Trying to Make it On My Own


Photo by Kat Northern Lights Man via Flickr. Used under Creative Commons.

When I was a teenager, I couldn’t wait to be old enough to live on my own. My dad had left just before I turned 14 and a couple years later my mom decided we needed a new start, so we moved to a small town of her choice a four-hour drive away. Unfortunately, I hated that town. This is going to sound really flaky, but I just got a bad, oppressive vibe there. Plus, it was really hard for me to make friends there, and it seemed like all the people my own age who were willing to have anything to do with me when I first moved there were heavy drug users. I drank alcohol, but illegal drugs were not my thing and being around them made me really uncomfortable. Meanwhile, I didn’t have a great relationship with my mom. She yelled a lot and was very critical. It’s like she took pleasure in pointing out things I was doing wrong and ways in which I was at fault for various things.

For example, sometimes my dad would phone and if I was friendly to him, my mom would scream at me, “How can you be so nice to him after the way he’s treated me? I’m the one who’s always been there for you! Where is your loyalty?” So then one time I refused to talk to him, thinking I was showing loyalty to my mom like she wanted. But then she yelled, “How dare you treat your father like that! No matter what he’s done, he’s still your father, and you have no right to disrespect him that way! If you keep doing this he’ll never come back to us!” This is only one of many examples. It was an ongoing pattern in our relationship when I was a teenager. I couldn’t do anything right in her eyes and I got yelled at for every little thing. It was unbearable. I don’t even have words to describe the pain and stress her yelling and criticism caused. Needless to say, home did not feel like an emotionally safe place for me.

I had dropped out of school when I was 14, but I was enrolled in a part-time education program by this point, and through that I got involved in a government-funded employment program for at-risk youth. They got me a summer job in an office, and when summer was over, I was kept on as a part-time employee. I was extremely good at not spending any money back then, so nearly every dime I earned went into my savings account. At 18, having saved up a small nest egg, and with my hours now being drastically cut at work anyway, I moved back to the hometown I desperately missed. Alone.

It never occurred to me that I might not be able to handle it. I had this boundless optimism (which is now long gone), and even though I had already failed at many things, it still never occurred to me that I might suck at life. I just thought anything would be better than living with my mean mom in that town I hated. And I was perfectly willing to work for what I needed. I assumed I was able to do that.

I initially rented a basement suite owned by a family friend. I assumed I would find a job right away, but it turned out to be harder than I thought. Part of the problem was the suite’s inconvenient location and the transportation issues resulting from that. I loved living alone, but seeing how quickly my little nest egg was diminishing just due to basic living expenses, I took a friend (the frenemy I wrote about here) up on her offer to share an apartment with her and her boyfriend. It seemed like a wise decision, as rent would be far cheaper and it was close to all amenities, making my job search much easier (there was no internet in those days; you had to pound the pavement, as they say). It actually went well at first, but then they broke up and my friend moved out.

Now here’s where I made one of my clueless social blunders. It didn’t occur to me that because my friend had moved out, I had to move out too. I liked the apartment and the location, and I got along well (platonically) with her ex-boyfriend. He was a really nice guy. It wasn’t like he had treated her badly; she had just gotten bored with him and wanted to move on, so I didn’t see how it could be a loyalty issue like when I was nice to my dad in spite of him treating my mom badly. But my friend got very angry at me for continuing to live there, and I was utterly clueless as to why. Now in retrospect I can understand that it was highly inappropriate for me to stay there, but I couldn’t see that back then. I was just baffled. I saw that apartment as my home. Why should I have to leave my home because of a decision someone else made? It was bad enough when my parents broke up and I had to go wherever my mom went, but I was an adult and could do what I wanted now, or so I thought. But it understandably led to a huge strain in our friendship.

And then a few months later my friend’s ex-boyfriend moved out too. He couldn’t cook and I certainly wasn’t doing that for him, so he found a room-and-board situation that included meals. And I couldn’t afford to pay the rent on my own, so after a disastrous situation resulting from placing an ad in the paper for a new roommate (which deserves its own post), I ended up having to move anyway.

The next couple years were spent moving from place to place and having roommate after roommate. In total I lived in six different apartments/suites with 9 different roommates. My living situation was a constant source of stress and worry. Some of my roommates were very unpleasant. One of them told me she thought I had a mental illness because I spent so much time in my room, but I was only doing that because being around her was a constant sensory assault.

I wished I could live alone again, but I just couldn’t afford it, even once I had found employment.

I was only able to find minimum-wage jobs (not surprising, given my lack of education). The first one was at McDonalds, where I started working a few weeks after moving in with my friend and her boyfriend, but I only lasted six weeks. The noise and the fast pace were more than I could handle and I ended up having a crying meltdown and getting labelled “emotionally unstable” by my boss, so I quit in a state of overload and humiliation. About a month later I landed a job in a mall bookstore and worked there for about 15 months.

