On Bravery

If you haven't read it yet, at least skim my last post, otherwise a lot of this will make  zero sense to you. 

I want to address something important. While I keep hearing that I'm "brave" and "strong" for leaving my ex, I want to speak as a victim about what all of this bravery is, and where it started.

I started out brave. Like I said last time, I knew abuse at an early age. And I came out on top, stayed a good person, even make efforts every day to be that way. Even when it's hard, I try to do the right thing, do right by others, and help decrease Worldsuck, as some* would say. And despite seeing some of the worst of people, even having that aimed at me directly, I continue, to this day, to usually by default expect and see the best from them. 

So I was brave for trying. I've been hurt every time I attempted at even a chance at love before. When I first met  the person I discussed in my last post, I had no intention of letting him in. I had big, thick walls up, with trebuchets and a moat with a big goddamn dragon. I've talked about this before. Obviously, that post was before I met him.

I took a leap of faith, like what I talked about there, when I let him in. I was scared as Hell, but I did it. Because I was brave enough to try again. And you know what? It felt good, at least for a while. I'm reminded of a line from The Nightmare Before Christmas, "Well what the heck, I went and did my best, and my God I really tasted something swell. And for a moment, why I even touched the sky..." There were moments where I was flying, where I thought I'd die I was filled with such joy. I did feel safe, and loved, and beautiful. And I was happy. With myself for having taken a chance, with my situation, with him. And as I said in that last post, at least I was actually loved- I never doubted he loved me, which just made the bad parts hurt more. But I kept on, and hid it from the world, because of that love.

So I was brave in staying. It isn't just that I kept telling myself it (i.e. the abuse**) would never happen to me. I also cared for him, even in the middle of his worst outbursts. That Joan of Ark aspect of me... I know a part of me  wanted to help and save him. He didn't want to be saved, of course, but that didn't matter to me, not until I found my line again. I kept loving him, even though it was often hard. I hoped and prayed that maybe  my love for him would be enough, that he would see the damage he was doing to himself and us and me, and that he would then turn a new leaf, and we'd be happy more, I wouldn't be walking on eggshells.

But my love wasn't enough. I was a saint, but it wasn't enough. I comforted and forgave, but it wasn't enough. Belle was brave when she tamed the Beast; I was brave in trying, in holding him when he fell, in picking him up when he had finished crashing. I was brave for wiping his tears before my own. 

I was brave to start getting my own help. Therapy and mental health issues (not to mention medications for "head stuff") are so stigmatized, it's easy to feel like you're less of a person for going in and seeing a professional. I had known I needed help for a long time. I kept making excuses, but I eventually ran out of them when I was promoted to full time and thus had corporate benefits (as opposed to state). So I started going. And it was (and still is- my counselor is amazing) hard. It was brave for me to open up in that office. About the things that have been haunting me for years, say nothing of the relationship of focus, here. And as I said before, I was hoping I would eventually feel ready to get back in touch with my dad. I think a part of me also hoped that if my ex saw how much I was improving because I had and maintained a self-care plan that was working, he would want that  for himself, too. Naive, I know. 

And no, I wasn't stupid. I just hoped, because I believed in him. I wanted to, I needed to, otherwise what was the point of letting down those walls in the first place? I didn't want that risk I had taken to be for nothing.

I was brave to be as honest as I was with  the friend I talked about in the last post. I kept as much as I could hidden for a long time, but I know most, if not all, of my friends knew things weren't good with my partner and I. I was afraid to tell my friend what was going on, but I did it, trembling and crying. That's bravery. It's strength.

