This week is really killing me slowly. Or maybe not slowly, because I’m pretty sure that once Friday rolls around, and I’ve graduated my 8th graders, I’m just going to come home and die on my couch of exhaustion and the aggressive sads. Except that I won’t, because I’m going to go see Sex And The City 2 on Saturday night with my new sister-to-be, Lauren (Hi Lauren! Twice in a month!) and our friend Courtney, and I’m so excited I could die of THAT because I love that series even if some people think it’s awful.
Anyways, I know the entire internet is sick of hearing about Vegas, but let me be clear: none of us have gotten it back together yet. My g-chat and text inbox are full of the sads and incoherent messages and questions about why life sucks this week for all of us. I mean, I didn’t even drink that much or do anything truly wild, but I am still so tired and still missing my friends and just sort of out of sorts about the whole thing. I loved every minute of that trip, but I feel like I’m seven years old again and my mom is all, “You’re not going to another sleepover party ever again if you’re going to be so miserable the next day!” Except I’m not seven, and you can bet the farm that I’ll be at BiSC 2011.
Besides that whole missing people and just wanting to be in the pool with a pink drink, there’s the fact that I haven’t even done the most basic of things like unpack. I went to get something out of my purse WHILE AT WORK and instead pulled out a sequined superhero mask and a mini bottle of Skyy Vodka and Dave Navarro’s boarding pass and then I just tear up all over again over the little alternate reality I lived last weekend.
On top of that whole thing, I’m cleaning out my classroom. I really have no clue how I accumulated so much CRAP over three years. Books and folders and handouts and student work and the thing is, it’s all organized, there’s just so MUCH. Plus, it’s beyond emotional to realize that I am actually leaving this place. I started teaching at my current school three years ago, when I was 24, single, completely unprepared for the realities of being a teacher and a Real Grown-Up. This school has been my home. I’ve become an adult there, not just because of teaching, but because of all the things I’ve experienced there. I’ve become confident in my abilities as an educator, learned how to wrangle 14-year-olds with the best of them, and learned some exceptional “your mom” jokes. I’ve made good friends and colleagues who I value.
I can hardly believe the journey is coming to an end.
Not to get all Semisonic on you guys, but I’m just trying to believe that all these endings are really just beginnings. That the end of Vegas was really just the beginning of so many new friendships, that whatever job I end up in next year will be the beginning of something even better, that next week, when I’m sleeping in and have time to breathe and there are no 14-year-olds saying my name over and over again, I’ll feel better and happier and all this weird ick will fade away.
- So, today, I am wearing black eyeliner. You should know that I use Bare Escentuals make-up, so putting on eyeliner is A Monumental Task that involves carefully dipping a tiny brush into powder and carefully applying it, with hopes that I don’t completely wipe black powder all down my cheeks. I learned the hard way that NO, YOU CANNOT JUST WIPE IT OFF. Anyways, I am wearing it today, and everyone is all, “Oooohhh, you’re WEARING MAKEUP!” Um, bad news kids: I wear makeup everyday, just not eyeliner. Is it that NOT OBVIOUS? Do I normally look like utter crap? I am…saddened by this.
- In the same vein, I am wearing a dress today, sans tights or leggings, and someone else exclaimed, “Oooh, watch out! She shaved her legs!” I realize that there are many women who go all winter with nary a swipe of a razor. I hate all things body hair, so while I may get a little stubbly, I NEVER, EVER go for long periods of time without shaving. Also, REALLY, MY SHAVING NEEDS TO BE ANNOUNCED? Thanks for the awkward Monday Kick-Off. Why do people say such things? Also, do I give off the vibe that I might not shave regularly? I mean, sure, I’ve got a little Dirty Hippie in me, but REALLY? My shaving warrants fanfare?
- I share a bathroom at work with about 20 other adults. Sadly, I sometimes retreat to the student bathroom BECAUSE IT’S CLEANER. Seriously, I fear the houses of these people. Makes it easy to hold my appetite at potlucks!
