i don’t know what it is. is it a sign of the times? whatever it is, i tend to feel perpetually unsatisfied.
am i alone in this?
it’s funny, if i didn’t set such high, specific goals for myself, maybe i wouldn’t feel this way. maybe i’d be satisfied. but being ‘satisfied’ sounds horrible too. satisfaction sounds like giving up. like getting fat, wearing sweat pants, & watching television… forever. like settling.
but as long as i haven’t met my self-imposed goals, i feel like a failure. i feel incomplete. i feel ‘less than’. and i’m sure as hell not grateful for all that i DO have. as it is: life is great. i am a white girl with bangs in los angeles. aside from getting the least serious form of cancer when i was in my early twenties (thyroid) and being emotionally & physically abused by my parents (hitting, not molesting – but geeze, what was wrong with me? not pretty enough? jkjk)… i have a good life. i’ve always made a living all on my own. i don’t have a rich family to fall back on, so i’ve never had help or a safety net. and i would never think to ask anyone for help.
but i want a lot for myself. i’m not sure if accomplishing those things will even make me happy, but right now, i believe it will… so that’s what i strive for. and if i get those things, and they don’t bring me happiness, i will go from there. yes, i know you’re supposed to be happy with yourself first because no person or thing can complete you or fill a hole inside you. well, except my vaginal hole- but you know what i mean. anyways… for the most part i am happy. but when i am quiet and still; when i am just meant to co exist and be calm with another - it’s hard for me. being in a partnership when i am unsatisfied with myself and terrified of potentially NEVER realizing my goals makes me take it out on my partner – which makes me feel as though i’m better off being alone until i realize my dreams. but that might never happen and then i will be alone forever. i need to learn to co-exist with someone no matter what i’m experiencing. don’t i? idk. i’m so rigid and controlled, and can be really stubborn and a know it all. i even constantly question what type of man i’m most supposed to be with- even when i’m WITH a good one. like a lot of girls, i’m chasing a ghost. someone who may not even exist. this scares me. do i take the imperfect, interesting beauty life places in front of me, and realize that that’s what life is… or do i get caught up in my head and say: i should be this, my life should be that, i should be with the type of man who is a, b, or c. even though i’ve yet to meet that phantom man, or even gel with/be interested in him if i HAVE met him.
aren’t all the answers in me? don’t i control my life’s path? if i need / want to accomplish shit, isn’t that all on me? does it matter who i’m with? will i always be unsatisfied? is this the state of the nation – and by nation, i mean privileged people with no real problems? how dare you. it’s all relative. if you have the time to read a blog or instagram, you can relate to me, possibly. but really, is this feeling of perpetual dissatisfaction a sign of the times? does everything move too fast? do we have too many choices at our fingertips? are we comparing ourselves too much because we have the outlets to watch other people brag and showcase their ‘perfect’ exciting lives… even though, behind closed doors, they’re probably suicidal?
i wonder if there’s more. i’ve been listening to radio shows lately that feature a guy named james van praagh, who says we are all just souls who inhabit a body and we never really die. there is no such thing as dying in fact, we just leave the bodies we inhabit. we leave these space suits. and we are here on this earth because we chose to be; to learn a lesson. sometimes i wonder what my lesson is to learn while i’m here. i don’t meditate. i don’t like yoga- sometimes i do, but for the most part i don’t. i like long quiet walks while i people watch and think thoughts and am in my head. i’ve heard this is a type of walking meditation. i’m a searcher. be it with my writing, via therapy, books, psychics, shamans, clairvoyants, tarot, conversations with strangers young & old, etc. i want to know what’s gonna happen, i want to learn from people, i want to know it’s all gonna be ok, i want to make a dent in this lifetime, i want to be seen and be helpful and be recognized for making a positive difference, i want to make people laugh. i want to feel connected. i want to feel like i belong. i want a lot.
i guess i have to find the happy medium of enjoying life, being happy, being grateful, being in the moment, working, and resting – so i can appreciate the special and amazing things that happen, while always simultaneously continuing to strive for more so i grow and feel like i’m learning something, becoming better, contributing something not even intentionally, just via my trying to understand more and go deeper and because i like what i’m doing. and appreciating the moments as they happen. not always living in the future. a future that might never happen.
i have to stop with the “i’ll be happy when that happens.” “when THAT happens, then i’ll feel like i can have fun/take a trip/do that thing/breathe/feel worthy of existing/feel like i’m good enough/bring something to the table/am no longer invisible/am allowed to exist.”
i’m realizing that it’s the process of being ‘in the doing’ and making of things that brings happiness. building a life and collecting stories that makes for an emotionally satisfying full life experience. a rich life. a fulfilling life. a higher quality of life. i’m even gonna get a cat so i have to put my attention on another living thing outside of myself, so i stop being so self-centered and selfish. i’m gonna go out-of-town without being filled with fear that i might miss a job or people might get mad at me. i’m gonna ground myself. i’m gonna have self-worth. i’m striving for more. a higher quality of life.
this perpetual dissatisfaction is a surefire recipe for depression. and it has to stop. i get so trapped in my head, spiral downward and am missing out on what could be a great life because of all my doom and gloom. things that help me get out of my head are listening to music all the time. listening to it loud. taking baths. taking pride in how i put myself together before i leave the house, and throwing myself into writing/work, always having a book to read or listen to; always be learning and discovering things: be it music, art, people, designers, writers, etc. being inspired or to inspire. be nice. talk to strangers… but not too much and not ALL the time. having boundaries is important & being conscious of the energy you expend on people and things that aren’t good for you or who are not worth your time & could suck you in and drain you.
that list was for me. but it’s for you too if you need it.
i’m just trying to be satisfied.
or at least live somewhere in between satisfied and unsatisfied.
