It may come as a shock, but there are actually people that find what I write to be helpful. Sometimes even empowering or inspiring. As you all know, writing is something that means the world to me, and it’s something that has helped me through almost everything in my life. I’ve written about myself: How deeply I loved my boyfriend, how heartbroken and hurt I was when we broke up. I’ve written about the healing process, how hard it was to move on, how hard it was to be told I was not enough, yet too much all at the same time. I’ve written about the aftermath of that person telling me that, and then witnessing him fall in love with someone who has my name. I’ve written about the fuckboys, and the guys I’ve managed to stay good friends with after we went our separate ways romantically: I wrote about Luke, the sweetest guy that I’ll always be grateful for. I wrote about Tony, the English teacher that I was so enamored by and that I ‘liked’ so much, for I thought he was different and taught me a lot about myself. And then I wrote about how I was strung along for 6 months, and what I had written previously about him was a joke. I wrote about Dale, who referred to himself as ‘Mr. Fucko’, his fuckboy persona. I wrote about how he loved to smoke weed, which made it harder for him to cum, as well as him being one of the biggest fuckboys that I’ve ever encountered, for someone who was a 31 year old ‘man’. I’ve written about swearing how I would never write about a guy I liked, unless it became official. I have kept that promise.
Let me tell you something: When I first wrote about my breakup, I was raw and way too vulnerable. But, aren’t I always? The pain of it was indescribable. Being someone who has depression, who has walked through the deepest and darkest depths of my mind, desperate to do literally anything to get out of it, even dying, there was no comparison. Yes, though they’re both equally as fucking awful, I would pick depression any day over heartbreak. I had my medication and therapists. Though I was numb to the world and everyone around me, I knew it would get better. Even if I went from being really fucking depressed to just depressed, I knew the darkest of days would pass. Now, I am grateful for experiencing my first love, and my first heartbreak: I learned a lot about myself, plus I lost some weight from not being able to eat. HAAAY! So that was an upside. But it took me a really fucking long time, like, longer than I’d like to admit, to be okay and come to terms with it. And right when I did, what happened? He decided that he missed me. He decided that he was now heartbroken because he let me go. It was months of back and forth. I’m sure he’ll take it to the grave and deny it to Colleen 2.0, but he actively tried getting me back. He wanted me to move to LA with him. Fast forward. That was 2015. Here we are, multiple ‘men’ later. Nick was the absolute worst pain that I had ever felt in my entire life. And when he came back into it, just to use me as a safety net and leave, it was another kind of pain. I was mad at myself for letting the same guy break my heart twice. I told myself over and over after every single fuckboy, no one can hurt me as much as I was already hurt. If I got through that, I can get through any guy. I also thought this to be true when my best friend Briana was finally done with her second real boyfriend. I believed it to be true that if she could get through him, literally a demon from hell, she could get through anyone. I was wrong. Sure, the demon made her resilient to others that were controlling, but he was just a demon. None of us were prepared for the Devil. And I’m not saying this to be funny at all. It just goes to show you that any guy you date, no matter how badly he hurts you, it doesn’t mean that when it doesn’t work out with the next guy, it’ll hurt any less. NEWSFLASH! It does not. After Nick, I told myself that now I know what I want and what I don’t want. I don’t want to be with someone long term, just for them to still be unsure of our future together. Actually, this is an interesting thought: when I was newly single, my standards were a lot higher. I remember I talked to this guy Brendan for a couple weeks, and he always blew me off. And eventually I was like, listen dude, I’ve seen my best friends go through this shit, and I’m not trying to deal with that – I don’t deserve it. I think he was taken aback because he didn’t expect it. About a month later, he texted me saying that he missed me and that he would make more of an effort. I think he might be engaged now, but I’m not sure, I don’t FB stalk guys from 2014-2015 anymore.
After that incident, I noticed a pattern. My standards as far as dating goes were thrown out the window. Let’s see. . .after Brendan there was Johnny, who will always be known as the second person I ever slept with, and a fuckboy for saying he didn’t like me, and then texting me months later wanting to ‘hangout’ because my head was the best he’d ever gotten. When I told him to go fuck himself, in a more or less polite manner, he called me an ugly slut. LOL OKAY BITCH. But Johnny was just a fuckboy. He’s now super happy with his girlfriend, and he’ll like my instagram pictures from time to time. He seems like he’s doing okay. He’s not relevant enough to make it to Maria’s shit list. When I think about the people that I actually spent a lot of time with, and talked to all the time, and pretty much dated, or where they talked about how much they liked me and wanted to date me, I can think of about 7. Granted, we all know I accidentally tend to sometimes give blowjobs on the first date (oops), and I’m 100% sure a majority of them said the things they did only because they liked my blowjobs so much. I have been fooled before by many people. Like, they hid that shit well. Like Dale – the actor that looked like he could be a serial killer, but I dug it: Dale was only words, however. He was not made of actions that should have matched what he said. But…the last person I talked to, or, ‘dated’. . . I feel like he deserves an award or something. Because if my best friend Kevin, AKA the person that never wants anything to do with the randoms I meet on tinder, wanted to meet someone, then you know it was different. And it was. He was. And once again, like I always do, I am going to break all the rules of girl code, because, hi, I’m Colleen. This one, you guys, really fucking hurt, actually. Because I have never met someone that was so vocal and communicative with me about what he felt in terms of me and the route we were going. Scratch that, I haven’t since I’ve been single. In over 3 years, no guy has made an effort like that. Which is honestly probably just a reflection of how shitty guys actually are, or at