This is exactly how I feel.
I hate it when you’ve been really on edge for a while and then you have a breakdown over a little thing and everyone thinks that you’re getting super upset about not washing your hair
I worked my ass off today, per usual. In at 7:30, this morning, out at 6:45pm, when I just couldn’t be there anymore. I started crying before I pulled out of the parking garage.
For the most part, it wasn’t a bad day, either. I just couldn’t anymore though. I cried for the entire 20 minute drive home. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s never enough. How am I never enough?
Funny how people show insecurities in their own special way.
He’s SO passionate about photography, and I love that. DP. That’s what he keeps calling it. He wants to be a DP. Most of the people here are in the industry- primarily photography or lighting techs. A PA or two. I’m chastised for saying, “Oh, you’re a PA?”, which apparently sounds derogatory. It’s news to me. N. Goes around the circle, introducing everyone and telling me what they do.
I use to think that question was so boring. Then again, I was in school at the time, playing a “grown up” at adult parties. I wasn’t doing anything. I was a student. Talking about work and jobs sounded so dull to me. Now, it’s the first question I want to ask. It’s essentially asking “Who are you?”, but it doesn’t sound as pointed. It’s funny… assuming that someone’s job tells you so much. One of my best friends is a CPA. Even if she is amazing at math and numbers, she’s also the bubbliest, sweetest, most outgoing girl I’ve ever met. Not what you’d normally expect of an accountant, but I digress.
He will not take a fucking hint, and I’m over it. Seriously, dude? Most of the time, I reign myself in. I’m flirty without trying, a tease by nature. I don’t want to be too aggressive. Let the guy take the lead. I’m in an extremely short sequined dress. If it slips up one inch, my ass will be on display. Hot pink fishnets, bright blue patent leather heels, and a black/purple wig that everyone keeps thinking is actually my hair.
So we drink and talk. And I catch his eye a few times across the room. How much more obvious could I possibly be without throwing myself at him? “So are you going to take me on a house tour, or what?” I finally say. “You want one?” he says. Starts pointing out the kitchen, the den, the living room… it’s all within sight. We take the stairs and he opens the bedroom door.. This is the part where I find out that he shares a room (FAIL), and we go back downstairs.
I whisper to A. “I really want to just make out with N.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, really?” It’s Halloween and I’m dressed slutty and slightly drunk. I don’t care.
We sit at the bottom of the stairs. Bodies touching. He loops his hand through mine. FINALLY. I rest my head on his shoulder.
He asks me if I want him to walk me to my car. I’m parked a 1/2 mile away, so I agree. Peel off my heels and take a pair of flip-flops out of my purse. I’m clearly not going for classy right now. How was he so oblivious?
I’m on my tippy-toes to kiss him. I feel his hardness pressing against me. My hands touch his scruffy face. He’s cute. Boyishly cute. A little chubby. He isn’t 6’2”, with a sharp jawline, like I typically go for. I think he’s adorable.
He keeps telling me, “You’re so pretty.” And before I leave, “Can I just tell you how hot you looked tonight? I mean, the tights, the dress..” And I find out that he loves costumes and that I totally flashed him earlier in the night. Not sure why he’s telling me this part. “I definitely saw your underwear earlier tonight.” “Oh God. Really?” “I mean, I think so. What color was it?” “Hot pink. Same as the fishnets. Gotta match, you know?”
I’m staring at him, and he keeps making half-smirky faces and asking me, “What?” “Nothing”, I say, or “What yourself?” It hits me a second later. How uncomfortable that’s making me, because it just screams insecurity. We’re standing in the street at 3 in the morning making out; what do you possibly have to be insecure about right now? I hug him and lay my head on his chest. He kisses the top of my head and I want to die at the cuteness of it all.
The messed up part of it all is wondering if the reason I wanted to make out so badly was because my encounter with S. the night before had gotten me all hot and bothered. It’s horrible, but it’s still on my mind. BRB going to go masturbate to
I logged on LinkedIn to see that an old coworker had just gotten a promotion. She’s my age- 25. Typically people are a few years older before they earn the title in question, so I was a bit shocked. Naturally, I proceeded to stalk her profile and compare her years of experience to mine.
No matter that she graduated ahead of me and went straight into advertising, whereas I’ve only been in this field a year. No, now I’m trying to figure out how I can possibly get promoted quicker. Thinking back to HR telling me that I could probably expect a (mini) promotion after six months. Count down to Jan. 8th. If only. I’d die for a promotion.
