particularly anxious, which sucks, because I have to sit here and look interested what these two are talking about. As Herald and his sister chat about which dildo would be perfect for their machine, my mind wanders to troubled places. This has been happening a lot again lately. I have had these feelings more than once in my life. They typically disrupt things for a while, and quiet down to a whisper on their own. Lately though, the anxiety has been unrelenting. I usually do things to help the anxiety, like checking things. I sometimes get up a few times before bed just to make sure I locked a door or turned off the oven. The past few months it has been a lot worse, even positioning my body in certain ways at night can keep me up. It’s even worse when I spend the night at my boyfriend, Steve’s. The checking has been a source of the fighting. He just doesn’t seem to be able to understand why I need to do these things, and frankly, neither do I fully. It just feels right, takes the edge off of the anxiety enough to fall asleep. On top of that, when we aren’t doing well, it makes everything so much worse.  

    I watched Herald and his sister attempting to find the right toy. For a moment I saw his sister take a stand back and look at him. He didn’t notice her watching but she looked so exhausted. I imagined how tired she must have been putting up with this person for years. I couldn’t be sure, but his sister felt like the kind of woman who wanted validation from any man, even if he was her sibling. We looked at each other for just a moment and I thought I saw her soften. It must have been in my head because that feeling quickly dissipated and was replaced with a feeling of contempt. As she looked back to Herald he turned around with a toy in his hand and showed it to her. She nodded in approval. In his hand Herald held a glittery pink firm silicone dildo, he squeezed the package in an attempt to discover its texture.

    The packaging of ‘The Box Cutter’ cracked and groaned under his grip. His sister pointed to the small image of the naked cartoon woman moaning in pleasure on the corner of the packaging and giggled. I felt a little pit in my stomach. 

    Herald glanced at me, at his sister, then back at me. “Have you tried this product, miss?” He said with sarcastic professionalism. He cocked an eyebrow at me and attempted to look what I could only imagine as flirtatious. I instantly felt fed up but maintained composure. I can’t describe the level of disdain that I felt when people asked me this question. All I could muster out was a, “No.” Herald looked mockingly shocked, “Well which one do you like?” My mind went blank with how pathetic this man looked. “I don’t have any toys. Are you ready to check out?” His sister finally chimed in. “I am shocked you don’t, you look like the type of girl that would have a lot of this stuff.” She said with contempt. She smirked to try to get a rise out of me. “Interesting.” I said flatly. I chippered up, trying to remember that I had to stay professional, “Anyway, I can ring you up at the register over here.” I quickly turned and began walking up to the register. Herald and his sister followed but I could feel their eyes on me. In that moment, I realized how young I really was, and anxiety began to rise in my chest. The thoughts started to roll in. This is your fault. You are asking to be treated this way. That thought made me become hyper-aware of my body language. I felt my walk stiffen. I tried to focus on not swaying my hips at all. My normally confident walk felt awkward and I prayed that Herald and his sister did not notice. The final boss of negative thoughts rolled in. This is why Steve is falling out of love with you. You like this. You cheater.  

    The journey across the industrial black glittery epoxy floor to the register felt like it rivaled that of the Hobbits across Middle Earth and the register was my Mount Doom, where I would have to face Herald again. I felt an urgency to get them out of the store and that feeling grew with every step I took, it heightened passing all of the lingerie, but once I passed the male thongs I felt like I just wanted to scream. I felt like I was being survielled.  Once I reached the register on top of a glass case filled with lubes and tobacco pipes, I had to remind myself to not grimace when I turned to face them. I rang up ‘The Box Cutter’. “$50.46, please.” Herald looked appalled even though there was a pink price sticker on the front of the box, “For the price, I need to know if this is something you’d use. I want a guarantee on how much I am investing.” He licked his dried thin lips, obviously proud of himself with the words that just escaped them. 

    That’s it. I’m done playing. Between Herald’s perversions and my anxiety I was unable to hold in my emotions. I became very aware of the fact that I could not be too hostile for fear of losing my job but remaining silent was just not an option anymore. Plus that nagging thought, “You’re a cheater”, was just eating me up inside. “Sir.” I said with an overt sarcasm. “The way you are treating me is extremely inappropriate. I am at work. Stop.” 

