Always a Dreamer

I’ve always been a dreamer. Thinking about the future is the only thing that ever seems to get me through the present.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of fast cars, big mansions and money falling from the sky. I dreamed of my own bedroom. I dreamed of finally going to Disney. Nantucket. A birthday party just for me.

I daydreamed so badly that I clocked out of my waking life. I would stare into space and imagine myself as Bella Swan or Katniss Everdeen. Hermione. I was slaying metaphorical dragons and kissing vampires. I imagined my mother as Professor Umbridge and her conga line of boyfriend’s as Voldemort. I wondered where my Dad was.

My therapist says my habit is funny in the sense that I had these big, sweeping dreams for myself but I lack the skill of execution. This is true.

However, this habit has truly given me the courage to try new things.

Running

I’ve had this long-term goal of becoming a runner. I did some research, determined I needed new shoes and then I could just get out there and hit the pavement.

Reader, I walked the mile in high school.

I have never ran continuously without wheezing ever in my life. I assumed because I wasn’t humongous and do a lot of cardio that this was a non-issue. I didn’t account for the initial embarrassment of running (you kinda just have to take off and it’s so awkward) and the movement of my body. I tried once for 15 minutes, decided that was enough and have not attempted to do it again.

Circus Camp

When I was a kid, I was in circus camp for a while. It was primarily for low-income kids so my mother dumped me there every summer. They had us try out a bunch of different circus acts — unicycling, stilts, juggling, acrobatics.

I always had a shit attitude because I was horrible at all of it and had an aversion toward embarrassment. The single time I got on stilts, I walked a few inches before I swiftly crashed to the ground. Beyond pissed off, I screamed for someone to take the wraps off my legs. The teenage counselors let me sit there until I dropped the attitude, long wooden sticks strapped to my legs and all.

So I got dumped in Art every year and had the pleasure of designing the set pieces for our production. Despite this, I did like circus camp and after the first year, I was fully convinced I was better than everyone else.

The Star of the Play (Almost)

Sixth grade started. Someone announced a school play and I decided I was the best person for the job. I telepathically let everyone know to not even bother auditioning because they had already found their star. I got up on stage, delivered my lines like the part was already mine and confidently glided off stage. They canceled the school play a few weeks later.

The Singer That Wasn’t

My mother had me convinced for years that I was an amazing singer. It was so bad I’m fully convinced she would have Britney Spears’d me if she had the right connections. I hated singing and she would make me do it in front of family at every given opportunity.

In spite of this, I auditioned to sing the national anthem in elementary school. I went to the music room during lunch, decided I should go first and then proceeded to cry in front of everyone the second she handed me the microphone. My lovely music teacher even let me try again. I got a few words in and then proceeded to cry again. I think I ran from the room from embarrassment.

My Biggest Hype Man

These moments of my life — of sheer humiliation — amounted to nothing but a past moment of hilarity. I’ve tackled boys I’ve had crushes on. I’ve sang Get Back by Demi Lovato on the playscape so everyone would stop and tell me I was a good singer.

My therapist can call it daydreaming, but I’m convinced I am my biggest hype man. If you give me a few minutes, I can convince myself to do anything I put my mind to.

Because at the end of the day, dreaming is just execution’s messy older sister. She’ll embarrass you, hype you up, and still shove you back on stage.

I’ve never been the jealous type in the traditional sense. Objectively, my life is great. I’m chasing my dreams, traveling, and interacting with people I never thought I’d be able to. There’s just one thing I’ve never been good at. And that’s love.

Now, no one is good at love. There are learning curves like most things. But I’ve never actually gotten the opportunity to even be close to being good at it.

Jealousy — while such a complex, external emotion — was something I turned inward. I made it a vessel for self-hate. There’s never been a moment where I thought, I deserve it more. I’ve always told myself that the reason I don’t have it is because I am Fatally Flawed and they are not.

Why are you sharing all of this?
Why not? It’s my story. My pain. And shame can’t survive in sunlight.

