Love: Realistic or Pessimistic Approach?
I’ve been the pessimist, and it felt good to release all the hurt, jealousy, and fear of loneliness in those moments. The pleasure behind the release, however, was temporary. It started arguments with strangers online, filled my secret blogs with anguish, and made it hard to keep the faith. I became cynical and closed off to protect myself. I’ve been the pessimist, and standing outside in that cliche cold and pouring rain sucks. I became tired of being that negative person. It’s a great way to hide behind how you really feel, cloistered away from other people. It saves you from everything but your inner self. I couldn’t keep it up long enough because I was too sensitive and faithful that love was coming. I wanted company and I needed hope. It’s such a funny thing, seeing as most of my relationships don’t get past two years and it takes forever to find somebody else — but full-on pessimism isn’t my style anymore. Like most things, time provided me the ability to move away from it. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t still happen (my life is always on fire, somehow.), but I am able to step back and see the good in things. I might be in the hole, but I don’t stay there.
Realism, I suppose, is in the middle. The realization of what you have, what may/may not be, and how you’ll live through it. Realism is staying grounded and in tune with the here and now, expecting sensible results concerning the potentials of the future. It sounds absolutely neutral, but I believe that realism can be emotional. I definitely believe you can be both positive and realistic. Realism is complex, fact-based, and usually airtight. Some parts, however, are just flat out blunt. I ran into that bluntness a couple of weeks ago on TikTok.
Yes, TikTok.
I like saying nice and sincere things to people. That’s the naturally sweet side of me who wants to plant seeds of peace and care, so we can all join the flower-crowned love-in at Keukenhof that I’ve created in my mind. It’s easy to be the dark humor, dry-witted little 90s kid I am, but often feels better to potentially give somebody a boost. I don’t expect anything in return for it, but again — trolling and being a butthead for no reason isn’t a good look for a woman in her mid-thirties. It’s usually well-received with rounds of likes and agreement and the world continues to turn. This time, I not only got my like but a dose of direct realism:
“It’s been 20 years. It’s not gonna happen.”
My sensitive side said: “ok, um…ouch? Just wanted to be nice.” Nobody asked me to be nice, though. I took it upon myself to say something nice on their post about feeling sad that they couldn’t have the kind of joy that comes from being loved and having a first-time love. It wasn’t a moment of pity but rather hope. You know, a “hey man it could still happen” kind of moment. I had nothing to say after their response to my comment. They liked the sentiment, I guess, because I got a like from them. The bluntness of their answer made me look at myself — was I being a fool by tending to my own tattered lighthouse of love? My last ship came in 2017 and sunk in October of last year. Other ships passed in the night: some waved, some sped by, and one attempted to dock, but he couldn’t wait long enough for me to meet him by the bay. Others around me seemed as if they didn’t have to work so hard to find love, let alone quickie trades at the market for spices and booty. As long as it took to find that last ship, and as painful as it was to feel like it was time to give up on love altogether, who was I to be faithful that something else was coming?
The honesty stuck with me because my own romantic track record has been trash all along. From failed crushes in middle school, lack of social life in high school, and blatant avoidance in college, my lack of faith in love wasn’t exactly an emo-fueled falsehood. It was a reality I faced for well over a decade and some change. If I ever felt like love was shining down on me, I would usually end up with a guy who either had mama issues or a long list of exes who cheated on them and suddenly I was the test to see if women were worth it. Heaven help me if I failed. When I failed, I quietly shook my fist at the heavens and scolded myself for thinking I was somebody special. I tested fate and fate had to remind me that nobody wanted me. In a heavier, highly negative sense, the comment stuck with me because I believed it too. Yet even as I beat myself up, I couldn’t fully give up on finding love because there was just far too much of it in me to completely close myself off.
I can’t tell that particular person how to feel or whether or not to give up. I like who they are because of how they present themselves online. I do not fully know how they are when the cameras are off. I, just like the rest of their followers, have been given a glimpse into their life for 15+ seconds apiece, filtered and dolled up to catchy music and good entertaining timing. The fact that they’re coming to terms shouldn’t have anything to do with what I’m choosing to do with my life. While I’d like to be the healer Earth Mama with my flower crown and iridescent toga of green flowing in the wind (with Rennaisance painting fabric folds), I am but a lowly little aspiring blogger just trying to get out of the red and make it to my fancy country home in a blue state. I’m trying to figure things out for myself as we speak, sorting through what I want/need, and finally coming to terms with the fact that I’m allowed to be a little choosy for my own mental health when it comes to love. TL;DR — mother has her own fires to put out, and trying to compare my love blues to those of another will not help the process.
