My self-esteem is still pretty much in tatters.  I’m anxious and somewhat depressed, which seems to be just par for the course in my life. I’m remembering now why I’ve avoided relationships and men (or boys, rather) for so long — because they make me fucking miserable. And, unfortunately, I keep finding myself in situations that make me miserable, so there’s no evidence to prove to myself that I could be happy.

I’m so afraid of the future that I can’t even enjoy the present. Basically every single guy I’ve been with has left me for someone else. The relationships may have been happy for months or even years, but eventually they find someone “better.” And I know I’m not gorgeous or thin or cool, but why does every single guy I meet seem to have one foot out the door? If I’m happy to be with a person — despite whatever his flaws or problems might be — why can’t someone feel the same about me? I don’t look at a guy’s superficial qualities or interests or tastes to determine his worth. I base my feelings for him on how I feel when I’m with him, and whatever’s going on in the rest of the world can fuck off because there are only two people in the relationship, not the whole damn world.

I guess I believe that the majority of guys I’m with or like don’t like me because of my outward appearance, although I have no idea if that’s realistic or not. I know the last one left me for the most part (I think) because I wasn’t physically there. I’ve just always felt that the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend was because I was overweight or not pretty enough or not cool or didn’t dress right or was weird. My friends have told me for years that I just don’t go out enough, but I’m so fucked up in the head about myself that that doesn’t sound like a good enough reason.

I also have a history of dating guys with fucking gorgeous ex-girlfriends. These are girls who ended up models, who have gorgeous hair and bodies and faces and lives, and I look like fucking Jabba the Hut in comparison. Not even Jabba the Hut ’cause at least he’s got some fucking character goin’ on in his face. The one adjective I get is “cute.” I am twenty-six years old, and all I can get is “cute.” Like I’m a fucking bunny or Powerpuff girl or something. I’ve gotten a few beautifuls and one or two hots, but usually it’s cute. And who wants cute when you can have gorgeous? Sure, I may be vaguely intelligent and occasionally funny and generous and caring and dedicated and kind, but goddamn it, leave that shit alone because she’s fucking cute.

Anyway. Before this last guy, I was happy with myself. I wasn’t anything I’m not now, but I was still pretty confident in who I was. And I was like that for about a year until he broke up with me. I was okay with myself before he liked me and when he liked me, but when his feelings wavered, it was more than just a rejection — it was like being told that I wasn’t good enough for him or to be in a relationship. For four months, we continued “talking,” meaning that we were still basically emotionally involved, just without the commitment. Even when we were officially dating, I started doing this thing I find myself doing in every single relationship I’ve been in. I started nagging him about how much he liked me, what did he think of me, was there someone else, etc. etc. I knew I was pushing him away by doing it, but my anxiety was so severe that I almost couldn’t stop myself. The only way to lessen my anxiety was to be reassured by him, but, here’s the thing — I was never reassured. No matter what he said or how he said it, it never made one bit of difference as to how I felt. Any relief I got was very, very temporary.

I don’t even know what I wanted to hear. All I know is that no words or commitment could have comforted me. And no guy is ever going to make me feel better about myself in the long run. Compliments are wonderful and amazing things, and declarations of like or love are even better, but they don’t determine my worth or fix me. I’ve intellectually known that all along, but I don’t feel it yet. I just know that there is some part of me from years upon years ago who wanted so desperately to feel love, and I still haven’t learned how to love myself without a man there to back me up. I’ve avoided relationships so I could take care of myself and love myself on my own, but I haven’t learned how to still be okay when someone leaves me or doesn’t give me exactly what I want or need.

But, honestly, I’m pretty okay with myself. I’m pretty okay with my life. And I’m still optimistic, and I still believe that things are the way they are for a reason, and that things will work out when they’re meant to.