I was brave in telling the ex not to come home. In all of the time we had been together, during all of his tantrums, I had stood up to him maybe half a dozen times before, most of them being on behalf of my dog (because, as said, he would get unnecessarily and unwarentedly*** mean with her when he was grumpy). But I did it, I found my line, set it, and told him exactly what it was. It wasn't a request, I didn't downplay it (with something like, "I know this is going to be  hard/ I'm sorry but..." etc.). And it was so hard to do. My hands were trembling as I sent the text. And my chosen method being text may seem cowardly, but that I did it at all was huge. IS huge. And I knew that if I heard his voice, I would be weak and give in, lose that line, so I texted him. So sue me. That I told him an any way at all I didn't want to see him again that day was a HUGE act of bravery, yes. That's the main one everyone thinks about. But there's more.

I was brave somewhere in the middle there, when he was at the house the second night to get more stuff. At that point, I was still thinking it would be a break. And I was brave in two big ways then. First, when he was saying goodbye to my dog. It was like my heart was breaking again, as if it was possible, watching him kneel there as she gingerly licked his chin. She knew something was wrong, and the way his voice cracked... She's my kid, and he was her Daddy. It was as if I was getting a divorce, and my child was saying goodbye. Involuntarily, I jerked a little bit toward them. In a flash, I saw myself throwing my arms around both and having that be the end of the episode. But I didn't. I grabbed the counter, squeezed it so tight that my hands and forearms were sore the next day, and I didn't move. That was brave.

And then, as he hugged me goodbye, he said, "I've fucked up big time," I said, "Yep, you did. Now fix  it." I was brave for saying that. SO fucking brave. The older me would have taken some of the blame off of him, "No, honey, it's my fault, too, it's not just you." But it WAS all just him. And I knew he wanted that, wanted me to absolve him, at least partially, right there, because that's what I always did. But the difference this time was I saw it for what it was: manipulation. And I was brave for standing my ground in the face of it. It was hard, it hurt like Hell, but he left. No matter how badly I wanted to say it was okay, I didn't, and that's bravery. 

I was brave in finally saying the word "abuse" out loud. I didn't even mean to say it, it just came out, flowed naturally with where I was going when I was on the phone with him. And it clicked. It made sense. It gave me the momentum to be firmer. I was brave in standing by that, too, because of course, while he didn't say much to it then (it was the first day that happeend), he had all sorts of nasty comebacks  later about how I was overdramatizing it, how that wasn't what he was doing, he says  and does those things in anger, that's not abuse. But it is, it was, so I didn't back down, and that was brave. He was yelling at me while I was on the phone with him in my counselor's office (I really wouldn't have survived this without her, too), and I was brave for not letting him gaslight me, change the topic, change the goal posts during that conversation shouting match. 

And I've been brave for not asking his mom (whom I've needed to have some contact with for logistical reasons) or brother (still good friends with him and his girlfriend) where he is, if he's okay. Do I worry for and about him still? Absolutely. But I can't let myself go down that path. And the braver, stronger part of me is protecting the other side of me while she heals. 

But I want to clarify something, too.

I didn't stay out of weakness. I don't think anyone has even remotely implied that, except possibly me, maybe, here and in person. Because while in the middle of being emotionally and psychologically beaten down by my significant other, I became a better version of myself. I improved, against those odds. I do owe a lot of that to getting professional help, but as she told me, she's only helping me tap the resources I already have within me. So little did he know, even as he was wearing me down, I was building up. If that isn't strength, I don't know what is.

Also, it wasn't weakness, the falling for him, falling into his net. Like I said, it was brave to try. Letting someone in, even if that person does end up hurting you (like all the rest, in my case) is brave.

Bravery can mean trying to save something because you thought it was worth it. And yes, it's admitting that thing isn't worth it anymore, giving it its proper name, and letting it go.
Love always comes with a risk. I took it. It got me down, but...

I'm getting better each day, like I said, but I'm not  brave enough to try again yet. I will, sooner or later. I still want a family of my own. I mean, my dog is great and all, but I want a husband and kids and the whole nine yards. Call me a traditionalist, but, well, there it is. 

And it's already brave for me to think about that future. I know I'm not ready to try for it again, no, but even being able to consider it again, in the face of what just happened to me, is brave. And someday, I still want to believe, that bravery will pay off, and I'll get what I want. I know I'm worth it, I know I deserve it, and for fuck's sake, I HAVE EARNED THE SHIT OUT OF A GOOD LIFE. Amirite?