That particular TikTok user caught my attention because their loneliness resonated with my own. I’m surrounded by love and constant romance, unable to attain and hold on to my own. I feel like sometimes people either tolerate me or pity me, but am often reminded that my non-romantics love me very much. Familial love keeps me grounded. The spiritual love of kindred souls gives me hope. The desire to share myself with someone who will value me keeps me going, despite the dumpster fire of failures of the past. I choose to have the tiny flame of faith burning in my tattered little lighthouse because there’s still something left. At times, yes, it honestly feels foolish. I make tacky jokes about it all the time. It may very well be the hill I die upon. However, the drive to manifest good love will not allow me to turn my back and close myself off. I feel like I’ll miss the entire world and something great by turning my back on love.
I want to sit on the porch with a huge bucket of sunflower seeds and have a chew-n-spit contest with somebody. I want the rush of getting up to cook for somebody again. (Sue me, a part of me is totally into cooking for my mate!) I want to dress up and go out, share appetizers, and discover something new over rich desserts. I want to introduce them to my chill time and romance 1 and 2 Spotify lists. I want to know what their favorite Prince songs are. I’ll get sexy for my own self, but let me just be vain for a second — I look damn good in the lingerie I pick out, and maybe I want to model that for somebody. I miss raucous laughter at nonsense, the warmth of affection, and the vibes of pop culture exchange. I miss binge-watching and anime sharing. I do a lot of those things alone, and it’s fine — but sometimes “alone” is heavy. The lack of connection and understanding hurts.
It’s a sinking feeling. You’re happy for other people but jealous. Behind the jokes are internal tears. Behind the tears are prayers for better days and something worthwhile. You don’t have to do a million things, but romantic companionship and collaboration with the right person make shopping at Kroger an adventure. Finding somebody who gets why you game so much and appreciates your quirks makes life a little better. Discovering another person and meshing with them is exciting. It’s good to get to know yourself alone, but that’s not the permanent state of being most of us want. There’s solitude to write, peace to enjoy the day, and an escape from the world…and then there is lonely. Sometimes it keeps you up at night. Maybe it follows you all day and makes you pick yourself apart. It can be hard to think of anything else around it, especially when it seems impossible to look ahead. It’s hard to be around so much happiness but have so little of it yourself in certain areas of life.
I don’t want to be in the pity party hole forever, embracing negativity. We sometimes see pessimism as realness, and rudeness for being blunt and direct. For that particular user, I believe they were being honest with themselves. That’s how they see life. For yours truly, I cannot see life without love. It may never happen for me again, and I’ll face that…painfully. I just don’t want the pity party excuses or a sense of false hope. I cannot see into the future and maybe I’m foolish for my mantras, rose quartz rubs, mantras, and more — but I’m hopeful.
This is my realism: my last ex may be my very last, and my journey may have to adjust and continue without romance. I can still get all the things I want in life without another person. The writing, ideas, and ability to network are still within my person. I am not the therapist nor the mystic healer, and I can’t cater to any more men with serious issues concerning their moms or girls of the past. I have feared saying that because it sounds so picky and awful, but those are usually the kinds of men I attract, and they drive me nuts. The weight of being the pure example of greatness falls heavily on my shoulders and back. I FAIL because I get tied up trying to do right by them to dispel myths about women…especially Black women. When they feel I am no better, I become nothing to them. The thrill is gone, the lack of value shows up, and I feel used while crying to What It Is and Tears Dry… over and over. I’m done with being the target because somebody saw my big brown body and curious eyes on a profile page and thought “she’s not like them” and “maybe she can fix…”
My realism: To stop looking for perfection. To stop trying to be perfect. I am full of love and empathy, but also full of messiness like any other human on this planet. My baggage comes from loss and social mistreatment (loss of family but not familial mistreatment), hints of anxiety, and never being cool enough for…well…name it — but I am still a human being looking for a connection. I want to bond, to grow, and elevate. I may not ever get all of what I want, but I have faith that life will give me what I need. Even though I do miss my exes sometimes, I can see where bullets were dodged. I am sure a lot of them laugh about the same thing. I can’t let the failures stop me from loving somebody else, scared as I am. Yes, I’m scared! I hate that things keep failing! I put everything into it, opening my odd self up — and that’s rare. It doesn’t feel good, but I can’t stop wanting to love and be loved.
Although a lot of folks aren’t keen on the endless love-fest of my comments, that will not stop me from posting them. I might not love again, but I won’t give up. It’s easy to be a jerk but better to just…not be, sometimes. I know what it’s like to be made fun of and talked about. I know what it’s like to be attacked. Granted I become a fierce spitfire over certain -isms and -phobias, sometimes all I want to do is spread some good ol’ kosen-rufu and work on myself.
That is why I cannot be a full-time pessimist.