- I just saw the Avett Brothers play at Coachella, but I just found out they’re playing here tomorrow night and I don’t have tickets and they’re sold out and I need to know: if you’re a hip, show-going type, HOW ON EARTH DO YOU KEEP UP WITH ALL THE CONCERT DATES? I feel like I’m forever disappointed that I just missed someone playing a super-small club in Sacramento and I want to be Hip, kids. I really do. How do you stay abreast of such details? I don’t have time to crawl every band’s site. I just don’t.
- Do you ever look at your calendar, and see it full of Good Things, but simultaneously want to crawl in a hole, because you just want to sleep and rest and not go anywhere, ever? Okay, yeah, ME NEITHER.
- I like my life so much better when I do things I did last night: make my lunch, lay out my outfit, put my keys and sunglasses in a location where I can find them, etc. I end up starting the morning fairly calmly instead of running around the apartment like a complete idiot. I KNOW THIS, AND YET…why do I not do it every night? Surely, I can skip the last five minutes of whatever ridiculousness I’m watching…AND YET.
- I (should) get my final credential today, after two years of being on an intern credential, and one year of a preliminary and I am so excited I could die because I’ll no longer have seminars or work or observations, though I will miss my mentor teacher desperately, but STILL I AM DONE AND I HAVE CONVINCED CALIFORNIA THAT I AM COMPETENT AT TEACHING. So much so that I may not have a job next year. That’s irony, kids. Still, my relief will be palpable this evening.
What are YOU thinking about today?
So, last week, I wrote all about how much I hate denim & how I plan on only wearing skirts & DOWN WITH JEANS.
I meant it.
No, really. A few of you were very concerned about me & my dress wearing ways, including one of you sweet things who took the time to send me a Hateful Email about how dresses will “make me look stpid, because short girls shuldn’t wear dresses & I’m wasteful” & probably kill puppies! WHEE! I think my favorite comment came from Lauren From Texas who said dresses were great, as long as they didn’t have that Mormon Polygamist look. Girl, I am WITH YOU.
Over the weekend, I purchased a few very cheap dresses & have been feeling quite pretty & pleased with myself. Except for the fact that California was WARM & GORGEOUS as it is supposed to be, but the weekend was blustery & awful, & I am still cold now.
The other big issue (okay, fine, a totally first world problem!) is my paleness.
Guys, I am white. Like, blinding, scary pasty white. You can see my veins. It’s the antithesis of attractive. Also, I have a very complex relationship with Tan.
If I sit in the sun, I burn immediately. The scary blister burn. The I-want-to-rip-my-skin-off pain that only the whitest among us truly understand. And then there’s the itching & the aloe vera & the general disgustingness that is BURNING YOUR SKIN OFF.
When I was younger, I used to hit up the tanning bed. It was laughable, because I’d literally start with two minutes & then build up to four & so on. AND I WOULD STILL BURN. And, I would itch and be generally miserable, because seriously, I am NOT CUT OUT FOR THE TAN. Nor do I have time to waste at the tanning bed every day of my life.
In college, I decided “Hey! Sunless tanner is the way to go!” I applied it myself, and wound up looking like this:
The first time I applied it, I looked like a striped orange zebra. My mom & I nearly died as I showed her my legs & arms which were streaked. A few years later, I did the foaming mist, & placed several frantic calls to Leslie, a former tanning expert, begging her to tell me how to GET IT OFF MY SKIN, as I watched my knees and elbows turn an orange not found in nature. I then wore long sleeves for a week. IN JULY.
This year, I am trying the sort of “slow tan” Glow Moisturizer. So far, so…okay. I mean, I’m getting glowy, & there’s only one patch on my ankle that is a little orange (which, if we’re offline, real-life, hangout friends, I EXPECT YOU TO IGNORE SAID ANKLE).
This is progress.
Still, I know that sadly, the minute I step into the sunshine for longer than 10 seconds, it’ll be game over, but for now, let this girl have her faux-sunkissed dreams.
Or at least don’t mock me.