I performed fairly well at the bookstore, despite the stress of dealing with customers, but I had a difficult boss. I got to be good friends with one of my co-workers (whom I’m still friends with to this day), and our boss became very paranoid about the friendship. She accused us of plotting against her (which was a completely false accusation; I wouldn’t know how to plot against someone even if I wanted to, and I have certainly never wanted to) and forbade us to speak to each other. One time, she saw us smiling at each other across the store and demanded to know what we were up to. We were “up to” nothing. We were friends, and we smiled when we saw each other; it was as simple as that.

I have always tended to get sick a lot (mostly bad colds/coughs and nausea/vomiting) when I’m in the workforce, so my choices are to either come in to work sick and get criticized for that, or call in sick a lot, and get criticized for that. During that time, I tended to call in, but then my boss accused me of calling in sick because of hangovers! She even wrote it in my employee record! Again, another completely false accusation. I have never called in sick because of a hangover in my whole life. I did drink socially, but I’ve never been falling-down drunk in my life and I have rarely had anything resembling a hangover. But I guess in her mind, there could be no other explanation for such frequent illnesses. It is odd, I admit, but I have always been this way and nothing I have tried has helped.

The work environment became increasingly tense, and soon the boss had become paranoid about the entire staff. Apparently another staff member overheard her telling someone that she intended to find reasons to fire the entire staff so she could start fresh with a new “uncorrupted” staff. This was because she thought one of the staff members (fortunately not me) was a troublemaker and was poisoning everyone else against her. It was insane; there was nothing like that going on. But she did start firing people one by one and I knew it would happen to me eventually. I dreaded going in there every day, not knowing if that day might be the day. One day I couldn’t take all the stress anymore and I quit. I knew it was unwise, as I had nothing else lined up, but I had reached a breaking point and I knew I would soon be fired anyway. Knowing that potential employers always ask why you left your last job, I knew it would be better to say that I left of my own volition than that I was fired.

In the following weeks, my former boss did indeed fire every last member of staff. In one case, she rummaged through a staff-member’s bag and found a roll of toilet paper, which she then accused her of stealing from the staff bathroom. My close friend was let go with the reason, “The length of time you have now worked here has made you overqualified for the position for which you were originally hired.”

For about three months I desperately tried to find another job, to no avail. Then some awful things happened with my roommate. I had come full circle; this was actually the same person who was my first roommate, the friend who had broken up with her boyfriend and moved out; we had since made up and moved in together again. She said she didn’t want to live alone because she had an ex-boyfriend (not the same one we had lived with) who had been violent with her and was continuing to threaten her, and she thought living with a roommate would offer some level of protection. It didn’t. She ended up getting assaulted by him and I was called to court as a witness (it turns out he had actually been on a bit of a rampage that night, so assaulting her wasn’t the only charge). But having reconciled with him before the court date, she lied in court to protect him and got angry with me for telling the truth. She moved out of our place and in with him (and eventually married him). We had been friends our whole lives but have not spoken to each other since that day. Her choice, not mine. I did not reject friends back then, no matter what, even when I probably should have.

Meanwhile, the guy I was seeing at the time was fast losing interest in me, dashing my hopes for something serious to develop there. A mutual friend he’d confided in told me he had developed feelings for someone else, so I asked him about it. I wasn’t angry (I never got angry about anything back then; it was almost like a weird deficit in my emotional repertoire), but I did want to know. He admitted it was true, but he got angry at the person who told me, which made that person angry at me. I apologized, but she said, “I don’t have time for this juvenile bullshit,” and never spoke to me again.

Emotionally, I hit rock bottom. I had tried and tried to make it on my own. I had been running on adrenaline for two years. I was exhausted, and I was getting physically sicker by the day (probably partly because I couldn’t afford to eat healthy food, or much of anything, really). I’d lost a couple friends, lost my boyfriend, had no job, my money had run out, I couldn’t afford rent on my own, and my mom had been calling me on the phone daily, begging me to move back in with her. I remember just sitting there thinking, okay, what are my options? Everything I had tried had failed, so I narrowed it down to two: I could either kill myself, or I could move back in with my mom. Killing myself would take a certain amount of courage and impetus that I just didn’t have. So I chose the latter. And it felt like a death of sorts anyway.


My Formerly Weird Ways With Guys

Photo by Ani-Bee via Flickr. Used under Creative Commons.

My crushes started in kindergarten, when I first had the opportunity to get to know boys I wasn’t related to. A neighbour boy and I considered each other boyfriend and girlfriend at that age, and there was another boy in our class who said he wanted to marry me someday, but once I got chubby when I was 7, boys didn’t like me anymore. We moved a lot, so I went to a few different elementary schools, and at each school I found a new boy to fixate on, but after age 7 it wasn’t reciprocated.

Around the age of 10, I started getting obsessed with the whole concept of romantic love, taking my crushes to a new level. I started reading romance novels and listening to songs on the radio, mentally grasping on to every lyric that mentioned being in love. I wrote in my diary, “I love Clint,” about a boy in my class, and my mom read it and yelled at me that I was too young to be in love, accused me of fornicating, and threatened to call the boy’s mother. I was mortified. The boy barely knew I existed.

