Halved to become a whole.

If you've read some of my older posts, you probably picked up on the fact that I had previously been in a long-term, serious relationship, and that relationship was something I believed to be incredibly wonderful and positive.  He was (still is) a really great guy: nice, considerate, handsome, helpful, smart, funny--

Alright, that's enough.  I'm not here to verbally fellate my ex; you get the idea.

When we were together, it was like this, almost all the time:

Honest.  Our friends were always complaining about how cute we were together.  We had plans to retire into a retirement community and participate in water aerobics.  We named our future dog.  A sizable list of vacation destinations.  Knew where we were going to look for our first house.  Even at the end of three years, we were still holding hands, giving back rubs, and kissing hello and goodbye.  I loved him more than anything.

Not to say we didn't have our issues.  He had his, I had mine, and we both wore blinders.  I had no idea how unhappy our relationship was making me, and if he was unhappy, he never expressed it.  So we got engaged, and shit got real.  I started really thinking on what it would be like to be together forever, tried and failed to address some things, and we broke up.

For the greater part of six months, I was DEVASTATED.  Yes, even though I ultimately made the decision, I regretted it so intensely that I hated myself for making it.  I thought about him every day and was miserable being alone after being coupled for so long.  It was a legitimate, DSM-IV-TR defined depressive episode, including change in weight, change in appetite, change in sleep patterns, depressed mood, and loss of pleasure in activities that were previously enjoyable.

I thought I had thrown away the most amazing and most important relationship I would ever have, and magically, I couldn't even seem to remember why.  I could conjure up memories of small issues, but they seemed so ridiculous and insignificant that I couldn't believe I'd let them affect us at all.  How could I have gotten upset over that when he was just THE MOST PERFECT MAN ON THIS EARTH WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!?!?!?!?!

I didn't even notice when I started writing again.  Or started making plans with friends again.  Or started enjoying driving alone in the car, singing at the top of my lungs.  I didn't drink as much.  I did things on my own.  I started trying new things that I had previously written off.  I bought clothing that I thought was cute, regardless of whether someone else might like them or not.  My self-confidence came back.  I flirted with whomever I wanted to flirt.  I started going on dates.  I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted, and there was no anxiety or loneliness or need to check in or desire to be with someone.

Suddenly, being single felt more like this:

I didn't have to worry about anyone but myself.  I did whatever made me happy, and it was okay to be 100% selfish all the time.  No sharing the TV, no arguing over what to have for dinner, no obligations for someone else, no stress.  Life on easy street!

Over time, without me even noticing, everything had transformed.  Being single went from an extreme loss to an incredibly profound sense of freedom.  We all know that relationships are a lot of work, but when you spend three years doing all of the work by yourself to try and keep things going, ending it really untangles you from some unbelievably heavy chains, and find yourself feeling lighter than a feather.

Dr. Viktor Frankel, one of the most amazing men to ever grace this earth, said that despair can be defined as an equation: D = s - m.  Despair is suffering without meaning.  Sort of like suffering through a relationship that, despite your partner being a great person, should've ended a long time ago.  After a while, there is no meaning to it, nothing to learn, and nothing productive to be gained from keeping it going.

I still love my ex, very much, but I very much regret ignoring our problems for so long and continuing on just because my logic told me he was a great guy and no one would treat me better.  Unfortunately, I needed things from him that he wasn't willing -- or perhaps, even capable -- of giving.  It put me in a very dark place, but even that, I am grateful for, because now I can recognize it for what it is and get out of a situation before I ever get there again.  I wasn't myself, and I didn't even know it.

But now, I've accepted who I am, and have realized that if anyone else doesn't, fuck 'em!  If we don't connect, we don't connect -- it's no one's fault, it just happens.  And if we DO connect, well, that's a story for another day... (dun dun DUNNNN, foreshadowing)

A slut, by any other name...

Okay, OKAY, so twenty minutes is a little fast.  Even for me.  I prefer at least a few hours, I mean really.

Joking.  But listen, I have no problem admitting that, since the end of my very serious relationship with my Marine, I've become, what some might call, an "easy" woman.

M'I'Rite, ladies?

I have, and it doesn't bother me.  I see something, I want it, I go after it, and I get it.  I believe that's the definition of ambitious.  What I happen to want just so happens to be sex, and for a woman to chase men like sex objects is somehow taboo.  It doesn't make any sense.  It's completely non-sensical.

Absolute nonsense.  That's all I'm saying.  WHY is it okay -- nay, encouraged -- for men to try to nail a woman as soon as possible, or to get a beej from a stranger in a bathroom, or bang a bar skank in the backseat of a car, but it's not okay for the woman to do these things?  The dude gets a high five from all his other dudebros, and then they all sneer at the so-called slut that was on the other end of the P.

A coworker of mine told me that I should hold out as long as I can, because my vagina is the most valuable thing I have, and to give it to a man is a gift I should only bestow on someone willing to wait.  This was another female.  A fellow woman was suggesting that my intelligence, sense of humor, values, skills, and every other part of the glorious package that is me absolutely pales in comparison to my cooch.  That a man will never value me as a person unless I hold out on him, because once he has it, he doesn't care about the other stuff.  God forbid a man bring an easy chick home to meet his mother!

And you know what?  For a while, I was embarrassed.  Ashamed, really.  I racked up quite a few notches in the bedpost quickly, and that was wrong, somehow.  I didn't tell anyone, and if I did mention getting laid, I inflated the amount of time we'd spent together before doing the deed to make it sound like I was a proper lady.  But WHY?  Why should I be ashamed to satisfy my basic, primal, human needs just because I'm a woman and not a man?

Sure, there have been guys who have slept with me once and made it clear they're not interested in a commitment (see previous post for an example of one such douche).  That's cool; I don't want to settle down with a man like that anyway, so it saves me a lot of wasted time and heartache.  And I know it's not something I'm doing wrong because they always call again.  Guaranteed.  I think, of all the men I've been with in my entire life, there was only one who didn't call me again, though he did send me a Facebook message that just read, "Hi."  It's not me, it's them.

And that's the case for most women, even though we're taught by our oh-so-evolved American society that it's always our fault.  He never calls you again?  You should've/shouldn't have put out.  He cheats on you?  You should've put out more.  He doesn't pay attention to you?  You must be terrible in bed.  And my favorite: You two broke up?  You must've been naggy and prude.

That's fucked up.  I'm sick of this stupid stigma against women who like to have sex.  And the hate comes from both sexes, which is doubly bad!  Do you REALLY think I'm going to try to bang your boyfriend because I like to get laid?  PLEASE.  There is waaaaaaay to much effort to do that, versus taking home a single guy.  And if I meet him out somewhere, and he tells me he's single, THAT'S NOT MY FAULT, IT'S HIS.  HE'S the one that's cheating on you; how could I possibly know! (For the record, I've never nailed anyone's boyfriend.  That I know of.).

Girls, could you imagine what life would be like if we stopped fighting and hating and ostracizing each other?  If we could just get along and be honest with ourselves?  I mean, who understands what it's like to be a woman more than another woman?  Why do we allow society to turn us against each other?  WE ARE THE SAME.

What I'm saying is, it's okay to be a woman, it's okay to want and go after the things you want, and other woman are not the enemy.  I'm pretty sure that's one of the many messages feminists try to get across all the time, but no one seems to be listening.