Aging With Dignity

“Okay, humor me,” she said half-seriously half-jokingly. Her phone made a gentle clink on the metal table. The screen was still lit, a half composed text to her ex-boyfriend appears faintly beneath it. “Let's say that it's human nature to desire power. Relationships whether you are loved, loving or neither if you are part of it.” When she speaks this way, I know it's not out of curiosity. Narcissists don't attempt to understand their emotions. They can only justify them.

After a few moments, I managed to exhale a response. She leans in eagerly, she's trying to listen. There was something in her eyes that reminded me of a little girl. The type of look given to your mother after you ask “Mommy, can I get this?”. “What if I told you that love is a delusion?” I attempted to speak as quickly as possible. Narcissists lose interest more swiftly than a hyper toddler before bedtime, especially when they believe they have an opportunity to receive instant validation. “The reason why I asked you that”, I continued. “Love, no matter what type has the dexterity to alter the mind's natural process. A delusion can be considered the same thing.” Her eyes are still on me, a stone-cold stare. I believe I've gotten her attention. “You could live in the security of this person's love, yes? Perhaps the reason why you compelled to reach out to this person is simply that at some point their love gave you power. They no longer saw your imperfections or shortcomings. They only saw you and they loved that.”

She leans back into her chair. Her cigarette has gone out. Her hand twitches between her lighter and her cellphone with the unfinished text. “You make it sound so beautiful,'' she smiled sweetly, looking down. “Our love is different now, but love nonetheless. Is it so wrong to want to keep it? If I am allowed to love him still, why should I deny myself the ability to share it with him?”. I make a sad attempt to allow her to internalize her words for a bit. Sadly, it has already exited her mouth. She means it, and she's not taking it back. I let out an exasperated sigh. My slim fingers wrap around the curve of my wine glass. I chug my 2008 glass of pinot without tasting it.

“You already love someone else. The life you had with him is gone. You have managed to rewrite a similar story, except the cast has been replaced. Call it a sequel. How often do you see someone from the original cast in a sequel? Hardly ever. '' My words are very precise and orotund. This way of thinking cannot be considered sensible by any means. At this point in the discourse, I am completely determined to get my point across. “Take Grease and Grease 2, for example. We look back at the original fondly, it is considered a very influential factor in movie history. Grease 2 goes completely overlooked. Once there is an original we have no choice but to compare the two. It is natural for consumers to consider repetition as something positive, similar to a safety net. If the original film can evoke this emotion within me, the second one should and will.”

I pause for a moment. It takes an incomparable amount of strength to hide the smug look that is slowly creeping over my face. She rolls her eyes, her right foot is anxiously tapping against the uncomfortable patio chair. The chair lets out a defeated squeak. The lighter and phone are still in the same place, untouched, unaltered. “So now that you're done speaking in analogies, can you just get to your point? I'm too old for lectures.” Okay, I'll admit it, I feel absolutely defeated. I originally instigated this conversation with the intent to share whatever allotment of emotional intelligence that I have gathered in my short twenty-four years of life. She patiently waits for a response. Interesting behavior for someone who has made their decision before asking a question. The opaque blue bag crinkles in my fingertips. My house key scoops and I inhale. My truth serum, I like to call it. A hopeful smile creeps across my face, my dimples define.

“Maybe its power that you desire, not love. Think of all the things you want to accomplish in the future and do them. Simple as that. That's more powerful than any love if I'm being honest. With love comes respect. If you respect him you should be able to love him from afar. You do not need to speak to him, the best thing you can do is hope and pray that he's happy. So no, don't text him back. That's way less romantic.” The bartender notifies us that its last call, and just like that, it's my cue to go. It seems as if she has already withdrawn from the conversation. Honesty can be boring, I assume. My right hand seizes the lighter off the table, it clicks creating an audible click through the array of voices filling the cramped patio. 

I make a hasty french exit with her lighter in hand, it's the only thing that I could salvage from that discussion. It'll do. My boyfriend texts me as I make my way down the block. It's a picture of our cat, Stephen. He has a gentle method of requesting updates on my whereabouts, one of his many quirks that I adore. Before I turn the corner I take one last glance at the bar. Sure enough, there she is, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. If she was on The Price Is Right she would have opened doors. 

One more block and I'm home. A wave of dejectedness washes over me, I am more disheartened than I am resentful. How miserable must it be to try to control love? It is the most powerful of them all. Love can be a noun, an adjective and a verb all at once. The few who permit love to stay in its natural state are the most fortunate people alive. “I'll be home soon. I love you”, I text my boyfriend. The only power I ever desired while being in love was the strength to allow this person the keys to every wall I have ever devised for myself. He may not own them all, but they are on a key ring waiting.

Camille Paglia, 

Where would we be without our mothers? I’d be deprived of the smallest amount of respect for myself. Every compliment would get drained within an inch of its life before it escaped someone else's lips. I would spend every morning alone, no matter what bed I’ve bribed myself into that evening. Any response to my cry for attention to be sucked bone dry, us people with low self-esteem never know when some semblance of love will arrive again. It could be a regular day and I’d still bait and bait and pry for a little reminder that I still matter.