Are you a tan person? Are you pale like me & have suggestions for how to avoid blinding people with my Pale? HELP.
“See, I spent a lot of years being a person I wasn’t that proud of being and believing I couldn’t do much at all. I allowed my life (my relationships, my weight, my outlook on things) to reflect that. So, I want to give up some things this month to continue to prove to myself I can because I think when you surprise yourself, you begin to like yourself more and more. That’s important to me.”
— Jennie, who writes over at She Likes Purple
I was reading Jennie’s blog yesterday, and feeling inspired, because not only is Jennie the brains behind Style Lush, she’s doing all of these amazing things: budgeting and running 5K’s and giving up meat and being a great mom and an awesome friend. Jennie is one of those friends that I sort of stand in awe of, because while I have a million big ideas and secret dreams, Jennie DOES something about them.
Impressive.
I was reading along when I stumbled upon that little snippet, & tears sprang to my eyes. Tears are sort of standard here at Chez Amy, but that little string of words stirred something in me yesterday morning, as I read along in the silence of my classroom.
I’ve been feeling quite unsteady & unsure lately. Many things in my life are in flux, the largest of which is the possibility of not having a teaching job next year (although…possible good news on the horizon!). Every single person in my life has been all, “Yeah, you’ll be fine!” & proceeded to encourage me to write & edit & do all of those things that I try to cram in around lesson planning & reality TV.
All that I could think of was “ME? NO WAY!” or “Ha, I mean, sure, other people I know are making money from writing & finding ways to make it, but I could NEVER do that!”
Hang tight, I’m getting to the skinny part of this.
See, the thing is that I guess I’ve gotten a little used to letting myself down. I mean, yeah, I’ve gotten my act together significantly in the past few years, but I have this laundry list of very achievable goals. Things like losing weight, planning ahead at work, submitting some writing, finishing my laundry and generally keeping my life running smoothly. None of them are out of reach, or things I can’t do.
But somehow, in my little twisted head, I’ve gotten this message that I’m not good enough. Me, have a life that’s really & truly together? Me, be responsible enough with my money that I’ve got a large savings account & can pay off my debt? Me, actually lose the weight that causes me so much anguish? Me, be in a happy, healthy, functioning relationship that isn’t always on the verge of explosion? Me, live a life that’s creative & fun & bursting with possibility?
It all seems so out of reach for a girl like me.
You see, if you think you’re not worth it, it’s easily to justify letting your eating get out of control, because in your mind, you suck at everything, so why NOT just eat poorly, too? It’s easy to get off track going to the gym, because you already knew you weren’t ever really going to do it…you’re not capable of that. Because you’re a loser, remember? It’s easy to spend too much because you’ve decided you’re helpless at controlling your money. Why take opportunities when you know you’re just going to foul them up, anyways? When you don’t do something you really wanted, it’s easier because you’ve never really believed in yourself all along. It’s perfectly acceptable to spend your Saturdays lounging on the couch in a haze of Law and Order & whatever food you want, because you never really believed you could write successfully or start an Etsy shop or go out & tackle the world. It’s easy to let people let you down, because hey, you don’t think you’re worth all that much either. Letting people walk in & out of your life, trampling you in the process becomes tolerable when you view yourself as worthless.
My weight is just an outward manifestation of the fact that I don’t think very highly of myself.
Let’s be honest: I love food & don’t love working out — but those things CAN be overcome. I’ve got all of the knowledge in the world as to HOW to do this, I have a gym membership & every tool in the world to ensure my success. The “how-to” of weight loss isn’t a mystery to me.
It’s a heart problem.
Somewhere, inside I really believe, as absolutely effed up as this is, that I’m probably not worth it. I can’t tell you how many events —absolutely awesome events — I’ve bailed on because I didn’t want to look fat. I look back on memories from the past few years, & feel such little joy, because eww, I look disgusting in the photos. I don’t let myself fully enjoy things because I think I look terrible enjoying them.
