Twenty-Something

Here's the thing about me: I'm a mom, but I'm also 25. Moreover, I'm a 25-year-old mom in 2022. I'm physically attractive, with a thick accent and a people-pleasing mentality caused by years of mental and physical abuse. This matters because without meaning to, I construct a perfect companion for whoever it is I'm talking to. I nod my head, I grin just wide enough, I take my glasses off at just the right time to reveal the eyeliner I've carefully used to round out my almond shaped eyes in just the right places. Conventionally, I'm attractive. In the ways that count. In the ways that get me laid.

Here's the thing about me: I'm a mom, but I'm also 25. When my son is gone with his father, off on their adventures and arguments and shared meals, I find myself alone. There is something strange about a mother standing in an empty house after years of having it full. There is something misplaced in that wide empty space, and it is her. She is the object that does not belong. And so, with a swivel of her hips, a nod of her head, and a wink of her eye, she dawns her most subtley slutty outfit and heads out. You will find that the majority of young single mothers can be found crowded around a bar talking poorly about their baby daddies who are scattered in the wind, or at home with their children.

I depend on this time to make it through the chaos of my life. As mothers, we often don't get any time to ourselves, a time to be free and ambitious and loud and drunk at a bar. But when we split from our partners, the fathers of our children, we are free to be all of those things. The feeling can be overwhelming at first but eventually, one sinks into a comfortable stride of promiscuity. For me, it was easy. There was never a second thought in my mind when I downloaded Tinder, started swiping on random men and women, and ventured out into the dark world of 2022 dating.

Here's the thing about me: mentally, I am a toxic person. With all of the pent-up rage from my childhood, all of the ache from my previous partner abusing me, and the general hurt and anguish from surviving as a single black mother in eastern Kentucky with no family to speak of, I make for a terrible partner. You would never know this. If you met me, you would think about how wonderful it was to have met someone who really listened to you. You would lean in close to me and become intoxicated off of my attentiveness to you as a person. You would rock back on your heels and wonder when you should kiss me.

This happens a lot. I can see it in their eyes. They are all waiting for someone to pour themselves into. They are all waiting for someone who will take pieces of them and swallow it down, dissolve it into their own stomach acid. They are all looking for someone to take all of their dark pieces and hoard them, but also, to ignore them. I provide them with the false hope that they have found this person. No matter what demons they present to me or shove into my mouth, I accept them with grace and gratitude, and wide concerned eyes, and a soft smile, and a soft touch. The truth of it is, all I want from this person, ever, is sex.

The continued kindness is a way for me to both ensure that I may have this partner again if I enjoy them, but also for me to have a little fun. I enjoy convincing myself that I care for this person. I enjoy driving down the road listening to Taylor Swift and imagining all the different scenarios of us in love. I enjoy the anguish, the heartache, the cycle of my pretending to care and then finding little reasons to suddenly turn this person into the villain of my brain.

If you were to ask me why I'm like this, I'm not quite sure. I go after people who I know will not be interested in who I am as a person because they themselves are so corrupt and unheard that they are desperate to be heard by anyone at all. This helps me to not have to talk about myself. Any time I do bring up my own demons, I make sure they are the especially unpleasant ones. I make sure that I make those around me uncomfortable with the weight of my anguish, which takes care of the problem altogether, because they will begin to detach themselves from me on their own. Problem solved.

I've been at this for about two years now. It is something that has never brought me comfort, or joy. It simply gives me something to focus on other than myself. Besides that, I can't be sure why I keep doing this. It is nice to have sex, but I have become bored of even that recently and no longer crave that sort of intimacy. Maybe the entire rat race that I've created around myself has just dulled all of my senses, melted my brain into some sort of a complacent robot to the motions I've built around myself.

There have been a few hopefuls throughout this time. There have been a few people who I think, oh, this person sees me. But they never really do. They see the facade, the wide set smile, the snort giggle, the pretty makeup, the curly hair. I can't remember the last time a partner asked me about my mother. They never ask me why I sometimes have anxiety attacks when I have to wait to go to the restroom. They don't wonder why I deliberately watch movies to make me cry when I've had a hard time (which I'm suddenly realizing I haven't done in a very long time and am in desperate need of doing).

At the end of the day, I am sad by how easy it is to lure people in to have sex with me, but how difficult it is to get them to hear or see me. They never do see me. They never do hear me. They don't want to. When they do, and they touch that bit of darkness that I reserve just for me, it is too much for them to handle. And so I release them.

Here's the thing about me: I'm 25, and I am unsure if I am someone who is loveable. The past two years have made me sit back and ponder on that more than once. Of course, I do have people in my life that love me. But I do not think that I will ever have a romantic partner in such a way. To be honest, in my core, I have accepted that. There is too much here that is damaged, too much here that is broken. What they can't see is that I am not a broken person anymore. I have built a life for myself that is worth living. I have mended myself. No one sticks around long enough to see that I have patched up all those sharp edges.

Maybe that is apart of the problem. I am someone who is mended. Beneath the facade, the real me is rough and tough. I am dramatic and easily hurt. I am compulsive and quick to charge. I am loud, tilting my head back to bark out my laughter straight up at the ceiling so that it spills over the entire r0om. I am someone who says whatever comes to mind, and can often be roughly masculine with the way I carry myself in public settings. I am someone who is at peace with theirself, but also sometimes I get sad about the way that things went for me. I am someone who needs physical and verbal love- I am a golden retriever waiting at the door for you for a pat on the head.

Ultimately, I do not hope to find someone who will cherish these things about me- because I do. It sometimes makes me sad, but only because of the situations I place myself in. At the end of the day, the shape of who I am as a person is plump like a pear, and sweet as a peach. I am proud of me. I am in love with me. And, here's the thing about me: no one can love me as much as I can.