You, right now.

So it'll happen. I'm still swimming through all of the emotions. But I'll take that brave step and open those gates again. 




*Nerdfighters, aw yeah!

**And again, let me say, I was never deliberately physically harmed. Sometimes intimidated, but he never hit me, pulled my hair, nothing like that.

***Totally just made that word up, yo.

"Come Back Down"- Be a Mouse, Not a Fox

In the past, I've used songs to talk about myself, but I keep hearing this "Come Back Down" by Greg Laswell, featuring Sarah Bareillis, at work... and it's an upsetting song to hear. If  you haven't heard it, here's a video:

Catchy, yeah, but listen to those lyrics. They're like the poster child for stigmatization of depression and mental health issues. 

Come on now, your good friends are here waiting this one out

You've gotta come back down (2x)

Look around you, you're the only one dragging this out

You've gotta come back down (2x)

All of your wallowing is unbecoming (2x)

You've gotta take it on your own from here

It's getting pathetic and I'm almost done here

(Repeat previous two lines)

What you set out to kill off has been gone some time now

You've gotta come back down (2x)

Head out any further and you just might forget how

You've gotta come back down (2x)

You've gotta take it on your own from here

It's getting pathetic and I'm almost done here

You've gotta take it on your own from here

It's getting pathetic and I'm almost done here

LOTS OF REPETITION

I mean okay, this song really only  has eight individual lines, half of which are repeated so many times they make up all but four lines sung in total... So it's not all that, um, creative or lyrically complex. But the message it sends is pretty terrible.

On its own, the song seems to be about a person that can't seem to be positive enough to satisfy the singer. We'll call her Nancy, and the singer, she  can be Pam. Pam is telling Nancy that she's so tired of Nancy being depressed, she's pretty much done being her friend. Pam goes so far as to drag their other friends into it, too, by saying they're "all waiting this one out." The implication is that everybody else is doing  just fine, so unless Nancy picks herself up from her bootstraps and gets her shit together, she (Nancy) will have nobody left. There's an insinuation about a rabbit hole of sorts ("Head out any further and you might just forget how"), as if to say that if Nancy isn't careful, this cycle of "wallowing" and  "unbecoming" state will be all she knows.

More broadly speaking, this relates directly to what I said before about mental health stigmatization in the US. An example, straight out of the pop charts. The whole song blames the person it's directed toward for what they're going through, rather than trying to understand, let alone be supportive. It's accusatory, not nurturing. Everything this person  "says" in this song is the opposite of what you should say if someone you care about (or at least profess to care about) is experiencing mental and/or emotional health difficulties.

Instead of focusing on the capitalistic dogma embedded here, I'm instead going to go at this from the "what to do" angle. And this starts with understanding and perspective. I think that even if we have our own bits of depression, anxiety, etc., it's still nigh impossible for us to fathom it when someone else has it in severe amounts. The dehabilitating nature of mental health difficulties is just... foreign to most people that haven't experienced them  personally. A picture went around Facebook a while back that I think does a lovely job demonstrating this, and I'll embed it next (and yeah, I got it from here): 

I was considering making it one of my little footnotes, but no, I actually think there's something worth discussing in detail about this picture. Originally, I said, "Pedantic arguments over the species of the animals involved aside," but the truth is, I think those arguments are just as demonstrative of the problem as the way  the fox treats the owl in the first place. See, in every. Single. Place. I saw this image, the fact that an owl would be able to fly over the wall because, well, it's an owl, came up in the comments. The picture would "make more sense" or "have more credibility" if the species were reversed or at least if both were flightless. And I think this is important because it shows how most people are so quick to tear apart and delegitemize any explanation from a person with depression or anxiety when what they're dealing with becomes big enough to enter into their interpersonal relationships. There  isn't even an attempt to understand, but instead just harping on what's subjectively problematic about it in order to dismiss the whole thing, and undertones of accusation and blame, irresponsibility and selfishness. "It shouldn't be an owl," is the  equivalent of, "I didn't run into any walls on my way over here," and not much better than, "Excuses, excuses, excuses."

