Pretty Girls in coffee shops
About two years ago, I went on my first real date with a girl. To preface, I do not date. I despise it. Maybe because it doesn’t come easily to me, maybe because it doesn’t feel safe, but definitely because I’m the biggest introvert there is with a ton of anxiety hiding behind a façade of confidence. Because I knew this girl relatively well, I didn’t feel shy around her, which was the basis for why I agreed to go out in the first place. She essentially ticked all of the boxes: funny, sweet, a total geek, she actually liked me (one of the most important boxes). And I liked her, too.
We met up at an adorable local coffee shop, something calm and safe, perfect for the first outing together. She was radiant, sitting across from me, knees drawn to her chest as a breeze cooled my burning cheeks and the iced coffee soothed the butterflies in my stomach. We talked and laughed for hours until it was time to leave. I had a class to get to and was too much of a goody two-shoes to skip it, so we said our lingering goodbyes. We didn’t hug, but we locked eyes for what felt like way too long. It was nearly impossible to leave that moment. In reality, it was only a couple of fleeting seconds until she turned and left to her car, the sunlight following her every step. And as she drove away, all of my hope in the world left with her.
Whatever that relationship was or could have been, was severed as she shut the door of her Jeep and lay bruised in the parking lot, run over by cars and drowned in the rain. That sounds dramatic. It was really a lack of action on my part that was the main cause of the fatality. I gave her arbitrary reasons as to why I was not ready to date, many of which, even I wasn’t convinced by. We never followed up after the coffee date and I still don’t entirely know why. But, as painful as that was, and yes it was painful, that’s not exactly where this story begins. After years of being open about who I am and how I identify, I realized that a kind of internal hatred kept me from committing, from opening up and showing the deepest parts of myself to anyone. This moment in the parking lot sparked a memory that I had suppressed for years and was the spoiled seed that had taken root inside of me, forcing this hatred to grow undetected.
When I was younger, about middle school age, a new girl moved into town and was placed into my class. Looking back, she reminded me of a cheesy teenage rom com; the misunderstood girl, dressed all in black, possessing the sweetest smile and the kindest heart. Truly a girl of legend. I, of course, fell head over heels for her and desperately wanted to talk to her, simply to have her recognition. It was always difficult for me to make friends, partly the fear or embarrassing myself and partly because I didn’t know how to talk to people. I always felt I was unlikable, too much energy, too weird to be friends with just anyone. But despite this fear, I plucked up the courage to sit with her and strike up some kind of conversation, about what I honestly can’t remember. I’m sure I had no clue what I was talking about in the moment, but it didn’t seem to matter. She talked back. She granted me that reward, that gift, of being noticed. Being seen. Something that really never happened.
What I felt for her was pure and innocent, but I didn’t know that it was also wrong. For where I lived, where I went to school, how I was raised, this feeling was the opposite of innocent. It was disgusting, ugly. I couldn’t understand why, but the thought of being deemed some kind of abomination was so much more than I could handle. I would almost rather forget who I was and how I felt than be condemned and hated. It was never something I was told, but it was something I gathered like missing pieces of a puzzle that showed exactly what a little girl should be, what she needed to be, for acceptance to be gifted to her like it was something to earn.
So I forgot about her. I tossed her into a hole where I sealed away all of the things I was afraid of. I threw this doe eyed angel into a dank pit of every intruding thought that I shoved away, left to fester and rot. I forever tainted this thing of beauty, changed it into a symbol of shame and doubt. And that symbol, that sign above my head illuminated the darkest parts of my brain. It showed me how horrible I could be to myself. How much I can cut myself down to only ribbons of what I thought could be palatable to others. A people pleaser, through and through. At one time, the only thing I felt I could understand in this world was myself, but in a matter of moments, I became a stranger. This stranger, someone I didn’t recognize, hated being honest. It was almost impossible. Something that came so naturally, now foreign and dangerous. Buried so incredibly deep, that it was forgotten. I destroyed every bit of myself that could have these feelings and pretended they never existed. Until, over time, it grew stronger than the barricades I had built.