Who am I? What do I want from this life? How do I move forward?
If I want to be free, I can’t carry my shame with me. I want to leave it here – in this moment – on this website. Maybe you can come back to it when you need clarity.

I can tell you I’m someone who struggles with trust. Trust in myself and trust in others. Trust that people are honest. Trust that people won’t leave me. And trust in myself to have the courage to decide I deserve more.

My memory has always been faulty. I time my life down to the second — I often avoid what I can’t predict. So when asked, Why not just go on that date? Why not just talk to the person? Try that new cafe?
Well, dear reader, you can’t predict people.

But what you can do is rely on patterns. And as the queen of pattern recognition, a common one emerges: I have never been picked.
There’ve been times I’ve thought maybe this is the moment.
And I was wrong every single time.

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When I was twelve and minding my own business, a boy noticed me for the first time — and alarm bells sounded. He noticed me again. And again.
Alarm bells because mainly, I was extremely confused.

At the time, I don’t recall having friends, and I spent a large portion of school alone. I thought, maybe a friend.

The more he continued to bully me, I assumed he may have had a crush on me. And the potential excited me. Someone — a boy — noticed me for just being myself. And that’s what we all want, right?
To be seen?

All of middle school, I had such a crush on this kid. I friended him on Facebook and he accepted. I tried to message him, and he definitely didn’t answer.

And this confusion, the ambiguity — well, it fuels the soul.
What’s more exciting than proving yourself to someone?

After all, I spent my entire life trying to get my parents to acknowledge my existence. To prove I was worth being the only thing they focused on.

Friends got involved. Situations expanded and shrank.
People underestimate the average twelve-year-old’s ability to gaslight and manipulate.

As I recall the rest of this story, it’s from the perspective of a child — not an adult. At the time, I had one best friend. We were very close, and I felt that she really saw me. When I experienced what can only factually be described as betrayal, I didn’t understand how to navigate it.

This boy, this experience — whatever it was — was so precious to me. An emotionally starved child finally receiving a shred of attention.
And it was promptly ripped right out from underneath me.

My best friend — my only friend — became as close as she could to the boy that I liked. I remember sitting on the bus, waiting to head home. I looked out the window at all the other kids waiting for their buses to pull up the hill. My eyes landed on my best friend and followed her arm… as she rubbed the cheek of the guy I liked.

The guy she knew I liked.
The guy she knew was also my bully (technically) — but I always forget that part, because love is pain or whatever.

At that moment, my bus driver left the parking lot.
The entire twenty-minute ride home, I tried to convince myself that my eyes had deceived me.

Now, I was not a stupid child. If anything, I was too smart for my own good. That cheek graze? That implied they were quite friendly.
I got home and spent hours trying to work up the courage to ask her if she liked him.

Let’s pause: I am a very gracious L-taker. If I lost, I lost. I also don’t beg. I hover and hope they notice, but I don’t beg. So if she won and I wasn’t good enough? Who was I to argue!

Finally, I texted her and asked. I told her it was okay if she did. I probably added that I wasn’t even mad, I just wanted to know.
Of course, she denied it.

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I prefer honesty from people — especially if you think it’ll hurt me. People are owed the truth so they can own their reaction to it.
Now, this lie didn’t confuse me — it was the treatment I got that threw me for a loop.

I’m no martyr, and certainly not a victim. But all I ever did was treat people the way I hoped someone would treat me.
Kindness.
Forgiveness.
Respect.

I spent a large portion of eighth grade feeling like the devil incarnate. Call it hormones or insecurity, but I was so confused.
I went from feeling on top of the world to my best friend acting as though my presence insulted her spirit.
As though no matter what I did, it was never enough.
And I never did anything to deserve that — and I think it’s okay for me to finally say that.

Groups of our friends would go out — and I wouldn’t be invited. I’d see it when a group photo was posted to Instagram. Or when someone mentioned it in Language Arts. I’d walk up to my friends, and she’d ignore me.
I’d try to walk with them in the hallway, and she wouldn’t even look at me.

And to be thirteen and ostracized — well, it broke my heart.

I sobbed to my mom that I didn’t have any more friends, and I wasn’t sure why.

