I’m going to write with complete abandonment for the sake of complete abandonment fueled by recent abandonment in dedication to those who feel abandoned.
This is not my issue. I do not have an “abandonment issue”. There are far fewer women with so-called “issues” than men care to allow. Forgive us, fraternal lords of the crowned right to bear phallic superiority presumptions of intellect but, it is part of contemporary psychological nature for anyone to feel alone and hurt when you decide to Abandon her. YOU abandoned. Your choice. So why should it be my issue.
Creep in to my life, present yourself like purpose, pretend I need you though I never asked to and then turn around and leave. Hell might applaud you but there is a woman crying on her couch and she hardly has the energy to point a finger at the devil so she just blames herself.
I didn’t need to know you. I didn’t need to know any of the men who have come and gone, including the most recent, and now I’m very angry. Cruelty operates so casually.
So far, this summer has performed a heightened orchestra of abandonment for me. When people come and go so easily, time feels completely wasted. In one month I will be twenty-nine, it is my birthday in exactly one month from today and I plan to spend thirty days abandoning.
This blog is transitioning: From that of a writer who was becoming a woman she didn’t know to that of a writer becoming a woman she, once again, doesn’t know. The unpredictable need for change has risen again and again it will take the form of writing because what else can I do.
In my present state, I am a crafted ego, resembling qualities and circumstance familiar to a lot of you:
I am behind on my creative work
I am wrestling the daily temptation to quit my paying job for lack of validation and for overload of criticism and for overall ridiculous levels of stress regarding an occupation I don’t care about at all
A man I cared about left me, disappeared, gone
All my friends are too busy but I only have a few friends
I lie on the floor nightly spooning my very smelly dog
I’ve spent days eating and sleeping and now neither comes naturally to me
Tomorrow seems impossible and today seems theatrically illusive
There is a list of things to do lying on my desk, none of them are satisfying, all of them must get done or someone else will be at a loss
Adulthood is grim, I can’t remember my childhood and life seems to be Not My Thing
I’ve resisted writing for a while because I don’t want to overwhelm anyone with depressive thinking. I have, effectively, then, been hiding. I have, however, struggled with depressive thinking my whole life, as have a lot of people I know and it would ruin my purpose to keep it from being written in a way that resonates at least with one of you.
Do you know: A butterfly is traditionally an omen for change and transformation. Two days ago, I was walking my dog in my neighbourhood and a butterfly landed on the platform right next to us. It stalled. It hopped along side me. That was two days ago, on Saturday. I supposed I’ve been changing ever since.
Here’s what’s happened: I went back on the dating app, got wildly upset by men messaging me brutal things, cried while eating pizza and watching TLC, intermittently falling asleep, waking up confused and resentful, guilty that I haven’t been more active with my dog, guilty that I’m upset about anything at all, fearful of having to actually get off the couch one day.
I went to work yesterday, a note was presented to me, left by my boss, detailing my lack of attention to detail and demanding that I cut the butter uniformly and that I respect the order of the cabinet containing our drinks. I haven’t been in that cabinet in days so I don’t know what she’s talking about and, with regards to the butter: Fuck you. No one taught me how to cut butter uniformly. I am a writer. I do not come with that skill. Teach me or fuck off. Anger for a day.
I’ve been abandoned. He came. He was here. He really liked me. He was talking to me every day. He inserted himself into every single one of my days. He was here and I thought he would continue to be here in fact I asked him if he would be here, we planned something for the fall because he reassured me he still would be. And now he’s gone. Small thing, it seems, in writing. Small thing, it feels, while writing. But abandonment is nonsensical, it’s hurtful and it’s perplexing enough to drive anger.
Anything without reason drives anger. When things happen without explanation, thought circles to the point of complete irrational disappointment. I’ve spent some time in denial, wondering “maybe he’s hospitalized and that’s why” but I’ve asked if he’s ok and he remains a ghost.
It’s that easy.
Today I’ve gotten angry at every man I’ve seen. I suppose that’s an active change. I man tried to help me find my dog’s ball today and I yelled WE HAVE IT, THANK YOU and then swore under my breath for a good block. I’ve had it. I’ve had it. I’ve had: It.
I turn 29 in one month. I don’t know how to admit this but I don’t want to be single on my thirtieth birthday. If I end up single on my thirtieth birthday, you can find me in a hole shooting darts at my toes singing Amy Winehouse and gurgling vodka because I will not be open for livelihood.
Some of my friends have denied my right to want a man. “A man won’t solve your problems”. Yes. That’s incredibly minimizing, thank you. I did have someone here, he happened to be a man for nearly six weeks and, believe me, life was better when someone was asking me about myself daily, when I had someone to ask about daily, when someone was there. It was better.
It’s not just a “Man”. I want a companion. I happen to be attracted to men. I’ve tried women and I never want to do that again, thank you. I want a man but, none of you are men anymore. I’ve met ghosts, I’ve met dicks, I’ve met one night wonders. I have met no men. I can promise I’m a woman but all that does is obscure my right to keep a man because I do not know how to be less of myself just to accommodate your self esteem.
Too often I learn that the men who have ghosted out on me have done so because they found another woman, while seeing me, and decided she was worth devoting everything to. Cue: The Happy Couple. Cue: The Crying Spinster.
Listen, I don’t need to know you. Don’t arrive and be fascinated by my intelligence or my character or my whatever I have no idea what it is that mesmerizes men into not only appearing for a few weeks but overly-appearing for a few weeks, not going away, being too available, wanting to be here all the time, so enchanted, they are, but then: Gone. Gone and involved with another person. I lose. Every time.
I don’t know what it is and each time it happens I realize I’m still upset about the first guy who did it ten years ago. I’m upset about all of you.
This is the month of abandonment. Believe me, I have a man for every day from now until my birthday and a lot of them have shared the last words “I hope you don’t make me into a play one day” well: Fuck you, this is what’s happening.
I don’t want to have an Issue, an “Abandonment Issue”, just because it’s convenient for men to assume that of course I have one so they aren’t at fault. I don’t have an issue. You ARE an issue.
Come back this month for stories and maybe some goodbye letters to the men who have made me feel like roadkill. Come back to witness the letting go. I have to let go. I didn’t need to know any of you.
Love and hope for all of you—