What didn’t feel good about living alone was the chronic loneliness. I didn’t realize how pitiful “me, myself and I” could feel; especially without any diversion from my own negativity. What was wrong with me? Why did life still feel so bleak? I had made so much progress since the startling realization that I was 38, single, homeless and without a plan.
The great thing about living alone was that I could sit in my own funk and stew in it unapologetically. I had the space to wallow in my misery without ruining someone else’s day. I could drink too much and too early without fear of judgement. I could Facebook stalk my EX without fear of being caught. I could put Keyshia Cole’s “I Remember” on repeat and sing emotively at the top of my lungs without shame or inhibition.
My lack of sex was a complete non-issue to me. I had more serious concerns to worry about, like, finding another way to greet my day without saying “I hate my fucking life!”. Everyday I tried talking myself into believing I was happy when really I was scared, lonely and uncertain about my future. I didn’t even have the energy to search for happiness.
SEX! I think I left my vagina in Los Angeles. At the very least, my “horny hormones” stopped functioning the instant I found out my EX had cheated on me and decided to keep it his little secret until my BFF caught wind of his dalliances and spilled the beans. I guess I could’ve chosen the slut route; somehow convincing myself that one-night stands and meaningless sex would feel empowering and that emotional connection and intimacy weren’t pre-requisites for getting off or feeling fulfilled.
Okay, for clarity sake, I’m not a stripper. So you won’t find me booty-poppin’ at the club. Not to say I never fantasize about doin’ my thang on the main stage at Sin City in the Boogie Down. But instead, you’ll find a slightly tamer version of myself swinging around a pole with a bunch of hockey moms, high school teachers, corporate professionals and nurses... in a pole dance studio where I teach the sensual, yet very athletic art of pole dancing.
But, I needed something in the here and now to liberate me from the pain of rejection and low self-esteem which is the unfortunate inevitability when your husband replaces you in bed with some other chick (or, chicks) and decides he’s satisfied living the rest of his life without you. The whole self-hatred thing is just part of the adultery/divorce package. I needed another escape. Something other than my new affinity for red wine.
It took a lot of courage, a cute outfit and a little lip gloss to approach “The Rock” at the gym that day. But knowing my time left in LA was limited, I had no other choice but to fast forward our relationship a bit. No divorce papers had been signed, but I was basically a free woman for the first time in eight years. Eight years out of the trenches made me a little gun shy, though. How the hell was I supposed to just walk up to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and interrupt his workout?
I never told my therapist about my botched attempt at lesbianism. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. Instead, I devoted a complete session to divulging the details of my relationship with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Dwayne might not have known the exact depth of our relationship but I was fully devoted to my crush as it served as a giddy escape from my current reality.
The gravity of my emotions was absolutely insufferable, so I decided to duck and hide somewhere safe. I decided to become a lesbian. I know, could I have been any more cliche? Jilted wife seeks love, support, affection and friendship from the “safer” sex. But, for me, the male species and his anatomy had become metaphors for all things emotionally dangerous, loathsome and untrustworthy. Who needed a big strong shoulder to cry on? I craved pure estrogen!
I felt like the living embodiment of every negative feeling you could think of. Humiliated. Disrespected. Resentful. Worthless. Abandoned. Insecure. Frightened. Suspicious. Untrusting. Guarded. Insignificant. Unloved. Misled. Hurt. Add to that an endless cycle of sadness which turned to anger which turned to hatred and dissatisfaction with everyone, everything, every situation and every experience. How disemboweling to finally arrive at a place of forgiveness only to find out that the depth of deceit ran far deeper than a drunken 1-night stand.