    Herald’s creepy smirk turned into a grimace. Fantasy broken. Looking at me like I was a wet dog turd he had just stepped in after he just exited a portal that took him to the worse timeline, he looked around the store suddenly surprised by all of the scantily clad mannequins, waved his arms, and exclaimed “But you work here!” As if I owed him my body and all of my affections because I work at a sex shop. I felt instantly irritated at all of the negative reactions that I have ever received because I work at a place that everyone wants to go inside but nobody wants to admit. I said nothing and just looked at this pitiful and pathetic man who was hitting on a woman who could be his daughter. Despite my feelings, Herald’s sister smiled at me as if her brother had just bested me somehow. I stifled my feelings, she needs this moment more than me. After all, I am not buying dildos with my brother. With only the fantasies of her living the rest of her judgmental misogynistic life in her incestuous relationship, I put out the flames from within my gut. “Have a nice night.” I said as I handed Herald his black plastic unmarked bag. Smug, he took it and they walked away into the muggy summer night. 

    Candice and I sat in silence until we heard the tinkling of the front door ring out. When we were finally alone, Candice put her hand on my shoulder. “What the fuck?” She said laughing. The solidarity of my work friend reminded me to breathe. Suddenly the pit in my stomach shrunk just a little and I began laughing too. I saw my phone light up on the till. I saw a text from Steve. “We need to talk.” 

    The pit grew again. 

    To be continued…

  • To the left of romance

    Maybe it’s my small kaleidoscopic view of the internet, but to my relief, I have been hearing and reading a lot about decentering romance from your life, especially for women. I am very invested in the discourse. I find myself churning around the ideas in my own mind, wondering what that could look like for me.

    Almost a year ago I ended a relationship that left me more drained than I anticipated. It was a long time coming. I had pushed off the inevitable end for as long as I could muster. Toward the end, I had an urgency in my spirit to get out that left me feeling like I was betraying myself. I felt it every time I looked in the mirror. Lying to yourself, telling yourself everything is okay when it’s not, is its own type of poison. It may sound melodramatic but it’s true, I felt a little part of me die every day. I found myself getting lost in a version of myself I had to create to stay where I was, soon I barely recognized the narrative. I hated that for me, I’m horrible at lying. Lying to others is harder than lying to yourself, in my opinion, but neither is sustainable. 

    I knew I was in a bad way when I felt so emotionally neglected that the thought of a man simply wanting to spend time with me felt foreign and untrue. It felt overwhelming to even think about someone wanting to know about my week or text me often. Those feelings, in particular, scared me. In the past I had felt unworthy of love but that seemed to be a symptom of not knowing who I was, and now that I am and have been getting used to the tumultuous nature of finding myself, I no longer have that feeling. There is an acceptance, I believe, that we have to face as we age, the fact that we will never really know ourselves. Since we are always changing in a world with endless possibilities, a million pathways to travel down, you never fully know who you are or who you could be. I like this version of myself, I liked it in the bad relationship too but what used to be insecurity about what the end of a romance meant for me was replaced with a fear, a fear of what it would look like if I stayed. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to trust again, to have faith in romantic love. Where previously I may have been thinking that someone else may not have found me enough, I knew, deep down, that I was entering a territory where I would never find someone else enough again. These feelings felt inauthentic and strange to me. I want to have faith in people. I didn’t want to lose hope in any of it. 

    I watched myself change. I felt tired of romance in a palpable way. I didn’t want to focus on it because I was running out of anything to give. Despite the exhaustion, I still didn’t want to give up. I wanted to use whatever energy I had left for this relationship to see if something, anything would change. Romance wasn’t so much becoming decentered as much as it was sliding down a steep slope out of view. 

    Typically I attract people, not in some sexual way always, but in a casual pleasant conversation kind of way. Occasionally, people will tell me their secrets, even if we hardly know each other. It’s one of my favorite things about myself. I like being a comfortable person for people when I can be. But after 5-years of highs and plummeting lows, I noticed that I was starting to lose my charm. People weren’t as interested in engaging me. What’s worse is that for the last year of the relationship I felt chronically uncomfortable in my own skin. I hated looking at myself every day. I chalked it up to being in my 30’s and just being sick of looking at my own face. I asked other women I trusted, “Do you ever just get tired of seeing the same face every day?” Most of the time they agreed that they felt like me every so often but there was always an underlying concern. 

