I'm not sure if I wrote about this already, but several years ago I developed a height complex. I liked this guy, and he seemed to be my type... and some "friends" of mine knew it and kind of in a very "mean girls" way happened to let me know that he thought I was too short to date. You know the kind of mean, where you can see that glimmer of happiness as they tell you something they know is going to crush you, through the facade of hesitation. "I really didn't want to bring this up, but [it's going to be so fun to say]"...
It's quite embarrassing to admit how much that little incident still haunts me. Before that summer, I had been learning since I came out to love myself. And I had even began to feel comfortable about my body. I had never believed that I would miss a chance with someone because of my height... I'm 5'8".
Which brings me here... 3 years later. More mature, more knowledgeable yet still plagued with a dangerous cocktail of insecurities. Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I still see the boy 6 years ago in Boston... who came home from work at 2 am, looked at himself and cursed his appearance. He called himself names: a fucking runt, ugly piece of shit. Told himself no one would ever love him.
It doesn't make sense to me now, and I don't realize why I would have thought about myself that way and why I still think of me that way sometimes. Maybe I found a set of reasons to explain why I was lonely. And maybe somewhere along the line, I just naturally started attributing my rejections to those things. So everytime I feel even slightly dismissed, my brain immediately goes to my height as the culprit.
Today I went to a sketchy (but fun) sauna and met a guy who in my opinion was beautiful. He was really cute and he seemed interested in me as well. The only problem was that he came with a man in his mid-40's attached, which incidentally is a huge problem. They were a couple who were picking up a third because obviously someone (hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, slap) wasn't doing it for the other person I imagine.
I came home not too long ago feeling dejected... but also realizing an important lesson. That besides for my being too short for some people. There are a hundred more reasons why someone wouldn't like me. Some of them are just repulsive or stupid; others are simply infuriating. And I don't have time to react to all of them, nor do I have the strength to internalize them all and get out of bed in the morning.
I thought to myself as I glanced at him with hopeful eyes. If only I could free you from your shackles. Is it money? I'm not rich but I'm sure I have plenty to make you happy. Is it security? I promise to love you for at least three months. Do you like old, fat and wrinkly? Can't help you there.
Like an idiot, I've been drinking milk for the past three years solely for the hopes of growing another inch or god-willing, two. But I'm 24. It's not going to happen (though I should keep drinking to make sure I don't shrink when I'm older). So I can't keep walking with this crutch of self pity. I can't keep feeling sorry for myself when in reality I have relatively little to feel sorry for.
But what's really interesting is... now that I think about it. Maybe it's not the insecurities that plague me. I'm actually quite confident outside of gay communities. I only get nervous when I'm at a club and I start thinking about all the things will contribute to me not getting laid, or not meeting a boyfriend.
The things is... I kinda stopped believing in love. I don't know how it happened. It just faded away gradually, like your insistence that Santa Claus exists or your belief that your parents were completely in control. You grow up and you realize the truth. But I desperately don't want it to be true.
And that's why I tortured Arthur back in Berkeley. I hadn't had feelings for anyone for a long time at that point... not since the beginning of my first relationship. I wanted him to save me by showing me love still exists. That I could find someone who was wrong in so many ways, and want to give him the world. That things like height, and money, and muscles and popularity didn't matter. That you could break apart into pieces and it wouldn't matter, since they already know what you look like in whole. Because when you're in love, you're drowning in a sea of in inconsequence... and the lack of oxygen feels really, really good.
Damn, I want to believe again.
