I sit and I stare, and I run old scenes through my tired head, of the days that we laid on our backs and said “forever”. Was that the best I’ll ever be? –Sister Hazel, Best I’ll Ever Be

I am one of those people who shamelessly believes in love above all things. My entire life, I’ve been a hopeless romantic, disgustingly addicted to poetic love songs and romantic movies. (I’m still stuck on The Last of the Mohicans because no matter what anyone says, that shit is a love story. Love conquers all is what that story tells me.) I always wanted to have one of those ridiculous loves that people have only written about. I wanted to wake up every day, head over heels in love with the sweet man lying beside me. I’ve always had the mentality that if all else fails, I’ve got love. And that’s the real success in life: love and procreation. It makes the world go round. I dream about the day when I’ve got little Africans running around my house, making messes throughout their travels just like their father does. Tiny little flip flops here, miniature dinosaurs there, food caked on an expensive highchair. Bliss. 

It’s like sometimes, I feel like I’m not really living, like I’m not really going through life unless I’m doing it with my husband. And I know that probably sounds so cliché and maybe like I’ve watched too many sappy romantic dramedies. Or maybe, for some of you, it sounds really pathetic. Like, how could she hitch her wagon to just one star? The reality is that when I’m home alone, when I’m out somewhere and he isn’t with me, I feel like I’m missing out. I feel as though a part of me is missing and I worry that maybe one day, I might have to be faced with a lifetime of that. What would happen if he were to one day wake up and realize how completely crazy I am? How could I possibly go on? How on earth would I ever get through the day?

I realize that I’m a whole person, that I’m an individual apart from him. I realize that I was moderately successful at getting through life on my own before I met my loving husband. But the truth is, I don’t remember enjoying life nearly as much back then. It seemed like every day was a struggle, like there was always some literal drama lurking around the corner, waiting to strike when I was most vulnerable. It seemed like I was too young to really get the things I needed, but I was too old to make excuses for myself. It appeared as though, and I believe this still to this day, every single man I came into contact with was just terrible for me. Every proverbial conquest was just wrong in every attribute. And maybe, in some cases, it wasn’t entirely their fault. 

Those men, and even some of the friends I had made back then, were just individuals I kept to pass the time. They lifted me up when I needed support after being with someone so violent and abusive but I didn’t really need them. All of those people, those men who filled the void that I was so desperate to fill, they weren’t making me realize why I was still here. They weren’t making me thankful for being spared, hopeful for the future, or excited about whatever truths my impending life would hold. They just helped me get through the day. Quite frankly, I could have taken or left them. 

Back then, I was still half a person. Half a person with half a soul. I was intentionally numb to so many things because it just made the day-to-day easier. It made the working two jobs, dealing with a thieving roommate, and eating Dollar General Market groceries that much more bearable. If I knew that I had a relatively handsome (but primarily worthless) man waiting for me by the time my work day was finished, I knew that I had something to look forward to. They would all be primarily short lived because I don’t think I could really hold anyone’s legitimate interest back then but knowing I had a person on the other end, that was something. But after a while, it just became redundant and disappointing.

Watching Sports Center on someone else’s couch, sitting uncomfortably because no matter how nice of a host he was, I never felt safe outside my own bedroom. Attempting to watch a movie that I absolutely love and have seen a million times and having to stifle an eye roll because my flavor of the week tells me “it’s garbage”. Having to rush out one of my gentleman friends in the still of the night because my relentless roommate loved to tell my psycho ex-boyfriend everything even though she had way worse secrets than mine. Realizing that no matter how much attention I get from any number of random attractive and charismatic men, it will never be enough because I know that I don’t mean anything to any of them. Hitting the club every night with my absolutely solid best friend because like me, she needed some release; she didn’t need a man to love her but she needed a little genuine attention. Waking up hungover nearly every morning before rushing off to my first job to listen to babies cry while my co-worker ran out every three seconds for incessant smoke breaks. (To this day, and this is super random, I sort of don’t know why that woman worked with kids. Especially babies. It never seemed like she enjoyed what she did. But who am I to judge?)