    “What is making you feel like that?” 

    “I just feel ugly. I can’t describe it. I hate looking at my face.” 

    Reassurance from my loved ones would follow my self-deprecation. I appreciated it, I knew I wasn’t “ugly”. I just had an aura stink on me that I couldn’t wash off and I didn’t have the right verbiage to describe it. Moreover, I didn’t want to let anyone in to how miserable with myself I was becoming, trying to force myself into a version that could make it through life in this relationship, making my actually see myself differently. I was developing a bad case of insomnia too. Something I still deal with but less now that that chapter of my life is over. 

    Eventually my partner’s actions became so purposely dismissive and hurtful, after dragging my feet, I finally arrived at a crossroads. Leave and save yourself or maintain this terrible lie that you are happy. I chose myself, confidently, gladly, although it didn’t come without pain. I cried when he moved out. I told him I still loved him and I did but I was ready. As I watched him pack up the last of his things and load them into a moving truck, I cried wondering what this new part of my life would look like. In the weeks and months to follow I would occasionally cry wondering why I let myself down for years. 

    After all of this, I decided to decenter romance from my life, not completely drop it, although I have come close. There is a lot you can look at online about this as people, especially women, exit the dating scene in droves. There are a million clips of women happy to take romance off of a pedestal and find peace with themselves and their community. I found perspective and comfort in those clips sometimes. What I didn’t find much of were discussions about the reality of how painful it is to decenter romance, especially for people who desire romantic partnerships. That is saying a lot, you can find really anything on the internet. You can watch Ferngully for free on YouTube! I used to have to rent it from the video store. 

    Everyone loves different, which is a wonderful thing because it means that we can have a plethora of different experiences depending on the partner. In real life, there is a lot of gray but online, which is becoming more a part of our daily lives by the second, it’s a lot more binary. I tried to search for someone speaking neutrally about decentering romance but couldn’t find much. After looking up anything that has to do with romance, especially in heterosexual spaces, you will find pseudo-spiritual advice that hugs traditional values tightly mixed with other videos of purposefully rage inducing content. The moment I crossed into this part of the internet I got the ick. That’s why I wanted to write something. I wanted to write about how I felt a little part of me dying while another part of me grows. I just wanted to put it in writing that it’s okay to feel like that. I wanted to speak candidly about my experience, hoping that maybe it gives someone a bit of peace knowing that there is someone else that feels like you too. Even if I were alone with my feelings about this, which seems unlikely, I still find the experience of putting them in writing a worthy endeavor of self-reflection.  

    I’ll put it as plain as I can. Decentering romance, as a woman, has made me feel free in the potential of life and simultaneously incredibly sad at letting go of and watching another part of my life die. I want to add, that watching it die for now doesn’t mean for forever. I am reminded of how plants die and bloom when it is their season. My mom had an orchid that she thought was dying. She tried so hard to keep it alive and tended to it even when she thought the little bulb would produce nothing. Over time, she saw the bulb begin to grow. That’s how I feel about my romantic life. Because life is often a game of chance, there is a possibility that I never rekindle anything romantic with anyone again. I am blessed to have wonderful friends and other relationships that make my life feel enriched and full. That doesn’t mean though, that when I want a warm hug or someone next to me in bed I don’t feel the gravity of making the choice to not open my heart up to romance for now. Often, it seems, that people act as though decentering romance is a simple as unplugging a lamp. 

