I am shaking while writing this. This may be too far, but, I almost feel like it’s my responsibility to talk about it. Art is supposed to build up people, or at least make them see something that might change them inside—and in the modern world, it is almost selfish to be a creator and not share my…issues.
So… yeah.
Told by many this is not a good idea: fuck it.
Oh God, fuck it.
I’m 22 and I’ve never had a girlfriend.
Not ever.
Not even close to ever.
And, yeah, I’ve read plenty of articles on the topic. I’ve gone deep into the posts on the usual sites talking about how that’s totally okay. I’ve bitched and moaned and complained and commiserated with others about it in person. But, I am a writer, and it almost seems like the only way forward is to put it down on paper.
And, please, don’t give me the platitudes. Don’t attempt to make me feel better in the comment section. I have heard them all: heard every logical argument, every little reason. The amount of pep talks I’ve received is beyond my ability to recall. No matter how logical an argument is, no matter how much real honest empathy and sympathy I’m given, I don’t feel better about it. Loneliness eats at you. Sweet words, nice assurances, they do not stop the feeling of laying alone in bed and being profoundly alone.
It doesn’t help that everywhere in the whole world is constantly throwing out examples of happy couples.
Every song assures me how awesome intimacy and love and romance is.
And, in a way, I am torturing myself too: I read a ton of romance novels. I like cute stories. If someone around me is talking about anything related to the topic, I go out of my way to hear about it, to learn.
It’s vicarious living. The only way I get an iota of that connection.
My sense of privilege is showing, but in my darker moments, I must wonder why. I know I’m not owed anything, to think I am is wrong-headed and misogynistic, but, when really upset, it’s hard to recall that logic. I did a lot to be appealing to women.
A lot.
The whole weight loss thing? I did that for me, sure, but, I’m going to be frank, the main thing that kept me going, that keeps me going, whenever my own willpower falters, is the knowledge I will not get a girlfriend unless I keep myself from being too fat.
Even though so far that is provably untrue.
I shed those pounds, gained muscles, updated wardrobe, all for what didn’t even work.
Literal thousands of dollars I’ve spent on health. Hormones are a great fucking motivator, but they are also destroying me.
The reason people told me not to write this, to not talk about it, is because it makes me seem desperate. Well, perhaps I am. I know I am bitter. I am sad. Being single for so long is actively making me less attractive because of the buildup of negative emotions. The longer this goes, the worse it is. The more my inexperience brands me as not a viable partner.
I ruin entire hours by thinking about my romantic failure. I spoil my own time with friends and family because I can’t get over it.
No solution has come to mind. Dating apps suck and I don’t get matches. I am not a bar crawler. I can’t act like a scummy pickup artist and hookup culture can go fuck itself.
I’ve read too many stories from women who feel harassed or scared or objectified to ever commit to most things guys might try. My option is only to approach a girl that shows some interest in me—because approaching someone who is not obviously attracted has always failed and is not worth attempting anymore.
But so rarely does anyone find me attractive.
I know I am a nerd, a dork, an introvert, and a weirdo. To change that, to go to something more standardly attractive, “what ladies want,” would be to change me. And I can’t do that, however much I occasionally wish I could.
Unlike what motivational speakers say, though, I take zero comfort in that.
Out of everything that bothers me, that worries me, that eats at my attention when I could be focused on the happy things in my life, when I could be focused on goals (goals I am actively achieving), being single and being utterly unable to do anything about it no matter what I try is a fucking abyss in my chest that would drive me to tears if I even entertained deeply thinking about it.
I could work on making more money, learn to drive, wear only the nicest suits and pants, practice pickup lines, get out even more than I already do, but there is a point where I see people who have less than me, do less than me, are maybe even less attractive than me, and they get love—and I can’t deal with it anymore.
At some point, it just feels like I am bargaining with the universe. As if I must pay it for something others got with seemingly little effort. And acknowledging those things of money and status as yet more necessary steps toward my goal, boiling them down to ingredients, is a sickening, demoralizing thing that just ruins my own self-esteem when I fail to do them or fail to find love when I do successfully check that next box.
Again, dear reader, I don’t want platitudes or assurances. Please do not tell me I will “find someone, someday.”
Because that only makes me want to demand an answer to “when?”
This may not be the happiest post ever. Sorry about that. It came off as a bitter rant because that’s all I have left. I am trying to share myself on this website—and to ignore this elephant in the room and treat it as less emotionally charged than it truly is would be tantamount to lying.
I’m okay with heartbreak and drama, and the little nuisances and problems.
I’d deal with them all.
But I don’t get that opportunity.
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Coolerbs Writes 