And I actually think having an owl unable to get over a wall is more powerful than if the owl was a fox or a squirrel or another fleet-footed fuzzy*. Because that's what anxiety, depression, and other mental health conditions can do to a person. There are days when a person just cannot get out of bed, and it literally takes something happening around them to get them to move; or other days, knowing staying put would affect someone else great enough is what it takes. And I know people reading this blog have felt that way before. I've felt that way before. When it gets bad enough, sometimes it's hard to move, even if you want to. Even if you want to get up so badly it hurts, you just can't. And explaining it is hard because it's what you've lived with and felt, and it's like explaining to someone that has never tasted any sort of dairy product what eating Gorgonzola is like, taste- and texture-wise. 

So no, the owl shouldn't be a different species. 

The graphic may be about anxiety specifically, but the way that whole thing plays out is exactly what it's like for people with any sort of emotional or mental health difficulties. I'd say the fox is the more common person to encounter, and the mouse is that one rare friend or family member that doesn't judge and doesn't even ask a lot of questions... but just is there, for and in whatever capacity the owl (i.e. the person having trouble) needs.

Here's the thing: I just said explaining the pain is hard, nigh impossible a lot of times. So then trying to force the person to talk to you, even if all you're trying to do is help, very well could make things worse. I've talked before about comforting someone that's sad or going through a rough patch. When you know the friend/lover/family member in need sometimes has debilitating episodes of depression or anxiety, even more gentility is required, though. I really like how the mouse in the image says just enough to demonstrate they know what's going on but doesn't push for details- details aren't and shouldn't be  necessary for comforting someone. Pushing for details is likely to just cause more stress and upset for them, because you've never had a glass of milk and would have no idea what the fuck cheese is like, and trying to find the words to describe it to you would exhaust the person more than they're already exhausted.

Because depression is exhausting. 

And the mouse apologizes, not because they had a hand in putting that wall there, but, as a dear friend of mine says to me about my life when yet another thing goes wrong, "I'm sorry. That's the apology the universe refuses to give to you." You can be sorry without being guilty, and without pity, feeling sorry for them in a degrading way. It's called empathy. Showing empathy is the best thing you can possibly do. I wish more people could practice empathy without sounding like they feel sorry for the person. I don't know if it can be taught once you're past a certain age, and I honestly don't know how much of my copious amounts of it are nature versus nurture. I wish I could create a five-ish step process on learning to be an  empath like me, but at best, all I can come up with is it's something you learn by experience. But regardless, it's empathy that helps someone that's depressed, not pity, and certainly not judgment. 

The tricky thing is knowing the person you're with. Like with any situation where someone may need comforting, you need to understand that person, sometimes better than they  understand theirself. You may need to know them well enough to be aware that even if they say they don't need a hug, they do. That even if they say one thing, what they really need is another. You have to be strong enough for them to tell them what they  need to hear, not just what they want to hear- and that requires knowing, and a delicate dance on a tight wire. The whole interaction is that, really.

And when I use that analogy, understand I'm not saying anything poorly about a person with depression. Rather, I'm saying (as they themselves know), the whole situation is pretty gorram shitty, and their vulnerability could lead to misunderstandings on either end, and even a person trying not to be  a fox may still come across as at least somewhat canine.

That's why the mouse is perfect. It doesn't even really need to ask what happened, it knows the owl well enough to know what's going on. It doesn't pass any judgment, just says enough matter-of-fact like to demonstrate everything to the owl. The simple act of being there is what matters. And, speaking from experience, from being on both ends, having a mouse in your life is sometimes one of the few things worth fighting for, even when you're ready to give up on yourself. 

