Yesterday Gentleman and I were talking about how successful/not successful my dating has been since Noah died. Because my brain is genuinely not at the capacity it used to be I looked at my notes. I showed Gentleman my notes. It’s a really good thing I had positive things to say about him from the get-go because whoops there was my unvarnished opinion of him along with stuff about the other folks I’ve met/been on a date with over the past 16 months.

I keep notes because otherwise I would forget the real names/my blog nicknames. I worry a lot about all the things I am forgetting. My brain is truly not doing so great these days. I’m dropping a lot of important details and that’s kind of scary. I’ve met 15 people. I haven’t made the seks with them all. When I look at these notes what I see is the difference between me hunting now vs. how I hunted in my early 20’s. In my early 20’s I believed that anyone who put up with a date with me was entitled to sex. This round I slept with 9 out of the 15. For me that’s being pretty picky.

What I see when I look at this list is how often I am waving people off quickly when they make my stomach hurt. I’m 100% the sort who gets a stomach ache when I’m anxious. I ended things with men who made me feel unsafe. I am backing away from a woman when she steps too close to rocking the boat of my psychological safety.

I cannot overstate how proud I am of myself. I used to not think I deserved this kind of protection. I used to volunteer myself into all kinds of bad situations then I felt stuck because of a web of insecurity, lack of self worth, and the general impulse to have my life end as soon as possible.

I feel a little sad about it not working out with this woman but that’s how the cookie crumbles. I can’t be a good match with everyone. I write to keep myself company, to explore my brain, to sort my feelings, and because I find it fun. I am not great at sending emails. Apparently I feel significant hostility to the idea that I should duplicate all the explaining I do in my blog in individual emails. I am not going to reexplain myself at great length. If you want to know about me I have literal books on that topic. Expecting me to rewrite it for you means that you expect me to go through a lot of pain.

My hands burn all the time. I shouldn’t type anymore. I really should give it up. I want relationships that I build in the room. I am not interested in a long typing relationship back and forth anymore. They are depleting and exhausting. Frankly, insisting on me rewriting stories for you is not cool. You are saying that I deserve to be in pain because you are too lazy to go through tags on my blog to learn about me.

It’s funny feeling proud of myself for not putting up with entitlement. Looking over my notes makes me feel like I have come a long way. I don’t contort myself into painful shapes for other people now. I insist on taking up the space I need. If someone needs a lot of frequent contact I am a bad choice. If someone can handle intermittent reinforcement and time lapses maybe I can be fun for them.

They also have to be fun for me. They have to make me feel safe. If someone makes me feel unsafe I need to run. I can’t share any kind of intimacy with someone who will work actively to make me feel insecure. I can’t abide that now. I am really proud of myself. I’m not down in the dumps. I’m a bit sad. I was interested in that potential relationship. I entertained the idea of it for a long time. I was excited to find out what could grow there.

I can only grow a relationship inside a container where I feel secure at this point in my life. That’s growing up. That’s how I will make sure I can still parent. I can’t get too upset about failed attempts at dating. It’s life. I have to keep moving. I have to be of good cheer. This is my job. This is my choice. This is my vocation.

I like sex. I will keep pursuing it. I can’t be brought low by a failure in relationships. I have too much to do.