Just proofreading that paragraph makes me anxious.

At that time, my life seemed like one of empty promises, of endless let downs, of financial trouble and chronic alcoholic binges that included all my single friends because hey, they were all in the same boat with me. I thrived on social media because I craved the consideration from outsiders, countless cups of coffee because aside from alcohol, it was the only thing that seemed to calm me down and keep me focused, and this chronic ache that just never seemed to go away. Although it pained me, it was the only thing that seemed to keep me alive. It was an ache from the abuse I had suffered at the hand of my behemoth ex-boyfriend (despite what he liked to claim), a constant feeling of regret for the mental pain I had cause my parents by abandoning them (despite what I liked to claim), the pressure of the lingering instability of my shitty life, and the embarrassment of the way my enemies incessantly took hits at me via social media and third party communication. 

I don’t know that I possess the capability to be depressed because that just isn’t my personality. But if I ever was, if I ever could be, it was back then. I was skinny and hungry, tired but wide awake, and I didn’t trust anyone. Those were my hardest life lessons, being completely alone.

In those moments of solace, when I was really left to think on my own, I would wonder: Is this the best I’ll ever be?  

 

I’m not like a car you can fix up; I’m never going to run right. –Stephanie Meyer, New Moon

There are times when I feel like I’m just not good enough, like I never will be. And I have to preface by saying genuinely that my husband has never made me feel that way. He is the brand of person that reserves all of his kindness for me. Outwardly he is stoic and angry but with me, he is nurturing and tender. He is always going out of his way to tell me how lucky he is to have me, how ours is the most stable relationship he’s ever had, how he wishes all the time that I had been the only girlfriend in his entire life because of how great I make him feel. He makes a habit of reassuring me that I’m beautiful, that I’m the only one he loves, and that my incessant nagging doesn’t really bother him. That last one, friends, that one remains to be seen because I know I’m pretty bad. Just go ahead and call me Nagatha Christie…

And my chronic insecurities, while annoying, aren’t for a lack of trying. I realize that things could be a lot worse, that I have a lot of genuine strengths, and that the majority of my problems are easily fixable. Knowledge is something that can be gained with things like the internet and a college education. Assertiveness is something that you can train yourself to do with a little practice. Weight and body structure are things that can be lost and perfected. All I have to do is make the gym my new best friend, learn when it’s justifiable to speak up and assert my dominance, and familiarize myself with the things I want to be confident about. I get it, friends. The realization that I’ve got a lot to offer isn’t lost on me. 

I know full well what my strengths are. I have always been an extremely hard worker who is persistently striving to be better. Because I’m one of those anxious types, I’ve always been better suited working fifty hours a week rather than twenty-five. I’ve always needed something to focus on; it just helps me to be a better individual. I know that I’m relatively attractive, pretty enough to keep a moderate amount of attention from the opposite sex. I know that I can put myself together for the most part, and it’s something that I try to do every day. (I’m not one of those people you’ll see at the grocery store with no makeup and a stained t-shirt from high school. I ain’t about that life.)

I know that I am very kind and attentive to my husband (and basically most people that I care about), almost annoyingly so. I know that I am tender and understanding, nearly to a fault because I will forgive almost anyone and take almost anything. I have one of those personalities that is basically always at a baseline of medium; I don’t really have ups or downs and I don’t get especially emotional. Anxious, maybe but not really erratic or feisty, never really super sad or bouncing off the walls with excitement. I’m always just coasting: I’m always pleasant, what my mom used to always call a “happy medium”. My husband never has to worry about what kind of mood I’ll be in. 

I love to cook and clean and be a doting little housewife. I genuinely like to wait on my husband and ask him fifty times if he needs another beer or a second helping of dinner. I like to take care of him and I don’t consider it a chore. One time when my dad was visiting me, I kept asking him if he needed anything and he finally said, “Jesus Kate, just sit down. You’re making me nervous.” I don’t mean to “mother” the situation or hover over people, I just want to be helpful. To me, it’s an act of love.

