Spending My 22nd Year Single
I have filled every empty space in my life with nothing other than the sweet, hot breath of men. They have occupied the spare room in my brain since I was able to look at Johnny and realize not only was he stealing my crayons, but he also has a really cute smile. Since my interest in guys became widespread and vicious, I’ve dated them all—the jock, the drug dealer, the one who hits when he’s drinking, the one who cries after sex. I am well seasoned in the art of men.
The best thing I’ve ever done in this life for myself is get a trauma therapist. We’ll call her “A”: my therapist and also one of my best friends, which she is not aware of and would probably call unhealthy. Anyways, A has been able to take what little I have of my childhood and place the broken pieces into the spaces of my adulthood dysfunction. We have decided—and this is very personal but I am happy and also self-obligated to share this with you—that I use men as a way to a.) disassociate and b.) try and fill the gapes my absent father has left in my life and my soul. I am charming and effective when I allow a man to talk and talk and I sit and “listen” when really I’ve checked out of myself a while back. It is the greatest feeling of numbness to exist for a man who doesn’t notice when I am no longer existing for myself.
Therapists love the word “toolbox”. They’ll say, “Let’s open our toolbox” or “What have we put in your toolbox to help deal with this situation?” or “You cannot just take out your little toolbox and fix him the way you tried to fix your father.” In every man I have dated, I have found my father. Which, by the way, puts me with a very bad track record in the dating scene. I want to take the little bits of my broken parent and fix them within a man I don’t even really know. You can imagine the sting I endure when they leave, and nothing about them has changed. A pattern I have found inescapable my entire life.
So, what do we do with this information A has given us? I am recently twenty-two years old, I just moved into a fresh house with new paint and no ghosts of my dad or the handful of men who tarnished the energy in my last apartment. No, they are not welcome here. I’ve taken this turnover in my life as a sign that I, the never-single girl, will become perpetually and most intentionally single.
“And what will happen if you don’t reach this goal?” A inquired in a recent therapy session. My phone sits next to me on the couch, face-down buzzing Hinge notifications at me.
“Oh, that would be failure in my eyes. You know I hate not reaching goals.”
“I know, and you have to be kind to yourself. You like to set sky-high goals, and you are really hard on yourself when you don’t meet them. No twenty-something year old is going to not date for a year.”
At the time, I was offended by her lack of support- the one person in this life who I pay to validate me is not in my circle this round. But after leaving her room pissed and discouraged, I realized she just knows me better than most people. She knows what makes me tick, and understands that dating has always been the most effective way I numb myself out. Some people choose liquor, some drugs, my vice is a man sitting across the room asking, “So, do you do this often?”
I’ve only been twenty-two for 22 days now, and I still have the dating apps and weird crushes and I fall in love with every stranger I see in the grocery store. Nobody’s perfect.
Strike Out,
Written by: Hanna Bradford
Edited by: Jane Dodge
Graphic by: Gus Gaston