It’s not a surprise that this girl I tried to forget, forgot me in turn. She stopped talking to me as soon as I stopped talking to her and moved out of town, which was not something I could replicate. As much as I wanted to run away to a place that never knew me, I was stuck in a purgatory of faces and ideals that never changed. I never ran the risk of being physically harmed, at least as far as I knew, but whatever was mental was almost worse.
My identity and self-worth writhed around in my mind. Churning, one day clear as the warm summer sky and the next, dark and murky, a storm ready to let go its wrath. Years went by, pretending I was normal, just like everyone else, until I learned more and more about what being queer really meant. The pieces placed themselves together, almost without my knowledge. I remembered key moments of my life that provided themselves as evidence; coveting lingerie magazines and hiding them under my bed, obsessing over a female fictional character, falling in love with that doe eyed angle. The moment I recalled the very real girl that I left behind out of selfish fear, every memory that I had buried, every feeling that I had pushed away, threw open the gates and towered over me. You would think that a moment of realization would be welcomed or at least comforting. In reality, it forced me to accept that I had become that terrible beast that lurked within the wicked and the weak. It also helped me to realize that this original thought was an utter lie, told by a society that despised this “beast.” The beast of an unchanging identity.
I was not in fact wicked or weak in any sense. I was not disgusting. I was not ugly. I was not alone. This realization only showed itself after five years of holding it in, understanding who I am, but not really living fully open or proud. I’ve been this way my whole life. I’ve been the same person all twenty-four years on this earth, simply growing and altering some aspects, but the facts never changed. I am who I am, that’s easy to say, significantly harder to believe, and still harder to share with the world.
I have pride for who I am now, so much more than I ever have. I can accept myself for who I am. Being honest and authentic is easier as the years go on, but vulnerability is an entirely different entity. Vulnerability is only a few steps from danger. Danger of what I am not entirely sure, but it’s enough of a threat to keep me ever distant. I feel most vulnerable when being honest and open is necessary. Honesty is, as I understand it, an unstated rule in dating, hence the reason why the pretty girl who took me on an adorable coffee date terrified me. The part of my brain that screamed danger pulled me back into the cave inhabited only by me and my relentless thoughts.
Why do I do this to myself? Why do I deny myself connection simply because it requires transparency? Surely something like transparency shouldn’t be this difficult if I pour my heart and my fears and my doubts on paper for strangers to consume. So why do I find one side of my brain laughing at me for speaking truthfully? Laughing at me for thinking that I have traumas, that I have damage, and maybe some issues that arise for no other reason than happenstance? As if I’m taking these things for granted, making excuses, discrediting other people who really suffer. The other side of me recognizes my experiences. My pain, my damage. That side respects it and believes me. It validates everything I've been through, everything I feel. But that toxic, malevolent side continues to kick me when I’m down. And even when I’m up, when I’m ready to fight, when I’m all alone and bruised, it continues its violence. This inability to fight back is something that I hate sharing with people. Maybe because I’m afraid people will grow tired of me. Tired of how much effort it takes to give me a simple compliment, tired of how much I deny my own feelings. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to show how much I need help, but never ask for it. Maybe I’m just afraid, once again, of how people see me.
Maybe this is why I hate dating. Not because people are terrifying and vulnerability is dangerous. Not because I’m an odd person, hard to understand, hard to love. Not because I’d rather be alone. But because I don’t believe I deserve anything more than loneliness. The peculiar fact of the situation is that distance from vulnerable connection almost feels safe. Distancing myself from the people that demand transparency and honesty, as lonely as it is, eliminates my fear of showing people how weak I am. How damaged I am.
I’ve been alone, isolated from any relationships, for a long time. Even when surrounded by people, I feel immensely lonely, trapped in my own head with my thoughts that are louder than the silence ever could be. But with the reflection that has come from too much time in my own head, I have realized that being proud of who you are is not the same as loving or forgiving yourself. I want, so badly, to fall in love with the perfect person who is understanding and sees through me better than I ever could. I can feel how unrealistic this idea is. Fantasy seems so real in your head until it comes into being and weighs down your shoulders. I have a lot of baggage. A metaphor that is overused, but constantly sounds accurate. These bags weigh me down, sometimes in ways that are hard to imagine. And I still, with all of this, want love so badly. But I can understand that some things come before pretty girls at coffee shops who drive Jeeps into the sun set.