Lack of trust over the years — especially in yourself — makes memory a fragile thing. All I can tell you is how I felt.

We went on our class trip in eighth grade. Everyone fractured into their own groups. It was myself, my best friend, and two mutual friends.

If we’re being frank — I was seriously contemplating suicide for the last few months leading up to that trip. My home life was bad, I had no friends, and I’d been publicly humiliated the year before.

There was a pool. I was insecure and being a massive bitch. I hated myself and my body. And I for damn sure wasn’t undressing to get into a pool (with the added context of being fat-shamed the previous year).

My best friend got mad at me for being mad at myself — and then I was left alone to wallow for the rest of the day. Or I hid in the changing room listening to music until they were gone (I was emo).
I sulked around that place until the bus came to take us home.

Here’s where the story gets interesting — and why this is worth mentioning:

I’m walking back to the bus. She’s either wearing or holding the sweatshirt of the boy I had a crush on. And she’s asking our mutual friend,
What should I do with this? How should I get it back to him?

Of course, my heart all but fell out of my ass.

It’s one thing to not be picked.
It’s another thing entirely to have the one person who knows you best seem to rejoice in your misery.

I was never mad at her.
This just gave me more fuel to take the rage out on myself.

I could abuse and beat the shit out of myself in my head, and every incident became ammunition.

Like a common thread from home — I must’ve done something bad by just existing. I couldn’t do anything right. I wasn’t sure what I did wrong or who I hurt, and no one ever told me.

When you’re so absorbed in the singularity of your own pain, you ignore everyone else’s.

As an adult, I know my best friend was suffering. She had her own pain she was carrying. And if I became the shock absorber for it — then that’s what it was.

I’ve always been someone willing to lay down on the train tracks for those I love. Or the one to stay behind.
And you only ask that they remember you.

I hope I’ve weaved a complex story about memory and trust.
We can’t rely on memory — because it’s our own, and sometimes not based in truth.
But I believe we can relay how something made us feel.
And people can’t debate that — because it belongs to you.

The great thing about the past? Once it happens, it’s gone.
And the great thing about patterns? You can change them.

I deserve kindness — mostly from myself.
And forgiveness.
And trust.
And peace.
So do you.

If this cracked something open in you, good. Me too.
💌 Find more essays like this under Girl on the Verge or Woman on the Cusp.
🌀 Start here if you’re new or just lost and spiraling gently.

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The excavation continues this week on The Rumor Mill.

The emotional blows soften over time. These stories no longer exist in the forefront of my mind - they truly are funny stories I retell to others occasionally.

Subconsciously - that’s another story. These tales reconfigured my hardware and made me into the person I am at this moment. As stories often do. I type as the child me who just wanted someone to agree, That was really mean.

It is important to me to add - I was still a teenager. And I was immature and a raging bitch. So if you read this and think this sounds familiar, sorry in advance.

Sit with me as I take us back in time - ten years ago - to be exact.

As a girl, I had a few simple rules.

1. Be yourself and the good will follow.

2. Never chase anything. (This rule has made me a bit lazy, but more on that later)

The emotionally unavailable typically find me minding my business. And I mean this wholeheartedly. Over the years, I’ve questioned if someone has placed a sticky note on my back.

I do have a habit of handing out emotional intimacy relatively quickly. I can only imagine how it feels to be a teenage boy and the first girl you speak to acts like the sun is shooting out of your ass.

These stories always begin with boys pursuing me quite frantically for friendship. I would turn my head and he would be standing there. He would take my things and have me chase him around to get it back - actually, this reads like bullying.

I was confused and slightly annoyed - until I told my parents and they suggested that he had a crush on me. And I was giddy with excitement. Irritation morphed into infatuation. And when I began to reciprocate, it only deepened our bond and what I felt. I hesitate to call anything love because I don’t believe teenagers have the capacity for it - but it felt pretty close to it at the time.