I would only look myself in the mirror when I am preparing my body for someone else. Do you think that they can tell that I don’t love myself? If they can’t see it, they can feel it when I ask if we can “do it” with the lights off, or when my arms shoot up like skyscrapers when there is an opportunity for you to see my body under the covers? Redundant question. It’s written all over you. Your defeatist mentality accompanied by how effortless the words “I’m sorry” can slip from that weak beak you call a mouth. If said assiduously enough it almost sounds like “I hate myself and I need someone to teach me not to.” Even the most secondary character, who doesn’t want to fuck you can watch the way you carry yourself and already have you figured out. Your words, hesitant and feeble, incapable of the ability to think for yourself.

When will you learn that you are in control of how much you love yourself? A mother teaches a little girl to love their fathers, but not more than they love themselves. It is imperative that she learns the difference and soon. Mother’s know more than most. She gave up her body for you, just to be reminded that nothing was ever really hers anyway. Her body, her children, even her husband can be taken from her if the world wills it. She teaches you that YOU are yours, but only if you act like it.

Your mother sleeplessly writhes in pain at night when she reflects on how she has failed you. Indefinitely navigating a life dependent on begging other people to love you, when you don’t even know how to love you.

Whether you're trying to do key bumps in the stall or you're crying over your boyfriend. (Who's not your boyfriend, just some guy off Tinder you fucked a few times). He doesn't even own cups. You had to take the Brita Filter and waterfall that for sustenance. Fuck me, you even stayed the night.

If you're in the women's restroom for business or pleasure, you can always find a photographer, a life coach, but most of all: someone to validate your insecurities in a relatable way so you don't have to feel alone.

The women's restroom has always been a sacred place. Now that you're an adult those same girls who laughed at you for crying are the first to screech "Ohhh my gahh. You're a beautiful bad bitch. I love you" the second you mention anything negative about your appearance. Your gay BFF can't hold a candle to the unwavering support that drunk bitch in the Kate Spade purse. Yeah, you know the one.

Gone are the days of wondering if your 24-year-old boyfriend that you had in high school was a pedophile or not. Chances are, Sabrina, a nail tech from Vegas had one too! Sabrina can totally relate to your issues, she was slut-shamed for being an early bloomer as well. Having low self-esteem is much more fun when you have someone to do it with.

If you're lucky Sabrina may overshare with a completely unrelatable story that is explicit to her only. Don't fret, life could be so much worse, you could be Sabrina. Trauma bonding is a new and efficient way to continue making the same poor choices you've been making only you've got someone who's just as fucked up as you to put you at ease. Your pedestrian personality is nothing without the validation of a complete stranger. Who cares about Brita Filter Water guy anyway? You just matched with Chance, he's a skateboarder who wears Carhartt AND Levi's. You deserve a guy with style and taste. We bet Chance owns cups. He might even sleep on something bigger than a twin-sized mattress with no sheets. His Facebook profile picture has a confederate flag in it, but your parents voted for Obama so it kinda cancels out, right?

With Trauma Bonding, Sabrina's real problems can suddenly dissipate any superficial self-doubt that you've brought along. Now go and do that bump of K and sing "I'm Every Woman" on karaoke. Keep that phone close by, Chance hasn't responded to your nudes yet. If you're lucky you'll have time to drunk dial Brita Filter Water guy after Chance leaves you on read. The emotionally unavailable come out after the bars close after all. You must not allow those matching panties to go to waste.

Trauma Bonding is a vegan, gender-inclusive personal service that caters to all classifications of trauma. Try it now and we'll throw in a choice of a free trip to Planned Parenthood or an all-expenses-paid Uber home. Our clients can always conduct their walk of shame in style.

Trauma Bonding: when loving yourself becomes unbearable. We provide you with a temporary bandaid.

The struggle shared with the routine of impulsive behavior is very similar to one's belief that one is undeserving of positive things in life. Even once self-doubt is released it is very common to believe that any good occurrence is a sign that negativity is near. Self-sabotage is another term. The mind has a way of permitting future shortcomings as an act of self-preservation. Self-sabotage is a cowardly attempt of self-preservation.

The human experience has less to do with control rather than just participating. To experience is the easiest of three, all you have to do is be present. Depending on what life you determine the learning curve. Acting or reacting is for the intermediate. It takes hours of contemplation or a simple irrational motion. The act of evaluating is something that no matter what, not one being will ever truly master the concept.

Our ancestors departed this world relinquishing any enlightenment consumed to their successors. We will by no means ever be released by the concept or unmitigated consciousness. In a sense, the living is fortunate enough that their existence has yet to conceptualize. Participating in a state of consistent inquiry is vital to the process of sustenance. Man subsists as a result of the secrecy of his own mortality.

Sometimes my thoughts get so tight they feel entitled to outlive me and the world.

Your OCD does not make you more proficient at life than others. The dependence on order is caused by your inability to accept who you are.