And don't believe people when they say depression, anxiety- or even suicide is "selfish." When you're in that much pain, it's not about overtly putting yourself over others, it's about, well, being in pain, damnit. You can't solve math equations while having your fingernails pulled out, unless you're, like, Jason Bourne or something. If you you had an artery squirting all over the place, you wouldn't be begrudged for taking a towel someone  else was using to clean up the blood and instead pressing  it against the wound- better to stop the blood from gushing, even if the carpet gets a little stained.

Frankly, I think it's selfish to accuse people that are depressed of being selfish. Because that says you're more concerned about how their pain will affect you than how it's affecting them. Sure, it's okay for you to be sad or upset you don't see them or whatever, but accusing  them of being selfish implies they've ignored you, either deliberately or because they're self-centered or narcissistic. And that's hogwash. It's not narcissistic to want to stop being in pain. It's human nature. 

I'm not saying avoid people that are depressed. A lot of the time, being with people is the best medicine. What I am saying, though, is that if their depression starts to become prohibitive for them, don't act like they're doing it on purpose. Don't act like they have any choice in the matter. Just be there for them. Remind them they can ask anything of you, and provide it when they do.

I'm going to end  with  another image from that Boggle site. Boggle the  owl is doing the talking, here, so it's not the mouse anymore, but the caption here is perfect for the sorts of things a body should say  if they really want to help someone. 

*And  if you look at other graphics on the site, you see the owl's ability to fly being more directly addressed, such as the image of the owl saying it prefers stairs to flying up into its tree.

On Love and Toilet Paper

In January, I got some new neighbors upstairs. I haven't actually talked to them, but it was apparent they're a heterosexual couple because I saw them kiss while the woman was holding a box she was about to bring inside on their move-in day. The first twoish weeks they were here, I didn't think much else of them, except that one of their cars was in the disabled space from that first day until I finally left that note (and I'm happy to report, they still haven't parked there since, huzzah!).

Some afternoon very close to that day, I was home with River (my dog, for those unfamiliar) and reading with some music playing softly in the background. She lifted her head from my lap and looked up at the ceiling with that well-known dog-head-turn thing, so I asked  her  what was wrong. She then stood, still on the couch (and me, ugh), and pointed her nose, grunting a little at the ceiling. I paused the music and listened. And there was a weird sound coming from the general up-and-over direction that leads towards our balcony. It was kind of like an, "Oooorgh, oooorgh," and not entirely to a rhythm or beat, so I scratched River's head and said, "Honey, that's just pigeons." Because we do get  a lot of them outside sometimes (the floor of the balcony gets covered in poop when there's no snow, ew), and it did sound pretty much like pigeon cooing.

I didn't turn the music back up, so when the sound got louder and more rhythmic, it was also clearer. And  instead of sounding like cooing pigeons, it was... well... a woman moaning in pleasure. Add to it the fact that every now and then, a louder, somewhat surprised and still female human sound  was coupled with the sound of a bed/mattress being pressed hard...

And it occurred  to me that this  was not the first time I'd heard it around that time of day. I thought back, and realized that every afternoon I had been home with River between 2 and 4pm, I had heard those same sounds and mistook them for pigeons because I was usually watching Netflix, and with the sound of the TV, the woman's moans of satisfaction were muffled, just as they  had been while I was reading with the music on in the background.

So then it sort of became a game for me- if I was home, I'd keep the TV or music soft enough to tell when they started, and then I'd turn it up once I took mental note of the time; I soon extended the window of Happy Time from 2-5 instead as a result. But there's definitely no mistaking it now, especially given how I've since also heard the man grunting along with her and saying some rather... mature... things about her taking  what he has and how good her p***y feels. Ahem. I can usually ignore it and not give a damn, but sometimes they get, like, way loud, and there's slamming and it sounds  like something is about to break (whether it's the woman or their bed or even both), and at that point, River usually starts to get anxious- she paces and whines, and, well, then I'm kinda like...