He had a girlfriend at the time and I sensed she did not like me (rightfully so). We spent a lot of time together and I actively sought out his presence. I would leave my class to walk up a flight of stairs and wave at him from the door. When we shared classes, we would be partners and when class ended, we would wait for each other at the door to walk with each other down the hall. I almost joined debate club after serious convincing. We sat - arms and legs touching - next to each other in study hall.

People broke up - and other friends were chosen. And I don’t want to tell another story of friendship betrayal.

The Girl That Was Picked wasn’t my friend by any means, we just had proximity. But it always felt like an intentional act of sabotage.

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In a true display of dishonesty, I hid behind the idea of principle and friendship. In reality, I was hurt that I had thought this time would be different. And I was hurt that I had let myself be fooled once again.

To go from feeling as though my entire soul was on display, to silence, to denial, to invisibility all over again? It didn’t just hurt. It made me feel like I imagined the entire thing. Like maybe I was never real to begin with.

I was isolated and alone again. My female friends tried to help me through it, but what I had done fractured our friend group. It peaked in a big, emotional blowout fight in our cafeteria. And the raging bitch side of me came out - and he wouldn’t even look at me.

I remember trying to apologize, so at least he wouldn’t hate me. And he outright dismissed me. I felt foolish. Once again, I Ruined Everything and it was unforgivable.

As an adult, I’m more curious about how these experiences can change you. If things had been a clear yes or no, my hurt would have felt justified. But the nuance was subtle and my pain had to be as a result. I wonder what it taught me. What it took from me.

Often, I wonder if the body seeks out the familiar. I existed in a state of impermanence at home, among my family. If I wasn’t immediately in front of someone with my hand extending an offering, I was forgotten. And I was trained to never ask for what I needed.

These dynamics operate on a plane that feels dream-like. Stating - I like you. And I feel like you like me too - makes the dynamic real and ruins the illusion. In a way - I likely wasn’t real in his mind. I liked him a lot and he didn’t have to do anything to earn that.

But now I’m a person that expects you to reciprocate. And that’s a heavy burden for a fifteen-year-old boy to be expected to carry. So I get small doses of puppy love. They poke and prod, run in circles around my feet and when I go to pick them up - they sprint off.

Maybe I’m misremembering. Maybe I’m overemphasizing the importance of this experience. Truly, I don’t think about this much anymore. But with many things of my childhood - I still carry with me the weight of how it felt.

I’ve been terrified for a long time that someone would say:

No, you’re not remembering that correctly.

This is why I want to go beyond My Friends Were Mean To Me.

What lies underneath?

It’s not about heartache and betrayal, but the sleepy, dream-like sadness of adolescence.

I had a crush and a best friend.

And I remember how it made me feel.

And that? That was real.

If this cracked something open in you, good. Me too.
💌 Find more essays like this under Girl on the Verge or Woman on the Cusp.
🌀 Start here if you’re new or just lost and spiraling gently.

When I was a young whipper snapper, I had such a fiery spirit. It took almost nothing to get me going - politics, boys, shitty friends - you name it, I was pissed at it.

Year after year, I seemed to have an abundance of bad friends. To my teenage mind, these people wanted me dead. Perhaps, I was an easy target. I was overweight, a people pleaser with an obvious and desperate need to be liked. I didn’t really understand how to make friends, so I lurked in the periphery and attracted the company of a lot of oddballs.

Being fourteen and fifteen, it always seems like your life is teetering on the edge of mass destruction. Boys would befriend me and I thought they liked me. And then Oh, No They Did Not. I often felt blindsided, but perhaps, I was just blind. And every other time after that, I swore it would be the last time I cared (it never was).

Patterns form - Boy Was Nice To Me, Oh, maybe this one likes me like that. He Liked The Attention and Not You. Rinse. Cry. Redefine my self-worth. Repeat.

As an adult, none of this matters in the Big Picture of my life. Boys lied and I cried. More news at 11.

However, to deny that these instances didn’t completely rewire my brain would be a lie. And a liar I am not.

Twelve-year-old me - unseen and unheard. Extremely shy. Extremely lonely. Volatile home life and emotionally absent mother. Sometimes present father.