Something tells me it’ll be easier to get when I’m not so chubby.
-Deleted my OKC profile
-Going on Date #2 with Producer/Sports guy tomorrow night (yay weird schedules to work around). I’ve yet to decide what I think of him, but he seems REALLY interested.
-I don’t think I want to be with anyone right now
-Taking the rest of this
month year to focus on myself
I started crying in therapy this morning. I told her that I wore a dress with short-sleeves to work yesterday- the first time I’ve done so since I started working there a few months ago. All through the summer, I wore a blazer or cardigan or jacket to avoid showing my arms. Talked about the looks of contempt and disgust I felt as I discussed a project with a creative team yesterday.
A 22-year-old intern has been assigned to work with my copywriter. She’s skinny, all angles and bones, and gives me a look of contempt. I see her eyes dart to my legs, my arms, and I hate her. I hate the corners of her mouth turning up in disgust. I hate that my skin is on display for her to critique. I critique it enough as it is. I don’t need to add this to my memory bank. I hate her because I hate myself. She’s merely looking at me the way I would look at my self.
I’m not paying attention to what my psychiatrist is saying. I’m trying to stop crying. I hate crying. “…Dysmorphia”, she says, as I snap back into the conversation. She’s looking at me concerned, an expression of sadness mixed with pain, puzzled as to why I see myself this way. “It’s all in your head. This isn’t reality. You’re paranoid. You have body dysmorphia. You should look that up when you get home.” “I know what dysmorphia is”, I interrupt her.
"You’re a fast thinker. You’re very smart, and I suspect you have a very high IQ. But this needs to stop. You need to stop this. You’re the only one who can."
Nothing but harm will come in the long run, from allowing yourself to be exploited, and it is absolutely NOT in ANY way an empowerment of yourself or any other young women, for you to send across the message that you are to be valued (even by you) more for your sexual appeal than your obvious talent.
The music business doesn’t give a shit about you, or any of us. They will prostitute you for all you are worth, and cleverly make you think its what YOU wanted …
None of the men ogling you give a shit about you either, do not be fooled. Many’s the woman mistook lust for love. If they want you sexually that doesn’t mean they give a fuck about you. All the more true when you unwittingly give the impression you don’t give much of a fuck about yourself…
Yes, I’m suggesting you don’t care for yourself. That has to change. You ought be protected as a precious young lady by anyone in your employ and anyone around you, including you…You are worth more than your body or your sexual appeal… Don’t be under any illusions … ALL of them want you because they’re making money off your youth and your beauty … which they could not do except for the fact your youth makes you blind to the evils of show business. If you have an innocent heart you can’t recognise those who do not.
Don’t think for a moment that any of them give a flying fuck about you. They’re there for the money… we’re there for the music. It has always been that way and it will always be that way. The sooner a young lady gets to know that, the sooner she can be REALLY in control.
—Sinead O’Conner, An Open Letter To Miley
He asked me out on a second date- dinner, later this week. I debated whether to accept or not. He’s cute, sure. But part of me wants to say no, save us both the hassle of going through with all of this for a few weeks before he realizes that the fat and cellulite and jiggle is just too much. That he’s not attracted to me.
I got pretty sad on the drive home, thinking about our potential date. There’s literally no where he (or any other guy) could touch me right now without me wanting to curl up and die. WIthout me feeling self-conscious and horrible, and so, so ugly. Ugly to the point that I don’t deserve male attention or affection. My brain laughing at me, that I could possibly think someone could just “get over” my appearance. It’s disgusting. Repulsive.
I don’t want to be physical with anyone. Someone to hang out with, sure. Grab dinner with, talk to. But I don’t want anyone touching me.
So.. Maybe I don’t want a relationship. I thought I did though. I think I do… Can I have a relationship minus the sex and touching and vulnerability?
The truth is, I don’t see a huge difference between this agency and my last. Sure, this one’s independently owned and the last one was owned by what just became that largest holding company in the industry. You know the main difference I see? Getting $50 deducted from my paycheck every month for parking (even if $125 is subsidized by the company). The extra money my healthcare costs, and the cheaper plan I have, since we don’t have the power of a huge conglomerate behind us.
I didn’t feel like there was a ton of politics. I mean, there was. But not more so than any other place I could go in this field. There will always be tough clients. There will always be “back to the drawing board” and creatives who say they can’t deliver with such a tight turnaround. Such is the life…
I signed up for this.