Still, in my twisted little brain, I don’t believe I’m capable of much in this area. I think I’ve accepted that in this department, I’ll always be letting myself down, I’ll always be fatter than I’d like, I’ll never like my body, I’ll never be truly healthy or happy in my own skin.
I hate that. I don’t want to feel that way anymore.
So, to use Jennie’s words, I want to surprise myself. I want to look back in two months and say, “Holy crap! I really did workout every day before work!” I want to be proud of the way I’m eating. I want to see my body respond. I want to shock myself into seeing just how capable & awesome I am, because the more I think, write & process, the more I believe that when I get this issue in hand, my life will follow.
And most of all, I want to fix this little matter that is my heart, & my feelings towards myself. Because deep down, there’s this little voice that’s telling me that I’m worth a lot, that I deserve more than I’m allowing myself to have right now, that I can do & be & become all of these things & more.
I think I’d better listen.
Typically, I wear jeans 2-3 times a week. They are my go-to item if I’m going anywhere on the weekends that requires me to change out of my sweats, & once a week to work on Fridays, because despite jeans being totally acceptable in my school’s (non-existent) teacher dress code, I try & look all professional-like Monday-Thursday, because being the youngest on campus means that I try to at least appear remotely adult in my wardrobe and it sets a tone that education is serious & all the other stuff they tell you in credentialing programs. But, now that my job situation has changed a bit and it’s the last quarter, I’m uh, “rebelling” by wearing jeans a little bit more frequently. Side note: WHAT A REBEL. Wearing something that is completely acceptable but just makes me feel rebellious! I am such a badass sometimes, I can hardly stand it.
Anyways, wearing jeans has reminded me of just how much I hate them. Yeah, I know, American wardrobe staple, you can dress them up or down, they make your butt look great, BLAH BLAH BLAH.
I beg to differ.
First, you should know that I’m 5″1. Miniature in height, not so much in body. This means that finding pants is nearly impossible. Don’t come at me with the “You can cut them off!” or “At least you’re not too tall…all pants are floods on me!” Being short means that if I do hem pants, I cut off any sort of boot cut situation, meaning that they end up looking like skinny jeans with a little “kick” at the ankle. NOT CUTE. On the rare occasion that I do find a pair in short or petite that fit, they’re either still too long or too short with heels.
Next, there’s the zipper. I have a pair of jeans that I love & adore. They’re comfy, worn in and generally awesome…save for the fact that the zipper absolutely refuses to stay up. My zipper was down once & I fixed it (after running errands for a frillion hours, SORRY, GREATER-SACRAMENTO AREA!) & then a few hours later, it was down again, I was all, “The hell? I haven’t even peed!” Same thing the next morning when I was out to breakfast with a friend, & she casually tried to give me the sign, & then it hit me, OKAY, JEANS, I GUESS THIS IS YOUR THING.
Needless to say, those are being thrown away.
I think the jeans in my wardrobe are ganging up on me, because my other favorite pair is doing that thing where they wear out in the near-crotch…right on my upper thigh. I mean, that’s easier to conceal that the zipper down, but I just don’t think I could handle having my entire huge white thigh exposed in any sort of situation.
So, with these unfortunate Denim Experiences, I have decided to declare a War On Denim.
I honestly prefer skirts and dresses anyways. I always have. Zooey Deschanel & my ever-growing love for her is not helping this situation. But sometimes, I wear them, & people are all, “Why so fancy?” & I’m all, “Why so casual?” but then I feel weird inside & I obviously don’t want everyone thinking I am some sort of dress-wearing weirdo. Also, I have a love-hate thing with tights, meaning that some colder mornings, the idea of putting on tights feels like more effort than it’s worth & I just want to wear PANTS.
Still, with warmer weather ahead & my general Anger At Denim, I’m thinking that now will be the time to test drive a skirts-and-dresses-only policy.
Oh, & leggings, of course. One I find some more shirts that cover my behind properly, of course because NO, I WILL NOT BE LEGGINGS-AS-PANTS GIRL. Uh, this will go into effect once I’ve shaved my legs and found some sort of solution to the BLINDING WHITE that is my skin, but does not involve a tanning bed OR looking like an Oompa Loompa.
