Why did no man ever hit on me?
And other insane questions (and hopefully some answers)
If I had to describe my personality, it would be someone who wants. As the years have gone by, I have perfected the art of losing myself and yearning for any man who is decent enough to have read a book or two and reciprocate my attention. Of course, it’s a vicious cycle: the more you want, the less you get out of relationships. That hasn’t deterred me from digging my claws in when any relationship ends, lingering in the past somewhere, refusing to let go.
Any guesses for my favorite movies/books growing up? Wuthering Heights and Rockstar.
2018, I was slugging it out in college. I had two friends who were pretty much my favorite people to talk to in my class; we spent almost all our time with each other.
It turned out the two were trying to date behind my back. Even though one of them was already in a long-term relationship with someone else. Both of them had been spending a lot of time together over the past several months and I never knew - until one day.
Not much of what happened after comes to my mind now. What did stand out to me was a familiar bitterness - why her? Why not me? I thought the guy and I were best friends, we hung out so much and he was so caring and fun and matched me in wits. So why was I not attractive enough for him to date (cheat with!) but she was?
That’s not even the worst of what thoughts and indignities I have subjected myself to just for “love” - or rather, attention from men. I’d hear stories of women being stalked, messaged incessantly by men for a chance, a single date - and despite being repulsed by the behavior and offering my support, a tiny squeak inside me resented not being “sought after” myself. I’ve pursued and asked out men, but no one’s ever had a crush on me, per se. I needed to be adored so I could see myself as worthy.
The years rolled along - college, grad school, immigration. Every time I heard of anyone getting into a relationship, good or bad, gossip aside, I was envious. I wanted it all - I wanted the pleasure of obsessing over someone’s words and hands, but most importantly I wanted to be obsessed over. I’ve wanted nothing more than being wanted by someone ardently, even half of how I have craved the men in my life. For me, the biggest thing I could be a part of was a love story. I wanted a relationship to define me, and ironically set me free.
I wish I could understand where this desperate need for male validation sprung from - my parents were not neglectful, I had an okay childhood and was never abused or seriously harmed in any way. And yet this kept ringing through me like a hollow core, sending out feelers every now and then to just go out there and find someone to look at me as a dream. It’s common to blame society, movies and culture for ingraining this idea that women need love to be fulfilled - and yes, they were somehow culprits somewhere, but the real missing piece was inside me. I had the tools and knowledge, but was still stuck - I just wanted to be cherished, and for it to not be just my parents or friends. I needed someone to tell me they didn’t sleep all night thinking about me. That I was unforgettable, light, cotton. It became an unbearable ache as time went by: I’d play flighty and detached at the beginning because it was so easy for me to lay my cards on the table, and then when I’d inevitably get extra-involved things crashed. Most of them crashed because I wanted so much more from love, so much material to fill the emptiness inside me - and what human could match up to that?
Guess what? One day, two years ago I did find someone who loved me dearly, someone who was normal, well-adjusted and just a happy person to be around. And most importantly, he wanted me! Genuinely, to love and kiss and run on the beach with. He spent three weeks talking to me so I’d agree to go out with him. He clicked many photos of me and picked me up from my apartment each time. I told him he was an apricot, and snuggled into his armpits. I did his laundry (he didn’t ask me to) and baked him cakes. We were cute.
Dating him was my identity for a long time. I was on the other side finally - the loving, respectful, happy companion side. My favorite part of the day was waiting for him to walk through the door everyday after work. I didn’t want to do anything with anyone else, just him. I didn’t even want to talk to my parents everyday, even though they waited for me, half a world away, hanging on to every minute. I was so happy my jaws hurt. I finally knew what everyone had been talking about when it came to sex - what a gift, what tenderness and what fun.
But also - I couldn’t understand it. I doubted my joy constantly. I kept questioning him - why me? You’re so amazing, won’t you find someone better? I screwed up; you should leave me. I came up with all sorts of faults in him and magnified them 10 times. He loved me, but why does he not read poems? Suddenly the bar was different - I was operating from a baseline of stability, and now my internal hole had changed shape. I wanted seriousness, sincerity, some trauma/story we could share; instead he was mentally stable, happy, had a big, loving social circle and communicated his needs well.
He smiled through it all and loved me even more for two years, until one day after dinner (ramen) he told me he couldn’t do it anymore.
I would like to proudly tell you that this relationship had ended because of other reasons and that I’d outgrown my need for men, but that was not true. My waiting for him everyday and ignoring my career was not a good thing, as it turned out. I had served myself to him on a platter, just as I’d always wanted, but the real tragedy was he didn’t even want it. He wanted me to be independent without suffocating him, make an identity out of myself that wasn’t just being close to him. I’ve been wanting to attach myself to a story of passionate, intense love since childhood, and in the process have sacrificed way too much.
Surprise: I never needed to give myself up to be loved. I was good as I was, but it was difficult to believe it when I was losing the love of my life because of my behavior, apparently. I watched him pack up and leave the house we had made our own, and my life slowly disintegrated. I was hating myself hard, even though the lesson here was to respect myself more. Since then, I found myself a wonderful therapist, forced myself to take piano classes and seated myself before jigsaw puzzles to slowly, meditatively work out my grief and kinks. It’s still a non-linear work in progress, and I am not past staring at the walls of our apartment vacantly, trying to shut out our laughter and conversations.
And now, nearly six months after that ramen date, years and years after I first started obsessing over ‘true love’, I don’t want anyone anymore. Maybe it’s my grief speaking, or maybe the hole in me has finally been plugged shut. At any point in my life, one only needed to cursorily glance at me to see how male-validation-crazy I was. But as of today, only a specter remains.