About this time a year ago, or a little before, I had just stopped texting a man (“man”) my age who I’d matched with on Hinge. Very very unwisely, I had re-downloaded the app very shortly after I was dumped because I was still operating in a scarcity mindset and frankly, just being stupid. I was due to become squarely in my early thirties in a few months, and I was feeling low about being un-partnered, let alone unmarried.
I had so many friends checking in on me and supporting me through a shite time, yet I still found myself susceptible to the dopamine hits from seeing this person reply to my messages. We texted for about three weeks, yet we never took our conversation off the Hinge app. He never asked for my phone number, and vice versa. I thought it was strange, but did I care enough to initiate? No. And thank god.
Because the dopamine streak screeched to a halt one day when I’d checked in with him after he’d gone to a friend’s baby shower. He’d told me about it a day or two before, and I thought it was sweet that he attended. I know, my bar was so, so low. We live and learn!
The first thing he replied with?
Not “the baby was really cute!” Nor “it was great seeing my friend and I’m excited for him.”
He texted: “I had three beers!”
Alright.
I was disappointed — we’d had some semi-substantial conversations over the course of two-ish weeks — before shifting to doubting myself. He’s a red-blooded man: beer is part of his diet! Maybe I was being too judgmental? Thankfully, my friend helped disabuse me of that line of questioning quickly.
I told him I didn’t want to talk anymore, and he asked if it was anything he said. I didn’t feel like explaining any further and unmatched with him. I resumed getting ready to move out of the place I was still sharing with my ex, along with working and trying to hold myself upright every day through intense emotional agony.
This was one of many memories streaming through my mind while I was in Las Vegas last month, first for a work event and then play time. Only this time, instead of cringing at myself in shame, I laughed as I let the thought pass by. Because how funny that a year later, I couldn’t even imagine wasting my time messaging back and forth with a stranger.
I had made this same trip about the same time last year, when I was going through the aforementioned agony. Thus, I didn’t get nearly as much enjoyment out of my time there. I was just trying to ensure my work was delivered and worrying about whether the Facebook Marketplace buyer for my still rather new bed would actually show up in a few days’ time. (They did, allowing me to cancel the junk pickup truck that I’d scheduled as a backup. This Miss Independent didn’t take chances!)
This year, I was deeply gratified that my mental and emotional states were a night-and-day difference from the fractured, sad little ball of stress that I had been leading up to the trip last year.
How did I do it? I spent the past year healing, journaling, exercising, traveling, shopping, telling good friends and a therapist the same breakup anecdote for the hundredth time, and oh god the biggie–putting myself out there. Going out on dates, going to networking events when I didn’t feel like it, going for the unmute button to say something during a work meeting, going to the gym again because man, muscle mass loss waits for no one! And oh yeah, the mental health benefits are through the roof.
Although not every day was a “success,” what did happen was that my confidence grew again. Not just in terms of dating, no, but in general. It’s an incredible feeling.
And so when there was a not-entirely-unexpected final mad dash on various fronts before this year’s work event, I felt sanguine in spite of it. As I did for so many moments over the past year, I reminded myself that I have been through a circus before, and I’ve found my way out of the tent. It can happen again.
Things ended up going pretty smoothly, thought it generated plenty of inside jokes for the organizing team. Because I guess with a gathering of hundreds of people, you’re inevitably bound to hear the damndest complaints.
After I wrapped up work, my mom’s flight thankfully got in on time despite the windy week in Vegas, and we were able to start checking off everything on the weekend itinerary I’d put together. I took her to see Cirque du Soleil’s impeccable “O” show for her first time and my second. We ate like queens. (Going back to groceries and my mediocre home cooking was…rough.) She even went to a nightclub with me! I have the coolest mom.
Joy. Peace. Confidence. Last year, these were abstract concepts in my head. I’ve lived through other personal disasters that make a romantic breakup seem silly and pale in comparison — I’m sure life has more challenges in store — but that doesn’t change the fact that it still hurt like a B.
I knew I would get through it. Well, and the fact of the matter was… I did not have a choice. Not in a doom-and-gloom sense, but in a “I really do want to be happy again, so this is what it’s gonna take” sense. So as long as I was alive and conscious, I knew I just had to put one foot in front of the other.
What I hadn’t expected was getting to more than “okay.” That part has been the happy, humbling surprise.
So anyway yes, this post is self-congratulatory, full stop. I am deeply proud of being a woman who had her own job and money (and still does, though I always assume a layoff is coming now), who had the fortitude to say “f it, we ball,” who had the belief that I could steer my story right again.
Before I close, although I never got to this point myself, I want to say that if you’re going through something difficult and contemplating self-harm or suicide — please remember that help is available. You matter.
Alright, if you made it to this point, thanks for reading my blabbering. I hope this Year of the Horse is good to you!
Your thoughts?