I Have Forgotten What It Means to Love Myself

by René DuKanth about a year ago in single

And there is no app for that.

I Have Forgotten What It Means to Love Myself

When it comes to the subject of men I’ve found myself incomprehensibly inept. Must come with the territory of so-called “daddy issues.” Where others seem to excel, I remain a floundering fish out of water, bouncing around from man to man hoping that the next will hold the key to the chastity belt around my heart. And yet, it seems that for me, finding love is just out of arm's reach.

Now, if you’re thinking, "who needs a significant other—the only kind of love you need is to love yourself," I would say you’re right. I, for one, am trained in the ways of self-love. Bath bombs, candles, and cucumber water. Long nights with a tub of ice cream and a rom-com marathon. Maybe even a joint, or two. But after years of Lush products and a down payment on Ben & Jerry’s next mansion, you begin to wonder if that empty space in your bed has anything to do with the person looking back at you in the mirror.

You see, when I dig into that well of self-love, now all I can see are the stretch marks and scarring around my waist. The tiniest of pimples just beginning to surface. The bags under my eyes when I even attempt to smile. Because the person in the mirror is an amalgamation of flaws that have obviously deterred my chance at love. My chance at a loving, healthy, relationship. Otherwise, I’d be in one. Right? Because if it wasn’t for this raggedy bitch in the mirror, I’d have my Prince Charming by now.

But I am that raggedy bitch in the mirror.

And Prince Charming is just another Tinder fuccboi that keeps asking me for nudes. Yet, I haven’t blocked him. Because honestly? He’s got a 4-pack and that’s better than the creep with the pet rat that keeps sliding into my DM’s. So, I send 4-pack the nudes and spend the next hour wondering if he liked them.

If I pulled the skin of my waist just tight enough so he doesn’t notice the lines on my hip. If the lighting made my ass look like Nicki or Sarah Jessica Parker. If I’m too black.

Then I spend the following hour crying.

Because he hasn’t responded but he’s opened the message. Because he’s unmatched me without a word. Because the creep with the pet rat just messaged me again, and I sent him a nude without him even asking.

But we all have our moments of weakness. Those days where the world seems to be closing in and there is no air. I just haven’t found the way out of mine and the oxygen is running thin. It has come to the point where I need to stop waiting around for someone else to come save me. Time to remember how to save myself. How to give myself that same feeling of intimacy that I haven’t been able to find in any other person. But therein lies the crux of this issue.

I have forgotten what it means to love myself and there is no app for that.

But, you try to dust off the one thing that you know will make you feel better. Sending messages to that one guy with that good dick, because when you were together it seemed like God herself stopped the whole world just for you. Only to find out that he’s found himself a girlfriend—a fiancée—but he’s down to “still be friends.” And at first, you’re repulsed by the idea because there is no way in hell you can just be “friends”… but you’re so lonely. So desperate for attention, you’re willing to go out with him just to see how he’s been. Then, you drink too much because you’re nervous. After all, this is a man who has put his mouth on every part of your body. Then you walk to his car and somehow, among all of the reminiscings, you end up with tears in your eyes and a mouth full of someone else’s husband. Shit.

Perhaps it’s the whiskey on the rocks.

Perhaps it's genuine remorse.

Perhaps Mercury is still in retrograde.

But you’re still a bitch… and there is no app for that.

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