But for all of these things that are strengths, I have a lot of things that could be considered weaknesses, or barriers to another person’s sanity. I’m relatively anxious all the time (although honestly, I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it) and this tends to be a big problem for me. It makes me insecure about everything, it makes me worry about things that might outwardly seem unimportant, and it can make me “nag” my husband because I worry that things won’t get done or handled in a way I deem appropriate. I always jump to the worst case scenario in these moments of stress, thinking that the whole world will fall down around me. And while I can usually talk myself out of it (I did go to Social Work school, after all), I know that it annoys the absolute shit out of my husband (and probably a lot of other people too). I know he thinks I worry too much, I know he thinks I nag him incessantly, and I know that my being insecure gets on his nerves. 

I get it: Confidence is sexy. I’ve been told this a bunch of times by a bunch of different people and believe me, if I had it, if I possessed the capacity to just be confident all the goddamn time, don’t you think I would be? Sometimes, with all these alleged barriers encompassing my life, with all these termed weaknesses teetering over the pool of my positive attributes, it makes me wonder: What if he just gets sick of it all one day and packs his shit? What if all my awesome qualities are just overshadowed by all my shitty ones? What if he finally realizes that there’s probably plenty of women out there a lot less annoying, a lot less insecure, and a lot more willing to scuba dive? What would I do then? 

It’s like in Twister when Bill Paxton’s replacement girlfriend (played by Jami Gertz) is asking all these stupid questions about an F5 tornado and she goes, “What… would that be like?” and one of the storm chasers answers back, “The finger of God.”

And neither the angels from Heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea could ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee. –Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee

I see it all the time in the relationships around me. It’s almost as if, in the beginning stages of any given relationship, you’re given the opportunity to start fresh. With this new, budding connection ahead of you, you’re given the chance to just evidence your best self. You put your best foot forward and you’re on this constant guard because you don’t want to slip up. In the beginning phases, you don’t want to show the less desirable parts of you so you keep them locked up tight. For the most part, these beginning stages of a relationship are when I think people are most controlled and protective about what they share and what they don’t. 

You won’t use the restroom at their house for obvious reasons. You cover up things like belches and the hiccups because you want to appear only ladylike in front of them. You wear all your cutest outfits and best accessories because with clothing, it’s like starting over. They don’t really know you yet so they haven’t seen all of your “best going out” outfits fourteen times already. You maintain that you work out every day and eat super healthy because maybe you’ve just started work out and have attended the gym every day since you met them. But they don’t know that; to them, you’re a self-proclaimed Gym Rat and you never skip a sweaty workout sesh. Your self-care time is allegedly just too important to get lax with.

You leave out all the bitter little details of your psychotic ex-boyfriend because no one wants to knowingly jump on the crazy train. You don’t exhibit any of your absolutely insanely jealous tendency because you want to give the illusion that you aren’t a jealous psychopath. You don’t share any of the details of your sordid family life because you want to live with your new proverbial boyfriend in the world of perfect families and pretty teeth. His family is perfect and loves each other so maybe you can elude that yours does too. I mean, that wouldn’t necessarily be a lie right? They do love each other…

 

You’re trying to stay on top of the situation from the beginning, in hopes that your possible future mate will only see the good pieces of you. All those naggy, neurotic tendencies will stay dormant until you’ve convinced them to love you enough to look past all that. In reality, in those starter dates, those very beginning moments of the relationship, that is the best you’ll ever be. 

And then time starts to pass and you start to slip back into your old routines. Gradually, you’re letting your significant other know what the real you is like and maybe at first, it’s exciting and enlightening. It can be refreshing to share those kept secrets with another person, to give all of yourself to someone else. But over time, I think, at least for me personally, those unattractive qualities that you can’t seem to reverse or control quickly enough start to annoy even you. Sometimes when my mom would worry a lot when I was young, she would say, “Oh my gosh, I am annoying myself.” And I remember, I always thought that was funny to hear because if you know it’s annoying, if you know what you’re doing is bothering people because you can feel it to, why wouldn’t you alleviate it? Well, I can tell you exactly why because I’m like that now: because you fucking can’t. That’s why. 