Oh, boy - did she have a fire in her belly! Calling people names is unkind. Perhaps being reminded that my weight is why I didn’t have a boyfriend was earned (at twelve, no less). Public humiliation stings, man. Seventh grade is already a pivotal moment of shittiness. A boy I had a crush on telling everyone that I was fat was devastating.

Let’s play a round of what I liked to call: What’s worse?

A. The guy you liked telling you that you didn’t have a boyfriend because you were fat. Thus, confirming your fear. (Ironically, all he dates are obese women now)

B. Your friend becoming best friends with boy from A and swearing up and down that she did not like him and that you are paranoid.

C. Your friend dating the guy she knew you liked and even when you tried to accept your L with grace, she painted you as angry and jealous!

D. Being borderline harassed and followed around because you’re such a great conversationalist but when you show even a shred of interest (god forbid) they Never Saw You That Way.

And then no one ever wants to hear you out. No one can make room for your pain. It can always be Justified or Explained Away. They never Meant It That Way. You’re Overreacting. So the sting gets buried real deep and I kick sand over it. I practice graciousness. Kindness. And I hope time heals all wounds.

This is likely why I always held a special place in my storm for rage.

I love angry, complex female leads. Someone crosses you? Kill em. They harmed your family? Stole from you? Framed you? Kill em!

Beatrix Kiddo, Amy Dunne, Cataleya Restrepo, Furiosa - their rage - I feel it in my bones. I worship the powerful and the feminine because those are things I was never allowed to be. It was always taught that I must be able to forgive. I fantasized of physical fights and screaming matches. I fantasized of vindication - I HAVE A RIGHT TO HATE YOU!

That fire has burnt out over the years. It smolders at best. I just silently collect my resentment, make my notes and update my databases. Standing up for yourself requires a certain level of character I’m not sure I have ever possessed. It’s saying - I am here and I am not afraid.

Maintaining the anger is too much effort, so I let it dissipate. What matters is what exists underneath. And that’s hurt. It’s sadness. Anguish. Confusion. What have I done to deserve the hand I’ve been dealt? Surely, I am Good. I behave. I do what I am told. And yet, I’m punished.

The easiest truth to accept - it is just the way it is. Sometimes bad things happen. Sometimes good. And then you move.

If this cracked something open in you, good. Me too.
💌 Find more essays like this under Girl on the Verge or Woman on the Cusp.
🌀 Start here if you’re new or just lost and spiraling gently.

Yes, I’m joining the musings of the “If you’re ugly and you know it, clap your hands!” brigade on TikTok - not for the bit, but because I haven’t stopped thinking about what it means to grow up waiting for something that never arrived.

If you know me personally — or if we went to high school together — you already know I was morbidly obese for most of it.

I was the Fat Funny Friend. Which meant I didn’t expect to have a prom date (I didn’t). I didn’t expect to have a boyfriend (I didn’t). I didn’t get asked to dances, guys didn’t have crushes on me — you get the idea.

To this day, those things live in a part of my brain I’ve labeled: For the Special and Real People. The Special and Real People are beautiful and picked. They have boyfriends, prom dates and promposals. And I always wished I was one of them.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

And because I was tired of being fat.

I know - “Love yourself!” “Every BODY is beautiful!” “Health at every size!”

For me, I used these ideas as a way to cope with my misery. The funny thing about being fat? You are always so terrified someone is going to find out.

If someone were to stare at me too long, it was like this spotlight: I see you and I know what you are.

I lost the weight. And the loneliness stayed. I saw people bigger than me fall in love every day. And I felt foolish. I lost weight because I thought I would be easier to love. The love didn’t come any faster and I’ve been devastated ever since.

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The mind will go through leaps to make sense of emotional pain.

I’ve ran through a few possibilities:

A. My Badness leaks out of me and I’m the only one who can’t see it. That’s why I don’t have love.

B. I’m still too fat (A bit more realistic. A bit more forgiving).

C. Maybe there’s no divine plan and I just don’t get to experience romantic love. The End.

I run through these scenarios quite frequently. They all involve some form of me sobbing in my bed, car or shower. And then tucking it back into my For Later box and moving on.