... so I do something like take River outside and/or  turn  up the TV or laptop. She still sometimes looks up at the ceiling, cocking (hah)  her head in curiosity, but she usually does okay when they aren't talking dirty (or at least when the words are indistinguishable). But it's obvious she hears it still. And it's the weirdest when she looks at me for an explanation. And this raises a fundamental question:

How does one explain sex to their dog?

But  seriously, I bring this up because recall that the first and main impression I had of this couple was them kissing until I realized they're also the Sex Champs. So it seems like, damn, they're adorable, have lots of sex... they must have a pretty good relationship, right?*

Well, on Thursday night last week, I got home from teaching, and before taking my coat off, I took River outside to do her stuff. When we were coming back in the building, I could hear shouting. Two voices, man and woman.

Ruh roh, some people are fighting, River, it's okay.

As we went up the stairs, I realized it was coming from... this Sex Champs.

And it's not like I think people that have lots of sex don't fight, but it just surprised me- I've heard the family downstairs fighting  before, so to have it come from somewhere else, and from this particular couple threw me off-guard.

And  the fighting was, not surprisingly, much louder than the sex, even when they get hot-and-heavy enough for me to need to distract myself and River. And while I was changing clothes and trying to set myself up for the  night, I didn't have any TV or music in the background, so I could hear them very clearly.

And they were fighting about money. It didn't surprise me in the least, but it was upsetting. 

And you know what? I was sad at first, and  then angry. Angry because while I'm not naive enough to think all this couple ever fights about is money, it pissed me off that the first time I'm aware they've done anything but fuck each others' brains out, they were instead screaming their heads off over their finances. 

Stupid gorram money.

And to add to the mix, I went to the grocery store Wednesday afternoon, and there was a couple arguing in the parking lot right outside my door. About money. 

Happy Valentine's day, America. THIS, is  the true meaning  of Valentine's Day, consumerism and a strangling capitalist structure: 

If you look at studies or help websites, dating sites  or news outlets, demographic-targeted and even finance websites, looking to figure out what people in relationships fight over, money is always in the top 10. And this isn't to say it's the only source of the problems the couple may be having, nor that if their money problems went away, all other ones would, too.

But speaking from experience, growing up in a low-income household, I can say this, being short on money makes other problems more intense, exacerbates them. And disputes over what to do with what money is there leak their way  into all sorts of stuff.    

"Money doesn't buy happiness."

Not  entirely. But I think it's bullshit if you don't at least admit it makes happiness easier. Or if not happiness, contentment. In relationships, with oneself, in life in general. It's Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, people. Visual aid, in case you're unfamiliar:

From the Wiki article, hyperlinked above.

I'm going to push a pseudo-anthropological argument,  here. I think we get so worked up over money because the capitalist setup creates a need for products to survive. We've evolved with the basic instinct to fulfill these needs, and there are certain things needed  in order to do that- but those things have been commoditized and turned into products. We must be able to purchase the necessities- we cannot go and get them ourselves. Even the basics of food, water, and shelter are commoditized. So financial troubles hit at what is basically the carnal need to survive, because we know, and probably not all that deep within our brains, that nothing in this world is free.

Hell, even our poops have a price on them- I've known people that don't conserve flushes out of environmentally conscious practices, but because every flush not flushed meant a few less pennies on the water bill. 

Or, still on the toilets, are you in a relationship? If so, has there ever been a dispute over how fancy the TP needs to be? I've overheard friends in heterosexual relationships get into arguments about this, and I would usually end up buying fancy TP for my mom and siblings when I visited the family before my parents got a divorce. Why? Because the woman  in the relationship wants nicer and thus more expensive toilet paper, and the man doesn't think it's a necessary expenditure. I myself yelled at my dad once that I wasn't sorry for "undermining" him by buying toilet paper that "wouldn't get stuck up my vagina."** 

Dark comedy, but it's for real. I, as a woman that has a hoo-hah to wipe, must spend more than a man would want to on what, yes, I completely  understand, is a first-world "luxury." But excuse me uber-hippies, I can't help it that I was born into a society that wipes and flushes. That's my personal baseline. I'm not ungrateful for that, but my point is that in order to take care of the primal need to take a gorram piss, I have to consider the cost.