I always say to my husband, “If I could control this crazy, don’t you think I would?!” and my eyes always get really big on the “I would” part because it’s so true. If I could focus hard enough to close out all the random sounds around me, don’t you think I would? If I could easily ignore the people in my surrounding cubicles talking about mindless things because I swear to God, they have a daily word limit that they have to hit every day, in order to properly write my case notes, don’t you think I would do that? Do you think that I choose to have the attention span of a squirrel trapped in a shoe box? Do you think that I beg Jesus every night before I go to bed to send me things to worry about so I can annoy the absolute shit out of my husband? I don’t read articles about WebMD for a goddamn reason, friends! I would never sleep at night! My husband would probably box me up and FedEx me to Siberia just to shut me up!

Moral of the Crazy: I realize that in the grand scheme of things I’m still fairly young, I have tons of sweet attributes and that all of life is a never-ending journey of self-improvement. I know that basically, real success is never being satisfied, that no one is going to judge me for continually trying to do better, and that if I were to basically give up on everything today, I would still be a lot better off than most. But part of me, whether it’s due in part to my innate insecurities or because of other life events I’ve endured, is always worried that my good time has passed me by. 

This might sound super crazy but I have this friend who is in her early twenties, maybe twenty-two now. She graduated the BSW program with me and immediately jumped right into the MSW program because her rationale was that if she didn’t go to graduate school right away, she was afraid that she would become complacent and never do it. She had a couple of good social work jobs that she was forced to give up for graduate school so already, she has way more social work experience than I do and she’s like, eight years younger than me. She has a nearly brand new car that she bought herself and while I’ve own my own vehicles, mine were never brand new. She’s got a big ass diamond ring from her soon-to-be-husband and while, quite frankly, I have never cared about petty things like engagement ring size, it’s another thing she’s done better than me. She paid for college with Florida Prepaid and used her brother’s portion to pay for graduate school so realistically, she is in almost no debt. I’m in an absolute ton of student loan debt and part of the reason I didn’t jump right into the MSW program was because I already owed enough money.

Sitting here recounting all of her amazing successes at such a young age, I realize, makes me sound like a jealous freak. But even when I was in school with her, I used to say to her, “I wish I was as together when I was your age as you are now…” And sure, things were different for me, she would reassure me like a good friend does. I lived on my own and had to financially support myself, she would say to me with big blue eyes. But I’ve always felt crippled by how much older I was than her, how much less successful when you compare age with experience.

I see it a lot in my place of employment primarily because I believe that social work is just one of those fields where people continue their education. For social workers, entry level positions are only available to people with a BSW. One of my professors would say that nowadays, a BSW is basically the equivalent to having a high school degree. In our field, you need it to get a basic, low level job. To do anything of value or to move up in your chosen human services field, you’ve got to have a secondary degree. 

So naturally, all the people I’m surrounded with on a daily basis make me feel like I suck at life. There is one girl who is twenty-two (and this I know for sure because she just celebrated her birthday) and this is her second case management job. She just bought a brand new car (not an expensive one but a nice one), has like three Michael Kors watches (and that’s just what I’ve seen) and wears the cutest, most put together outfits I have ever seen accessorized on a real person. She works crazy hours as a Case Manager, goes to regular hot yoga and is also in graduate school. She’s brilliant, beautiful, has a lot of nice material things and is super, super almost painfully knowledgeable. Outside of work conversation, she is super friendly and seems like someone I could easily be friends with and so sometimes I have to remind myself that she’s so young. But she’s already way ahead of me; she’s already so much farther ahead in life.