least the ones I’ve dated. He was very considerate, and I had never been as hopeful that something would actually work out in my favor. Now, we all know I overthink, over-analyze, over-everything. So of course me rereading his reasoning for not wanting to see me anymore, just makes me wonder if the last month and a half or so was actually a lie, or if it was legit. I know I’m very naive. However, my intuition with guys is usually good. I can always sense when things are about to end, it’s a gift. But this was out of fucking nowhere. Especially when we had spent the day together less than 48 hours prior. He could very well be reading this post, thinking that I’m insane for thinking or saying what I’m about to say, or writing about it in general, but then I guess his reasoning was accurate. I have not had the feeling of wanting to see someone when I wasn’t with them so badly, in like, forever. I haven’t missed someone when I hadn’t seen them in a while, like, genuinely missed them because I knew they genuinely missed me as well, in like, forever. But now as I’m writing this, that could’ve just been what he said to everyone he dated. Maybe it’s normal for guys to tell the girls they’re dating that they can’t stop thinking about them. Is that true? Have I just dated extra shitty people? Probably. I will say this, as cringeworthy as it is: he did make me happy. And for the first time in ever, I wasn’t worried about whether he felt the same, considering he told me and showed me. So. His reasoning for not wanting to see me anymore was because I liked horror, and I seemed like I was bored when he talked about his interests. Now, listen: I can totally understand those things because I’m an understanding person, and as always, too understanding. However, he knew what I was into when we first started talking. The only time I wanted to watch a horror movie with him was when we watched The Conjuring. Any other horror movie we watched was because he put it on. Maybe because he thought that’s what I wanted all the time. Which, wasn’t the case. And also, I have RBF. I’ve told him that. He’s told me before that he can’t tell if I’m interested in him or not and I’ve told him that it’s just my face, and that I am interested and if I wasn’t, I’d say something. We’ve talked about both of those things before, which was why his reasoning was shitty as fuck and probably not completely honest. He said that because of those things, it made it hard for him to fully connect. Which could’ve been true. However, I once went on a date with a guy, and at the end of the night, he apologized and said that there was just no connection. I respected him for saying that. It doesn’t take a month and a half to realize there’s not a connection. You don’t tell someone you can’t stop thinking about them, holding them and talking with them because they make you feel less stressed 3 days before that you couldn’t fully connect. Damn. I really liked this one. Which I’m mad at myself for, because how many people have I said that about, or said that they were different. But it’s true. He was. He was until he wasn’t. No one had ever taken the time to give me things I’d like, or go out of their way to do so. Not since Nick. Not since Nick have I ever gotten flowers, and if any guy tries to tell you that he doesn’t believe in sending or getting you flowers, leave. Not for the materialistic reason, but the thought. But he got me flowers. He made sure to have my favorite wine whenever I came over. He got me little things that I loved, and tried to make me genuinely feel better when I was upset. Not just the bullshit: I’m sorry. I do miss seeing him. I’m not supposed to say that because it makes me look pathetic, but he played things well and made me feel things I hadn’t felt in over 3 years. However, with guys, the sooner we as women realize that they probably treat every girl the same, the easier it’ll be when you get blindsided.
I know I’m not everyone’s shot of whiskey or favorite beer. Some people like Coors Light, and I’m just not that generic. I’m not light, and crisp, and simple. I don’t just resonate inside of your stomach and inside of your blood hoping that you’ll start to feel something after the 5th one. You should feel something before you’re even halfway done. A lot of guys have taken a sip so carelessly thinking it’s just another domestic. Some spit it out right away, because it’s thicker, more dense, and unlike what they’re used to. Others will keep drinking for a while, just to say they’ve tried something different. But before they’ve even finished, they’re done. I have yet to meet someone to drink in all of me.
I spent a lot of my relationship as well as single life apologizing who who I am as a person. I’m too depressed; too sad; too cold; too open; too honest; too sexual; too naive; too understanding; too weird; too dark; too awful; too serious; just too fucking much.
When I went out with that guy Daniel a while back that left me in the middle of a date, a week or two after I decided to finally get two tattoos that I had wanted, and it was the perfect time to do so: ‘stay weird’, and ‘Love yourself first’ in Latin. I’m not all dark all the time. Yes, I love macabre-esque things and spooky, creepy things. I love horror and fall and crisp, cold air. I’m not girly and cute-sy, nor would I want to be. I’m also not goth, nor do I wear black all the fucking time. I think strange, weird things are cute and interesting. I think disturbing shit can be interesting. I fucking wanted a black cat named Lucifer and I got him. My whole ‘self’ is not for everyone. My kind of strange is not for everyone. And that’s fine. I’m not looking for a guy to be into gothic shit, or horror like me. At the end of the day, at the end of life, I just wanted someone that loved me the way I was, weird and all, with a black diamond white gold engagement ring, and to be okay with skull decor around our house. That doesn’t mean I want to go on a fucking blood and guts crusade. I like awkward, unusual people. People that are different and don’t give a fuck. No one person fits into a distinct category. My room is fucking pink and with a framed poster of Jennifer Love Hewitt, and a framed poster of Carrie Bradshaw for the Sex and the City series premier. There’s also a Jason Vorhees mask hanging from my doorknob, as well as skull shit everywhere. I’m writing this as my black cat is laying on my pink sheets.
I don’t know. Sorry this is completely all over the place. It’s also probably misspelled. It’s just been sitting in my drafts since that person told me that, and I haven’t been able to finish it. I’m not even gonna bother tagging it or promoting it. I just needed to write it out. Something that has always been a part of me, and helps me.