Oddly, I think I would be a terrible fucking girlfriend. An even worse wife. I want to do what I want, when I want. I don’t want to be your therapist (I have my own and she’s lovely). I don’t cook. I clean just enough. I don’t care about where you are or what you’re doing. I don’t want to be a stay-at-home mom. I don’t want to raise kids all day. I’m hiring a night nurse. A cook. A housekeeper. And I’m keeping my peace.

My ideal teen love story?

After all, twenty-five is basically sixteen in this economy.

A man loves me more than I love him and he has a career that can pay our rent. I spend all of my money on matcha, maybe a utility bill, and Rhode lip tints.

He listens to me talk about my day, my creative endeavors and what else he can do to make me happy. He tells me about his day and I say “That’s nice, honey” while continuing to scroll TikTok at full volume.

He gives and I take.

Balance, ladies. Balance.

After a while it stops being socially acceptable to “rehash the past,” as they say. But if you were plotting against me in high school - I haven’t forgotten.

Morbidly obese me ain’t forget.

Regular fat me has you on a list.

To the future - hopefully, I shed the residual shame of being fat and learn to enjoy my body and myself as I am. Chasing validation and satisfaction exhausts the mind. Sometimes, we just have to be Good Enough and not Perfect.

And if no one ever writes me a love story - fine. I’m a cynical bitch with an anxiety disorder.

I’ve already spent the last eight years rehearsing my reaction in my head.

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If this cracked something open in you, good. Me too.
💌 Find more essays like this under Girl on the Verge or Woman on the Cusp.
🌀 Start here if you’re new or just lost and spiraling gently.

Alicent Hightower — my beautiful, complex queen.
By the end of season two of House of the Dragon, you hate her — but you can’t help but understand her. Her entire life has been dedicated to the realm and satisfying the demands of her father.

By her 30s, she’s spent years watching her best friend exist outside the confines of the patriarchal system. Alicent is married off to the king and has a litter of children she never wanted, all to fuel her father’s political gain. She becomes a pawn in the Targaryen chess match. And she’s resentful.

So when her son loses an eye (rightfully so) at the hands of Rhaenyra’s children — and her husband still sides with his daughter — Alicent breaks.

The weight of expectations can drown you. I think about my own journey toward selfhood and who I want to be. I’ve decided I’m tired of being the sacrificial lamb.

There has never been a moment in my life where I haven’t been on. I don’t consider myself a relaxed person — in fact, I’m wound so tight I can’t sleep past 9 A.M., or take a midday nap without feeling guilty. Because who am I if I’m not constantly moving? I watch people I know rest and think, You’re awfully content for someone with a list of shit to do.

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I pride myself on being reliable. If someone calls, I come running. I don’t call out of work. I’m the shoulder to cry on, the errand-runner, the one who answers the phone, the one who makes the time. And while I make that effort for others, I’m routinely reminded:

“No one owes you anything.”
You’re not owed love. You’re not owed respect, time, or consideration. (Someone else’s words — not mine.)

Trying to be The Good Daughter, I bury my head and plow ahead. A pattern forms: maybe if I do enough, someone will finally reward me. And I’m a cheap date — a phone call where you ask how my day was would do. But that call rarely comes lately.

So I stew in my loneliness.
I go to work. I think about after work. And for once, I don’t want to leave work. I’ll go to the gym, or I’ll head straight home to wander in circles and contemplate dinner. 8:00 PM rolls around, I take a shower, and then I’m too tired to cook — so I watch Ozark, or stare at my laptop, waiting to put myself out of my misery (by going to bed).

Sometimes, these realizations show up in my relationships as resentment.
But how can I resent people for using me, when I trained them to?

Technically, we both got something from the exchange — they got my labor, and I got their validation.
Whether it’s a friendship, a parent, or something in-between — eventually, it stops being fair.
I’m subconsciously keeping score.
They think we’re even.

✶ this is the start of the relaunch. more to come — slowly, honestly.