    I wish it were that simple for me. It’s not. I find myself wanting reassurance that the messiness of the whole thing is normal. The same thoughts can trigger different emotions depending on the day. Sometimes I feel hope, anger, warmth, and coolness about love all in the same week. Despite being in my thirties, there are times when I still crave reassurance that I am not alone with this emotional soup. When I was younger I always thought that I would have found the love of my life by now. I always thought that I would be swept up in the waves of a vast deep love, happy to drown myself in it. Throughout my twenties I watched long term relationships come and go, hoping that the next one I landed myself in would be “the one”. Yet, I find myself single again, not hating it for once, but upset at having to let go of that dream that I had when I was a little girl. One thing about me is that I love a fantasy. I love to dream. It’s complicated because I don’t feel disappointed by any parts of my life despite not finding myself in the romance I once dreamt but there is a sadness in letting go, especially for someone like me, a person who likes to plan out my life. I can’t control this journey. This wasn’t part of that plan at all. One thing that life will teach you is that there is no guide to any of it. I know we hear that all the time but it’s another thing to live in it. The older I get the more I realize that wisdom isn’t about some sort of other worldly ability to predict the future, it’s about having the agility to adapt faster and accept that we actually know very little. 

    If you’re reading this and feeling disappointed, angry, or uncomfortable at letting go, you’re not alone. Remember that letting go isn’t as easy as switching off a light, despite appearing that way online. We all need the reminder, including myself. Shifting your focus is a challenge and while the outcome may be rewarding, there are still a million little crappy steps to take. Even though I should know better, I still have to remind myself to embrace the process. The road to self-contentedness is long. It’s designed that way. Life should be about learning, about growth. During times when I find myself disappointed, I still look at my life with fondness at the path it has taken me down so far, and trust that I will know when to change directions. I try to take a breath and remind myself to be flexible in what the future looks like for me. Letting go of a childhood dream may not be an end, but the beginning of something I didn’t have the ability to dream of at the time.

    Currently reading: ‘Communion: The Female Search for Love’ by bell hooks

  • boys will be boys

    Important note: All names aside from my own are changed

    I can remember when I first really felt like boys were different than girls – not just because we look different – but something else. 

    When I was a little girl I grew up playing with boys, neighbor boys, my cousins. It’s easy to tell that you aren’t like someone else by simply looking, but before the pressures of socialization begin to pull us into our separate lines, our spirits don’t feel so different. My cousins and I would go into their barn and jump off the hay bails swinging from a rope swing. Personally, I was always slightly more afraid, not wanting the pain of falling off more than anything else, but my cousins didn’t seem to have that fear. They would climb up on the highest bail, knotted rope in hand, and look over the expanse of the second floor of the barn in wonder. They’d jump off of the bails, little legs tucked in, butts confidently stuck to that knot, trying to see who could go the highest. Every time it was my turn, I wouldn’t dare climb up to the highest row. I knew that they were braver than me, but I had other things. My bravery or lack thereof was not the essence of my girlhood but rather a sense of my sensitivities and they were okay with it. At that age, it felt like the only thing that really separated us was Barbie. My cousins still played Lego, with little Lego spacemen and story lines. We would build junk houses and try to infiltrate the other’s home. They would try to take over my land. Even then, I didn’t feel different than them. My lack of interest in their take-over didn’t make me feel more like a girl. 

    It wasn’t until a little boy named Eddy, the son of my mom’s work friend, asked me if I was going to take my clothes off during a game of house that I began to realize that the essence of the game was fundamentally different for boys than girls. 

    Eddy was a small scrawny kid. He had straight hair that was cut into a bowl cut, probably done by his mother, like most kids with hair the resembled kitchenware. I can’t say that I enjoyed playing with him much but I can’t say I hated it either. There was just always an awkwardness about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. Sometimes I wondered if it was because his dad felt that way too, the way he was around little girls. While my mind was innocent of specific thoughts with regards to sex, there was a subliminal reference to it that felt all encompassing at the time, despite not having the language to articulate the specific feeling. Typically when we played house, I was the mom. Growing up I was always in charge and responsible. That’s why almost everyone that knew me called me Miss Ellie. I don’t remember how the name stuck but someone thought I was mature enough to hold the title of Miss and it remained a nickname that I held onto proudly throughout my childhood. 

