On Being a Wendy
All of my adult life, I’ve fallen for emotionally unavailable men. I won’t even put it in quotes because that’s what it is, plain and simple. I spot the ne’er do wells, the guys our dads are losing sleep over, and I’ve gravitated toward them. Because I’m a fixer.
Before you judge, let me lay it all out. My therapist thinks my adolescence plays a part in this, and she might be right, though I’m stubborn and resistant to the conjecture that events from 24 years ago are still affecting my decisions today.
When I was 12, my mom became a wildly different person almost overnight. I remember writing in my journal during a family vacation in Blowing Rock, North Carolina (because of course I kept a record of every waking moment of my life at that time): “Mom is acting weird. She’s up, then she’s down, she buys a lot of stuff for people she doesn’t know and everyone is talking about it and I don’t know what to do.” I knew something wasn’t right, but who was I to judge?
I was at a friend’s sleepover when the cop car picked her up in front of all of the neighbors in our tiny subdivision. She asked the cop to pull over because she had to go to the bathroom, but he wouldn’t, so she wet herself on the way to being institutionalized for two weeks. Apparently it was a reaction to the diet drug Fen-Phen that sent her into the first manic episode. These details stick with you when you’re young.
Shortly after that, I latched on like a barnacle to my first boyfriend and his family. They took me in like a mongrel puppy and fed me love, and I’ll never forget how much it meant to me. But you can’t feed and take forever, and so these things have to end.
And then I became a Wendy.
I’d like to gloss over the first time, because it nearly killed me. I had to move across the country to get away from it. It was almost 15 years ago, so let’s leave it at that.
And here we are.
The last time I was really and truly single before my recent parting feels like another era in time. The cool kids were already on Facebook and Twitter, I suppose, but there was no Tinder, Twitch, Snapchat, what have you. I think people were still on Myspace, if that gives you an idea. There was a beautiful oblivion in not knowing the goings on of the one who did you wrong other than hearsay or plain old fashioned stalking. An ex-boyfriend from back in the day used to crawl into my window at night to torment me post break up, his shadow rising from the corner behind the couch like Bob from “Twin Peaks”. But now it’s so different. Your suffering is out there for all of the world to see, to comment on, to soak up. Because it’s not happening to them.
I suppose the Internet was created with the noble aspiration of bringing people together, but I tend to disagree. I think it separates, and often humiliates. I’ve been thinking about that word a lot lately as I try to piece myself back together. From the Late Latin humiliatus, past participle of humiliare “to humble,” from humilis “lowly, humble,” literally “on the ground,” from humus “earth”. I think about the power of this word when I’m down on my knees, head hanging over the toilet because I guzzled too much rioja the night before, trying to erase the pictures of my ex and his next best thing that keep swirling around in a frenzy in my head. I’m of the earth right now, all right.
I’ve been wondering what the rate of heartbreak is on any given day. How many people are being gutted as we speak? I’ve always been so insular, marooned in my own little world, and so it’s difficult to imagine thousands of people sharing in a pain that feels so excruciatingly unique at this exact same moment. How do they cope? Do they rally their friends for a round of shit talking over cocktails? Hide under a weighted blanket, clutching the dog and popping Ativan until the anxiety subsides? Maybe they take up an empowering new hobby, like kickboxing, to get that hot revenge body for the inevitable run in. Or perhaps they just lie paralyzed on their couches binge-watching all of the Real Housewives franchise while eating slice after slice of subpar pizza. No judgement here, y’all. I’ve tried them all.
There is a particular cruelty in being dropped for a beautiful, much younger woman by someone who doesn’t deserve either of you in the first place. On the outset, you want to hate her, and you do. You take screenshots of her selfies on Instagram and text them to friends, claiming “Omg she looks like she’s 15 and totally still shops at Hot Topic!” which, to be fair, is probably not far from the truth. You ridicule her for being a fangirl and for falling for his act, because you knew him before he was this person, a self-appointed king of a tiny nerd empire, who as your Mamaw would say, “got too big for his britches.” But truth be told, you were her once. He may not have had much going for him when you met him, but he gave you attention and liked you, and for you (at least at that time), it was more than enough.
I keep reading about women who spend years financially and emotionally supporting the men in their lives only to be abandoned when said men “find” themselves (this usually coincides with some measure of success or boost in self esteem) and are ultimately able to give that better version of themselves to someone younger. We cry and gnash our teeth and internet stalk until we’re ultimately blocked on social media by the smug new couple, and then we’re told by our (very well-meaning ) therapists to read “Women Who Love Too Much.” Who’s gonna write “Men Who Suck at Loving”? Does that exist? If so, send me a copy asap.
It’s a tale as old as time, for sure, and odds are it will continue, until the end of time. I guess all we can do is try to maintain our dignity. I like to conjure the scene from “Valley of the Dolls” when Neely O’Hara gets pushed out of the show by the older and envious Helen Lawson (ironic, huh?): “I’ll leave this stinkin’ show — with dignity!” In the wee hours when that menacing voice in my head starts to taunt me and suck me into a self-doubting anxiety spiral, I counter with the mantra (in Kate Bush’s lovely and comforting voice): “ I call my energy back.” I’ve already spent a fourth of my life trying to fix someone who can’t be fixed, and quite frankly, he doesn’t deserve a second more.