There’s another woman who is a counselor who turned thirty a couple of days after I did. She claims to be one of the less seasoned employees but that’s nonsense. She has a Master’s degree in counseling or something else brilliant that I can’t really remember at this juncture and maybe it’s just because she’s employed to assist people in processing their feelings but she is so thoughtful, kind and insightful. She just recently traded in her old Jeep for a new Subaru SUV and her son just turned one. She’s tall and skinny, kind of reminds me of Cameron Diaz but way prettier and when she used to sit in my cubicle row, I would think about how much I wanted to be like her. I wanted to speak thoughtfully like her, steal her words from her, and crawl inside her brain. Then I would think about that episode of Bob’s Burgers where Louise tells Bob that he shouldn’t have a role model who is the same age as he is. 

I get it, friends. I understand that everyone is on a different level. We’ve all led different lives and I like to believe that we’re all exactly where we’re supposed to be. I chose to do certain things and not do certain things for good reason. I didn’t want to just haphazardly have children as a love besotted newlywed and then go on Medicaid because I could barely afford groceries. I didn’t want to get a brand new car even though everyone else is doing it because mine still runs perfectly fine. It took me a long time to finish school because I had to pay for it myself and pay all of my own bills by myself while I was enrolled. I didn’t go right into social work after graduation because I wanted to take my time looking for the job I wanted, not just jump into something that I would hate and quit in two weeks. And I didn’t apply for the MSW program because I already owed a painful amount of money and I wanted to start my family. 

I guess I just worry that in my personal life, all my exciting traits, all the things that might have made my husband fall in love with me, are just that: my selling points. I remember when I was really young, when I was still living with my ex-boyfriend and I didn’t have a car, I got a job for a brief stint at a doctor’s office. I had gotten the job because one of the parents at the daycare I was currently employed at thought I would be “perfect for the position”, someone she could easily mold into her apprentice. For a while, because I didn’t have a vehicle, she took me to and from the doctor’s office for my training and we used to have more intimate discussions on the way home. I think she knew how young I was, although I had never told her, because my mom had cared for her older child a few years back. She knew I was in a bad relationship and I think that she saw a lot of herself in me. 

Her first husband was the father of her oldest child and then she had married someone else and had two more. I remember she said to me one day when I was getting hell from my ex-boyfriend for God only knows what, “You know, Glianna’s (her oldest daughter) father got the best of me. I didn’t take any more shit from anybody after that man.” I swear to God, I had to be eighteen or nineteen years old when this discussion took place and I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember looking at her and thinking that she was still a beautiful woman, although she was visibly tired by the ravages of time and the inevitable stress that comes along with motherhood. I remember I sat in her little Honda Civic and I thought to myself, “Is this what happens? Does one person ruin it for everybody else?” And now, in my marriage, I don’t want those first few new years to be the best I’ll ever be. I want every day to be the best I’ll ever be. And maybe that’s what my husband means when he tells me, “I wish you had been my only girlfriend.”

Maybe the key is to stay on your toes, to never get too complacent in your surroundings, and to realize that despite whatever comforts you’ve become accustomed to, they could go away overnight. Maybe it’s not about being hyper vigilant, about staying on edge in case of the off chance that your husband (or significant other) decides to leave you. Maybe it is about just being in a constant state of self-improvement, of realizing that you deserve the best and your husband (or significant other) deserves your best self. Maybe it’s not about cutting out carbs, living at the gym, only saying super appropriate things, or putting your best foot forward. Maybe it’s just about confidence. Maybe it’s just about exuding happiness. Maybe it’s only about accepting the healthy amount of worry.

I would like to say that this conversation will end here for me but I think we all know me better than that. I’m always going to worry, I’m always going to be anxious, and I’m always going to be super critical of how I look and come across to others because that’s just how I’m made. And you know what? Maybe that’s okay. 

Maybe the best I’ll ever be is knowing my downfalls and possessing the ability to work on them. Because the furthest, most difficult journey begins with the first step.

And he hated himself. And he hated her, too. For the ruins they’d made of each other. –Dennis Lehane, The Given Day