    I remember the game beginning with me needing to get him ready for school while I got ready for work. I assume that I went to the closet to grab what I would have called “work clothes” at the time. We were sitting on the bed and I was letting him know what fictional journey we would be taking that day. Eddy glanced up at me before I went to fetch my mom work clothes from the closet. He smirked and I knew there was something wrong in that moment. All of my senses became keenly aware of why I felt so uncomfortable around him in the first place. I had intuition despite not knowing what it was. “Are you going to take your clothes off?” Eddy said with a strange smile. This was the moment my mom had warned me about, about strangers, or anyone asking, about my private parts. I didn’t know what to say. I felt in complete shock. Eddy began laughing, tilted over on my bed. He laughed so hard that a string of drool fell from his lips and touched my bedding. My stomach heaved. I don’t remember what I said but my mom says that she remembers me screaming for her. 

    Sometimes life feels tectonic. There was a small shift, a tilt, in my perception of myself with respect to my playmates that once I noticed it, I couldn’t un-see it or un-feel it.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop noticing differences between me and boys after that evening with Eddy. While every interaction that felt different didn’t feel sexual there was still a noticeable change. My cousins weren’t even as gentle with me anymore. I could sense that there were differences building up between us too. 

    One sunny summer afternoon my cousins and I were playing at my grandparent’s house, entertaining ourselves with nature while the adults chatted over coffee. My grandparents lived on a small lake at the time, but from what I remember it felt more like a swamp. I don’t ever remember seeing a lake on the property. There were areas of wet that would be puddled up on the grasses and cattails formed on the outer edge of my grandma and grandpa’s property. Us kids would go exploring back there and it felt like we were discovering a new world. Our little bodies and child stomps made a trail of laid cattails that pressed into the watery soil. Surrounded by the foliage, I kept tickling the back of my cousin’s neck with a cattail. He swatted his hand in protest. “Stop!” he demanded. Used to this type of protest and teasing, I continued. I grabbed another cattail and touched the back of his t-shirt with it. He bristled. “Stop it! And if you don’t I am gonna cut you.” 

    I hardly believed that he would actually do it. My cousin was a shy and kind child who drew pictures of kitties playing musical instruments in a tiny band and put his gum into ice water to refresh it. Hardly the type you would think could slash anything. I waited a moment contemplating whether or not I wanted to go through with it, if I wanted to take a chance at getting cut. After touching more of the furry luscious plants, I decided it might be worth the risk. I took another cattail and poked his back. A moment barely passed before my cousin grabbed his pocketknife out of his front pants pocket and pressed the button to release it. With the blade free, he swung the knife back, not looking at all where it would land, just hoping it would make contact with skin. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to do anything. My swinging hand from my gait took the damage. Just below my thumb, a small split in my skin formed, a trickle of blood dripped out. “I told you I would do it.” He said. “You didn’t listen.” I felt a cold fear rise up within me, and my eyes welled up with tears.  I couldn’t get that phrase out of my head, “You didn’t listen.” For some unknown reason at the time, I felt a deep sense of shame, like I was too stupid to know how to listen. I swallowed my tears down, really understanding now that I was different than the boys. I didn’t want to show vulnerability. I didn’t want to cry in front of them. I felt like a girl and I was an outsider. 

    That same day in the cattails we stumbled across a frog. I saw my three cousins form around it chattering. Excited, I approached the small group, hoping to touch the frog. I loved and still love frogs. Their skin is so soft and delicate and they always have a contented look on their face. I was disgusted to find that when I approached the group I saw that they had pulled the leg of the frog so hard that its skin ripped and its muscle was showing. My heart sank in my chest, my hands broke out in a cool sweat. What was the frog going to do now? It lay on its back, its legs stretched out like a slinky that somebody tugged on too hard. “Look at this!” One of my cousins said in awe. I couldn’t believe what they had done. I remember looking at the frog up close and feeling like I wanted to crumble like a paper bag under the weight of it all. Had I arrived a second sooner, not caught up in the cattails, I could have stopped them from hurting it. But the reality was I hadn’t arrived a second sooner, and I was emotionally kicking myself for it. A phrase popped into my head just then, “Boys will be boys.” The phrase was like a whisper from a ghost that travelled across my consciousness. I don’t even know where I had heard it before but I felt it was true. 

    Boys will be boys and I cannot be them. 