When I read this story, I was shocked/disgusted/angry and immediately felt the need to post it. Please read and share your thoughts in the comment section. Girls, hopefully reading this will remind you to ALWAYS follow your intuition, never be afraid to say no, and to STOP being a people pleaser. But what enraged me even more than Terry was his FEMALE assistant who served as his wing woman, catering to him by exploiting other women and trying to disguise it all as ‘cool’ and ‘fun’ is beyond revolting. But read for yourself. (this coming from a girl who has posted a million of terry richardson’s photos alongside blog posts on this very website. ha! that will change.)
When I was 12 years old, my mother hit pause on the VCR player, stopping the movie we were watching. I’m pretty sure it was starring Ashley Judd, and it could have been A Time to Kill, but all I remember is that whatever it was involved rape. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that when she was 23 years old, she was abducted by a stranger, held captive in the Southern California woods, and brutally raped to within an inch of her life.
From then on, nothing that happened to me was that big a deal. Not a truck driver leaning out his window as I walked to high school, gleefully yelling at me, “I wanna rape that thing, baby!” nor giving a blow job in an alleyway to a boy I didn’t even like nor my eighth-grade homeroom teacher instructing my male classmate to shove his hand up my skirt during a fire drill. Not getting followed to my Cornelia Street doorstep at 19 by a stranger and threatening to call the police while he pressed his erection into my thigh. Not going undercover as an “erotic maid” for an NYU undergrad class, when I wore nothing but a thong and stilettos in front of strange men in their homes to find out if they actually wanted me to clean or if they just cared about getting off (take a wild guess). Not my college professor following me into the women’s restroom in the middle of a lesson to stick his tongue down my throat (same school, different class). Not even my mother’s close friend pinning me to my bed at 16 and telling me, with a hardcover copy of my favorite book in his hands, I was his own version of the namesake character “Lo-li-ta,” as he attempted to penetrate me. None of that was a big enough deal to make into a big deal.
So when Terry Richardson shoved his hardening dick into my face in 2008, when I was 23 years old, it wasn’t anything for me to get too emotional about, either. Only pussies get emotional. I might be a girl who wears lipstick just to check the mail and whines when her high heel breaks and cries when certain things don’t go her way and wants a brand-new dress for every minor occasion and yes, has a pussy, but I would not be a pussy. I would be a “player,” impervious to emotions, too aloof to be vulnerable, too tough to act sensitive, and too cool to admit I sometimes, only sometimes, wanted a boyfriend and not just a one-night stand. I would give blow jobs because I liked giving blow jobs, not because I cared about making guys like me (lie). Because that, from the age of 12 to 27, was my muddled interpretation of feminism. Unfortunately, it didn’t make me impervious to sad, misguided, insecure men.
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When you’re feeling the initial pangs of loss and despair from a break up; when your final texts leading up to it all being over are sending and you’re looking at the bubbles on your phone in anticipation of what he’ll say next… Just know: you were always alone, even when you thought you weren’t, it was just shrouded by a momentary distraction that may have even lasted over 10 years… but you were always alone. You may have learned about yourself, had sex, had good sex, laughed, and shared experiences… but know for sure: you were always alone. The other person may have encouraged you, inspired you, or kept you from getting stuff done. They were a momentary sidekick you had during a fragment of the time you’re spending on this Earth during this lifetime – but you were on your own even then, even though you didn’t realize it. And now you’re alone again, just like you were when you came out of your moms vagina, or removed via c-section, or delivered via stork; Whatever your case may have been. And you’ll be ok. you might even be better.
I was hoping for your subjective older sisterly advice. My name is Zoe, I’m seventeen, and I live in Colorado. I have a good friend of mine who lives in Virginia that may or may not be interested in me. Lately he has said some things to me that lead me to believe that he is. A few nights ago, he called me to catch up, but there were a few nuances to the conversation that might mean something more in the grand scheme of things. He mentioned while he was on the phone with me that he didn’t know if he was single or not and was talking about his girl drama, but I thought it was interesting that he would call me now, when he might be single. I’ve noticed a pattern with him where he barely talks to me, if at all, when he has a girlfriend, which makes me think maybe there’s a reason for that. I don’t know if he initiates that or if his girlfriends do because he tends to date jealous types, but it makes me wonder if he considers me more than a friend. If I was just a friend to him, it shouldn’t matter to his girlfriend or him that he would talk to me. In fairness, I did date him two years ago, but that was long distance. Also, in this conversation, I was telling him my boy drama and he was getting worked up, which reminded me of every other time I’ve told him my guy troubles. Whenever I mention guys that are interested in me to him, he either laughs them off as lame, gets upset and tells me they’re jerks, or, like he did in this conversation, found humor in the situation while simultaneously getting worked up, which turns into him just making fun of these guys. Mind you, he does this even when I am in no way interested in the guy. I used to think it was him being of protective of me because as my friend, he didn’t want to see me get hurt, but I’m starting to think it’s more possessive and out of jealousy.
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