Le sigh.
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS, I KNOW. My life is hard.
What’s your relationship to denim? Are you a jeans lover or more of a dresses person? Guy readership (all two of you!), do you like girls in skirts/dresses or jeans?
It’s Saturday, so technically, my two weeks of break are done & over, something that breaks my poor little heart something fierce. Still, breaks wouldn’t be so sweet if they were forever, so I am coming to terms with the fact that on Monday morning, I’ll don my teacher apparel & launch into a unit on poetry & genres of it & once again be behind an overhead.
Le sigh.
I spent the later part of this morning outside at a coffee shop, writing & dreaming & processing the experience of the past two weeks. My life really has changed dramatically in just a few short weeks due to a change in job status & it’s only the start of the changes. I’ve had a chance to absorb & start laying the very basic foundation of what I hope my life to come will look like.
If I had to describe my feeling after this time away, it’d be refreshed. Not just because I had more sleep than I can shake a stick at, or because I watched a truly alarming amount of awful television, but because I’ve gotten out of my head. I’ve written volumes in my paper journal, read books, listened to music. I’ve spent time with my parents & talked through all the big questions of life to come. I’ve interacted with girls I admire, girls who make me laugh & girls who are completely sweet, girls who inspire me, girls who make me want to live out loud, & girls who are willing to offer me their experiences as I carve out mine. I’ve had honest conversations & seen possibilities. I’ve been in the presence of friends where I don’t have to put on the happy face & I can talk honestly about life without being cautious or putting on airs. Snail mail from across the country has brought a smile to my face, as I read words I know I need to hear. I’ve gotten out of my tiny city & near the water.
I’ve hit the reset button.
The next few months are going to challenge me. I know this. It’s going to be a whole mess of packing up my classroom & saying real goodbyes & laying a new path for myself. The past two weeks have allowed me to think & feel & cry & just be. I’ve already been overwhelmed with love & statements of support & the sheer number of people who believe in me. Thank you. This space has been an incredible support already, & I can’t overstate how thankful I am to those of you who’ve reached out. Thank you for believing in me.
This break has allowed me to learn to start believing in me, too.
I mean, I’ve basically accepted the fact that no matter what I do, my mom will always trounce me in the the Awesome department, because she’s a billion times nicer than me, completely hilarious and not to be all anti-feminist or whatever, but she is awesome at laundry.
I keep waiting for something to kick in that will make me be good at laundry, because growing up, my mom was never all stressy about laundry. She just did it, and I always smelled good, and our house was never a total LAUNDRY BOMB despite four of us living there, but now, I’m a Laundry, Party Of One, and oh my god, I just can’t get a hold on it. I learned to cook, I can clean house like whoa, but I still suck at laundry.
I tend to hover somewhere between totally clean and totally cluttered. I love a clean house with every fiber of my being; however, I don’t freak the freak out if there is stuff everywhere. I firmly believe that there is a difference between being “dirty” and being “messy” — an important distinction. Basically, in a “dirty” house you’re all, “I don’t think I want to pee in that toilet” and in a messy house you’re all, “Aww, cute, let me move this pile of magazines.” My house is usually a bit cluttery, but it is never, ever straight up dirty.
Except for laundry.
I will totally let laundry pile up and just dress creatively and sniff the armpits of shirts I’ve worn out a time or two (try and resist me now, boys!) until I have no more underwear (and trust me when I say that I have enough underwear to clothe a small nation) and then laundry basically sends me over the edge of madness because it’s overtaken my bedroom floor and there are a million loads and I don’t even separate it because I just want it clean and I don’t even care how it gets that way.
One time, someone I was dating took all my laundry home and WASHED AND FOLDED AND IRONED and I nearly died. Another time, in a fit of total stress, I dropped my laundry off at one of those Wash N Fold places and for a mere $50, this tiny woman washed and folded and starched and ironed and pinned things together and it was in all reality the BEST use of money ever.