    Despite not being able to be one of the boys, I clung to seeking their approval. Changing from a child to a teenager shifted, again, how I perceived myself in relation to boys rather than wanting to be imperceptible from them. Despite these different challenges, my mind was filled, more than anything, with a desire to be loved. Even though I was only thirteen, I felt like I was sprinting to find someone to share affection with. I didn’t want to feel left out of the love loop. Out of that desperation for approval, I met a teenage boy that showed me attention. At that time, in my changing body, I finally felt like there was glimmer of hope for me to be desired by boys, embraced instead of shunned. Unfortunately for many teenagers, where there is desirability there is also surveillance. 

    One afternoon I walked home with my boyfriend Matt after school. My mom knew where I was going –that wasn’t a lie– but I hadn’t told her that Matt’s parents wouldn’t be home. Parental supervision was a rule that my mom had enforced but being a teenager who felt like I was more adult than child, I tried to rebel against rules that were meant to protect me. We started kissing in his bedroom on his bed. At the time, teenage passion felt intoxicating. Being unable to tell the difference between lust and love can leave someone young, like myself at the time, in a bind. Matt looked at me with soft eyes, “Can we have sex?” I was only thirteen at the time and wasn’t ready to have sex. In a moment of bravery and sounding a bit mature for my age, I said, “I am a thirteen year old girl. I am still a child. I’m not ready for all of that.” Of course he retorted the classic adage, “But I love you and you love me. Why not show each other that?” Unconvinced I remained steadfast and declined the offer. 

    Matt and I went back to kissing and touching. I even showed him my bra and let him touch on my body in an attempt to quell his desires for more. What stood out to me the most from this memory is not being asked for sex but rather a small blinking red light. I can still see it, a handheld tape camera sitting on top of a dresser; a slow blinking red light that I hadn’t noticed previously etches itself into my brain. There is no way he would film me, right? Someone who loves you would never do that without asking. I tried to tell myself that maybe the battery was dying and that was why it was blinking…any sort of reason other than what I had done may have just been filmed. I pushed the blinking red light out of my brain and continued on with my life. After a disastrous break up where Matt pinned me up against a wall and screamed in my face, I was glad to put that all behind me. 

    It was not until years later, when a best friend came to me telling me that she had a secret that she had kept from me that I learned the truth. That day in Matt’s bedroom, that camera had been filming me, and Matt had boys on his hockey team pay money to watch it in a locker room. My best friend’s cousin had told her about the secret because he felt so much guilt for wanting to watch it but unable to bring himself to do so. He didn’t know if I had consented to being filmed. Sometimes hoping to see the best in someone else is the best-case scenario. Matt beat the next girl he dated after me.

    Boys will be boys but I still love them.

    Now, as an adult I wish that I could say that I never feel an ounce of insecurity, that the tectonic plates of my life fit together perfectly. I find myself hopeful despite knowing that life will never be perfect. After two failed five-year relationships, I may not be confident in my ability to be loved sometimes but I am confident in my ability to know what love doesn’t look like for me. I find myself dreaming of a life of creativity in all things, not exclusively love. After I found myself single a second time, despite hanging on to a relationship that didn’t serve me, for the first time in half of a decade I decided that I needed to change the way I saw myself with men, not just how men saw me. Taking a break from romantic love is a choice. It’s hard as I watch myself change, grow, and age, to let go of the expectations that society has placed on me for simply existing. In my most vulnerable moments, I find myself wondering if I will still be considered beautiful when I find love again, will I pick wrong again? During this chapter of my life, I find myself craving romantic love but finding that platonic love can fill up my cup too. 

    The truth is that nobody knows what the future has in store for us, love or otherwise. For the first time in my life, instead of focusing on how I am different than the men around me I am deciding to be authentically me, the best I can. Something I find myself really longing for was the reassurance that life is a cycle of growth and changes in my younger years. We focus so much on trying to find ourselves so that we can continue to live in our truths, but, the reality is who we are changes all of the time. I will never truly know everything about myself, about who I am now, or who I could be. That’s okay with me. For now, I am happy to just be me, trying new things, failing, and succeeding. 

    Boys will be boys and I will be me.