So what do I do? I buy fancy TP and get cheap paper towels. Paper towels, those go on counters and mirrors. Toilet paper? It goes where only I go (which is why it's Valentine's Day and I'm writing about someone else's sex life and what goes on in my bathroom, and why  I've never experienced this fight whilst in my own relationship). 

I'm not saying all men use the kind of garbage you find in stadium restrooms. But what I= am saying is that the root over the Great Toilet Paper Debate isn't really the quality, it's the cost. The dude wants the cheaper one, not because he prefers to wipe his ass and the tip of his dick with a copper scrubber, nor because he wants to passive-aggressively mess with his significant other, but because since stadium-"quality" is cheaper, and maybe his ass-wiping technique is good enough, he doesn't think it's necessary to spend the extra money on something more like this, my TP of Choice:

And now you know far more
about my hoo-hah than anyone else,
save my OBGYN.

I probably seem off-point, but this is an example. 

Fights about toilet paper aren't about toilet paper. They're about finances. The roots of a lot of "issues" couples face are made of money.

I'm not trying to say I think I'd be doing more than sitting on my couch with my dog on Vanentine's Day if I were richer. But I do know for a fact I'd be less stressed if I either had more money, or if money didn't control everything I did, from what I ate to how I take a shit.

I have a friend (one of my dearest, closest friends) in a long-distance-relationship, and he told me yesterday that he was sad because he won't be able to do as many fun/romantic things with his girlfriend this weekend as he would like. His girlfriend he's spending like $100 in gas alone to visit. So it's prolly obvious: He can't do more because he doesn't have the money to do so. And he feels bad for this, as if it's something he has control over (he really doesn't- dude has two jobs, for fuck's sake).

Or my roommate, she spent her first Valentine's Day as a married woman away from her husband. Because they couldn't afford for him to take  the time off and fly out to visit, or vice-versa. They cooked the same meal and watched something together over Skype, but I was so upset for her over that. God, just remembering it now makes my eyes get hot and watery. 

Also, I lost count of how many friends in relationships that asked  me what to get for their S.O.s last year. Ones  that didn't follow my advice went  in a different direction because they couldn't afford what I suggested, and all of those people expressed to me regret that they couldn't afford more. With the others, I was extra-careful to try to think  of something cheap for them, and a few of them even asked for "something  cheap" when consulting me. 

If I ever did (or finally do) have someone special in my life on Valentine's Day, just seeing the stress and upset all of the buying or being unable to buy has caused my friends over the years, I'd insist he only spend time with me- a cuddle-or-more session would be plenty. 

Because there shouldn't be a price tag on love. But there pretty much is in modern society, and it pisses me off. The times I was dumb enough to think a dude was into me, I was a cheap date. It doesn't take much to impress me, just kindness, respect, and attention/affection. Because I don't think what you buy someone is a good measure of how much you love them. What matters is effort, sincerity, loyalty, gentility, patience. 

And I hope that, again, if it happens, my guy and I will be able to get past the money problems by being as responsible as possible, not taking financial things we can't control out on one another, and being open about any worries we have before they turn into fights. I think it's possible for love to beat out the Money Monster, but it's probably really fucking hard to do.

EPILOGUE

That couple above me? Totally having sex. Right the fuck now. They're FUCKING out the Money  Monster...

*I have a friend that suggested it's because one is  cheating. That totally poops on the entire point  of this post, but I'm acknowledging that thesis because it's a legit one that I hadn't thought of before because I'm a romantic and want to assume it's a couple in love having lots of amazing sex. 

**When I visited Mom for the first time since the divorce, I commented positively on the quality of the toilet tissue in the bathroom. She said, "Well, your Dad isn't around to buy sandpaper anymore." "It's the little things," I said back.