Sadly, I’m trying to make it a practice to do my own chores and save money and you know, BE AN ADULT, so I need your advice. Do you have a laundry system: days, baskets, a separation system, ANYTHING THAT WILL MAYBE HELP ME GET MY RIDICULOUS, DIRTY-CLOTHED SELF TOGETHER? I mean, how often do you do your laundry? Do you have a designated day? Do you separate things before hand? Do you just throw it in and trust the Laundry Gods and deal with the occasional white shirt turned pink?
Or, better yet: do you want to come over and do it?
MY LAUNDRY.
Leave me your tips in the comments.
{via}
“The whole point of being alive is to evolve into the complete person you were intended to be…” — Oprah Winfrey
I’ve been sort of quiet over the past few days, just taking it all in & accepting the fact that in a few months, my life could look very different than it has for the past three years. The response of those close to me has been nothing short of amazing. To hear their love & support verbalized, to have offers of help & their verbal votes of confidence has made this whole experience so much easier.
Still, there is intense fear. There are a million reasons why I am scared, but I think that over the past week, I’ve discerned that what I fear the most is regression. The last time my life sort of crumbled beneath me {loss of marriage & job, a new relationship that ended & left me broken, financial struggle and a strained relationship with my family} I had no clue what to do. I’d never paid bills, never lived alone, never really broken away from my family’s beliefs & expectations, never done anything, really. It was my first foray into adulthood, & I crashed and burned. Being a teacher has represented a sense of stability in finances, schedule & lifestyle. Now that I stand to lose that again, I just don’t know what to make of it.
I just don’t want to be a hot mess again.
I saw my therapist this week {yes, I see a therapist}, a woman who has been seeing me since I was 21. She reminded me that I’m not the same girl as I was at 21. That I’ve evolved into a grown-up, a mature person, someone who can take care of herself. I feel like I’m forever fighting the feeling of being a little girl, of being incapable of making something of my life. I’m holding to that: trusting that I’ve grown up, that I’ve got skills & six more years of life experience under my belt. This is hardly the same thing.
Usually, when faced with a crisis or a change, I look outward. I read books & seek advice & talk to as many people as possible. Instead, this time, I’ve been writing. Pages & pages, handwritten & typed. I’ve listened to music that moves me & spent time with people who make me laugh & think & grow. I’ve spent my week & will continue to spend my weeks figuring out exactly what I hope to evolve into. There have always been these little whispered hopes in my heart & mind: to write, to edit, to travel, to work with social media, to do something I haven’t even dreamed of yet. Instead of reading books & absorbing information, I’m trying to look inside, to see what it is I really, really want.
There is a small part of me that is starting to be really, really excited. To see this as freeing instead of restricting, to see it as an opportunity and not a setback. I’m trying to let that little voice speak more, until it drowns out all the other little voices that are absolutely petrified. I am well-aware that the next few months could suck, that there will be tears & adjustments & change. But I am also well-aware that in the end, it’s gonna be okay.
I think this is what they call growth, kids.
I think we can all agree that the gym is not the most glamourous, nor hygenic of places. My germphobic self basically has to shut off in order for me to go in, touch all the sweaty, dirty equiptment and get a decent workout in, but I can definitely handle it.
Side tangent: what I cannot handle are these women who roll into the gym at 5 AM looking better than I will look all day. Their outfits match, they’re wearing MAKEUP and their hair looks adorable. When I am fumbling around at 4:45 am to go workout, I’m all, “Does this t-shirt cover my boobs and stomach? Do these pants fit reasonably well? Is anything showing?” and then I go. I brush my teeth, attempt to wrangle my hair back and go. I don’t look cute, and I am okay with that. When I see these perfectly outfitted and coifed women, part of me wants to beat them and the other part of me wants to make them come shopping with me so that they can show me how to look effortlessly chic even at the gym. This is a gene I am definitely lacking.