It wasn’t until I was 14 that boys started liking me again. But the only ones I got to go out with were ones who liked me before I liked them. If I liked them first, there was no way they would have come to like me, because I acted like a freakin’ lunatic when I liked a boy. In the book Aspergirls it says, “If she likes a male, she can be extremely, noticeably awkward in her attempts to let him know, e.g. she may stare when she sees him or call him repeatedly. This is because she fixates and doesn’t understand societal gender roles.”  That was me in a nutshell. Despite my introversion and meekness in other aspects of life, when it came to guys I liked, I stared at them, called them, wrote them letters and poems, and made them mixtapes. Sometimes I would even let a friend ask them out on my behalf. That never went well, but it didn’t stop me from trying again with other boys. I was quite the optimist when I was young.

Even if someone had told me I was behaving inappropriately, I probably would not have stopped. I enjoyed my fixations, and I always had the idea (erroneously, I now believe) that if I were meant to be with someone, they wouldn’t mind how obvious  I was. They might even like it. It’s like one of my male relatives says about his wife, “She pursued me and told me we should get married and it didn’t occur to me to argue.” They have now been happily married for over 50 years.

Unfortunately, even the guys who liked me first and whom I did get to go out with, didn’t actually fall in love with me. One boyfriend told me, “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, and I want to love you because you’re so nice, but I don’t. I’ve tried to love you, but I just can’t.”

Another boyfriend never even brought up the word love, but he did tell me once, “I really like you, but I will never understand you.”

I got dumped again and again. I was always the dumpee, never the dumper. When I was with someone, I was extremely loyal. Even though I had many crushes over the years, I really only ever wanted to settle down with one person. If the first guy I’d dated had stayed with me, I would have been happy to stay with that one person my whole life. I didn’t actually want to play the field at all.

I went through a dry spell for about 7 years in my twenties during which no men liked me at all. I was hit on by a couple of women (which really made me question what kind of vibe I was putting out there), but men showed no interest in me whatsoever. I hated being single, and as time went on it became excruciatingly emotionally painful.

The biggest heartbreak of my life was in my twenties over a guy with whom I’d never even been romantically involved. We were friends, and I felt such an affinity with him (he might very well have been on the spectrum himself) that I became convinced we were soul mates who were meant to be together. He was very intelligent, and just talking to him gave me a sort of high. Other people kept telling me that they thought he liked me and that they saw him staring at me when I wasn’t looking, which encouraged my delusion. After a year of friendship, I couldn’t stand it anymore, and when he said some really nice things to me that built up my hopes, I told him I had feelings for him and that I thought we were supposed to be together. He told me he did not feel the same way and if I felt that way he didn’t even want to be friends with me anymore. After yet another year during which we traveled in the same social circles but avoided each other, he started talking to me again, but then I blurted out something that made it obvious I was still fixated on him and he again rejected me and got quite cruel about it. He said I was confused, misguided, and possibly dangerous to him. I was crushed. I lied in bed and couldn’t eat a bite of food for six days. The despair I felt seemed insurmountable. I couldn’t fathom how he could misunderstand me so horrendously. Yes, I was intense and even obsessive, but there wasn’t a dangerous bone in my body. I was, always had been, and still am likely the most harmless person on the planet. When rejected, I don’t get angry or bitter or vengeful, I just get very sad.

It’s only been since I’ve been watching more TV and reading stuff on the internet that I’ve come to truly understand how an intense woman like me can be perceived, and how creepy and even scary we can seem. Not that I believe I ever said or did anything actually scary or stalkerish (I mean, if someone said, “Don’t call me,” I did stop), but I can see how my fixations could have appeared to be leading up to that kind of thing. I feel incredibly embarrassed when I think about how some people must remember me.

I ended up getting married at the age of 31. If it weren’t for the internet, it probably wouldn’t have happened. I met my husband in an online discussion forum. We noticed that we had a lot in common and had similar senses of humour, and we got to know each other without him having to witness all my in-person weirdnesses. By the time we did meet in person, he already knew what I was all about, and apparently wasn’t put off by my quirks. Also, right from the beginning, he pursued me and never stopped pursuing me, so I never had the opportunity to pursue him; he was always getting in touch or making a move before I was. That was the first time that had happened to me and it was the only way it could have worked out for me, I think.

We’ve been happily married for 11 years now. I can’t believe I’ve ended up with someone like him. We’re extremely compatible, and he’s intelligent, educated, kind, funny, and most importantly, a very good, honest, loyal man. I consider him to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I wish I could go back in time and tell my 10-year-old self that I’d have to wait a couple of decades, but it would be worth it.

When I was so miserable being single in my twenties, people told me marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. For me, however, it has been. And despite all my social and emotional deficits, marriage seems to be the one thing I’m good at. So far, anyway.

Edited to add: This post was really hard to write and my face is hot after admitting these things.