THE LONGING & THE LOATHING
Recently, I’ve been struggling to write this newsletter because of all the negative stories I like to tell myself - such as, “I’m not David Sedaris and never will be so what’s even the point of trying”. Today, however, I need a break from hating myself for NOT writing, and from crying in bed watching Britain’s Got Talent golden buzzer auditions, so here we are.
Years ago, one of my best friends accompanied me to meet some dating app guy at a bar. By the time we met up, my consciousness was soggy enough with booze that I couldn’t quite capture concrete images of the bar itself. The location didn’t matter, nor did my Hinge date’s choice to wear cargo shorts and Oakley sunglasses. My senses were overwhelmed with an urgent, primal, wine-muddled longing - not for him, necessarily, but for anyone to do what I could not do for myself - to make me feel like I mattered.
Alcohol immediately renders me vulnerable, because I can’t drink it without wanting more - more alcohol and more validation and more stimulation and more and more and then more. The longing is raw, and sensitive when wet, and I’ve only ever made progress towards understanding it when I am completely sober and clear-headed enough to ask myself questions like “what if this is enough? What if my life is happening right now, at this very moment, and I can’t put it off any longer, or better yet, what if I don’t have to put it off?”
Alcohol is splashed all over the images that flash through my head when I’m about to receive what I consider to be a good thing that only good people deserve. The memories surface like a PowerPoint presentation, with a title in bright, gradient WordArt: “Why I’m Bad And Not Good And Always Will Be Bad And Therefore Have Not Earned This Thing And Will Never Deserve Any Other Good Things So I Might As Well Stop Trying”.
Shortly after getting to the bar that night with my friend years ago, I drunkenly forced her to leave me alone with the Oakley sunglasses guy. The next day inevitably brought shame and self-loathing and yet another image for the PowerPoint - more proof of my inherent lack.
But I was not alone that next morning. My best friend was there. She sat at the edge of my bed, holding a cup of coffee for me. Her friendship was, and is, an extremely good thing, and even after witnessing me at my worst, she believed I deserved it. Weeks and months later, this same friend would kindly put into words how much my drinking concerned her, but that morning, she just sat with me and listened.
My friend actually brings this night up often, but not in the way I would have predicted, as proof of my unworthiness. Instead, she brings up how annoyed she was by something the Oakley sunglasses guy said at the bar. Apparently, I told Oakley that I am a writer (clear proof that all inhibitions were shot, when sober it’s impossible for me to call myself a writer without choking on the words or immediately following it up with some sort of self-deprocating joke that’s too rooted in self-loathing to be funny). Oakley's response was that he “also writes”. He went on to explain that he works as a chef, but he journals sometimes while traveling. It enraged my friend that this adult man in cargo shorts would compare jotting thoughts down in a journal every so often to my pursuit of writing as a sole vocation. Her belief in my writing made me want to believe in myself. I wanted to care more about my own pursuits than about seducing strange forty year-old internet men who don’t own proper pants and are still “figuring out their dating goals”.1
Today, friendship is one of many good things in my life, and I still struggle to believe I deserve any of it. I still struggle to call myself a writer and have only recently started saying no to things that will negatively impact either my writing, or my worth. Some days feel great. I feel so aligned with what I am meant to be doing. I light magic manifestation candles and I go outside at least once and eat three balanced meals and read interesting literature and think productive thoughts and I can clearly see the progress I’ve made since I’ve stopped drinking (again, and again, and hopefully for the last time).
Other days feel like shit. Yesterday, an apartment application filled me with so much financial shame that I crawled into a ball and spent the rest of the afternoon watching the Survivor season where Boston Rob meets his wife.2 I couldn’t even enjoy the way Rob says Amber’s name with his Boston accent (“Ambuhhh”) due to the constant ringing of my internal self-flagellation—
“I should be writing. I haven’t written anything yet. I only wrote two pages yesterday. I’m privileged enough to set time aside to focus on my writing and yet I continuously squander that time and Boston Rob is a millionaire and I can’t even afford to rent a one bedroom apartment without asking my family for help because I am useless, and spoiled and I have no idea how the world works and I’ve made so many stupid decisions and hey maybe I should just apply to go on Survivor and even though the one time I tried to “camp” it was in the backyard of my parents’ house in middle school and I thought I heard a ghost outside the tent but really it was one of our dogs but either way I was over it and ran back inside and slept in my bed with the TV on, despite all this I still somehow might become a Survivor fan favorite and get an influencer level following and then I’d be able to rent an apartment as nice as Paige DeSorbo’s and wait that reminds me I didn’t even clean my own apartment today, like I said I would. No cleaning, no writing, no good, all bad…”
That voice, just like alcohol, often presents itself as a balmy solution to whatever daily discomfort inflames the longing inside me. I think maybe if I can escape my mind, or sink deeper inside of it through obsession, then I might have a chance to overpower the sound of the longing. But if I pause and make room for a second though, I think the longing is actually proof that I am alive, that I am human and I want things and I matter. I don’t need to mute that sensation, I need to meet it with care and compassion. I need to sit with it the morning after a rough night, to offer it a cup of coffee, and listen.
If you’re still figuring out your dating goals, then maybe leave the apps alone? The apps give clear cut options for users to identify what they’re looking for, like “long term relationship" or “casual dates” etc, but when I was still on the apps, it always amazed me how people (men) could overcomplicate this feature. It’s like, if what you’re searching for goes beyond the casual/serious binary, that might need to be “figured out” in a therapy office, rather than in a custom Hinge response explaining that you “prefer to see how things play out and not put pressure on it because you don’t like to be boxed into labels ever since your mom got divorced when you were nine, and cavemen didn’t practice monogamy and you’re focusing on your career right now, so let’s just have fun and see what happens!”
Season 8 <3