Anyways, let’s get down to brass tacks. This morning, after I finished my 30 minutes of cardio hell, I headed over to the weights area. Generally, I like the weights portion of my workout. I feel stronger, and it doesn’t involve running, a win-win.
Today, this was not the case. I was nearing the end of my upper-body strength workout, groovin’ to Rihanna’s “Rude Boy” and generally feeling like a rockstar who can handle anything because I literally CANNOT stop mentally congratulating myself for getting into a workout routine that involves getting up before 5 AM. As I sat down to do a chest press, a man comes bolting out of the spin class room and…
VOMITS.
Like, near-ish to me. Thank god my music was turned up loud enough that it was fairly muffled, but the rest of my senses? Experienced it completely.
It was traumatizing.
In case you’re new to The Crazy That Is Amy, I don’t do vomit. I have established clearly enough on this blog my deep-seated fear of vomiting. It is intense and goes way beyond a general dislike or being skeeved out by it—like, it’s been discussed in therapy. I check a website before I see a movie so I can PREPARE MYSELF for any potential vomiting. I myself have not vomited in nearly 13 years, and please do not tell me in the comments to “WAIT ‘TIL YOU’RE PREGNANT!” because it’s something I’m not ready to accept and deal with yet.
Needless to say, this did not…sit well with me. I managed to swallow my tears, calm my shaking and walk out of the gym without losing my damn mind. I did my whole “Amy, you’re fine!” routine as I drove home and proceeded to take the longest shower ever.
The only upside? Perhaps if this guy can’t hang in spin class, I can take his place?
{photo via weheartit}
Yesterday, I read this post and it really struck a chord with me. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, Spring is coming near and as they say, “love is in the air.” The post above (go read it—I’ll wait) made me think about my own history with saying, “I love you.”
I am not sure why I have such weirdness about saying it. I come from a family that is big into saying “I love you.” Nearly every phone call, email and/or text between me and my parents and my brother is closed with some variation of the phrase. I have never, ever doubted that I was loved and cared for by my family. Even when things were rough in my life, I knew, to the core of my being, that I was deeply loved and I was told on a daily basis.
The first time someone told me they loved me in a romantic way, I was 16. My first boyfriend told me he loved me after our long-distance relationship had been building for nearly four months. I still remember hearing him say those words over the phone line on my 16th birthday (True story! Driver’s license AND first I love you on the same day!) and feeling like the luckiest girl alive. When we broke up, I told him over and over, “But I love you…” and knowing he didn’t feel the same was crushing.
I’ve only been the first to say it in a relationship once, and it was basically the scariest moment of my life. We’d had really strong feelings for one another so quickly, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he felt the same, but I couldn’t even say the full phrase. I said something like, “I think I’m falling for you…” and he said he loved me, too. I didn’t even have to do the hard work! A guy I dated briefly said it to me over dinner once…and I said the dreaded “thank you.” I felt terrible, but I know I would have felt worse saying it back when my heart hadn’t caught up to his just yet. We broke up shortly after, and I felt truly terrible. Somewhere along the way, I resolved to never, ever say it first, out of protection for my heart, and out of the fear that someone would thank me, the way I’d thanked him. Once it has been said to me, I say it with reckless abandon—but I suppose I need to know that those feelings exist first.
When it comes to friends, I am just as stingy. I have no problem writing it in an email, texting it, or tacking on a “Love ya!” but as for looking at a friend I value and care about and saying, “I love you” I just can’t do it. I feel silly and weird, even if I know there is deep love, as there is in so many of the relationships I treasure. What is WRONG with me?
The thing is that I wish I said it more. I wish it didn’t leave me paralyzed with fear to tell someone the way I feel. It seems so out of character for me, too, because with the people I know and care about, I am an open book. I have no problem telling someone I adore them, I’m thankful for them and I am glad they’re in my life. I have no problem writing it. But the eye contact, the awkward way the words hang, the not-knowing…it stresses me out.
Am I nuts?
How do you feel about saying I love you? Do you say it early and often, or hold out? Who are you NOT saying it to that you wish you were?
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