Hopelessly Devoted to Me
By Cassidy Howard
I was standing at my kitchen sink listening to a podcast while hand-washing dishes, as one does. Living alone has meant that something is almost always playing to fill the silence. As I scrubbed away, only half listening and ruminating over my romantic woes, I heard what would serve as a wake-up call from the show’s host: If life is feeling like a four or five on a scale of one to ten, instead of committing escapism and inserting yourself into somebody else’s reality to reach an easy but unsustainable eight, that’s when it’s most crucial for us to direct our energy into improving our own to a six or seven through continued efforts. This was hard to hear since I’d been somewhat unconsciously inserting myself into others’ realities through situationships as a means of distraction and short-term comfort, which left me feeling like some kind of saintly martyr when the red flags predictably played themselves out — but the truth was I’d been using these people to temporarily numb myself from the discomfort of other, more existential issues. It’s me, hi! I’m the problem, it’s me.
These kinds of epiphanies can be overwhelming, like when I consider how the liberal arts degree I spent a good fraction of my life and thousands of dollars earned working minimum wage jobs to get has, alas, amounted to nothing in this economy. This means I will inevitably have to take out student loans as I am already barely able to cover basic bills if I want to earn a Master’s in hopes of eventually “leveling up,” at least capitalistically. Unlearning the internalized stigmatization of the service industry work I’ve been entrenched in for a decade now is a whole other spiritual battle. One hail-mary solution is the borderline unhinged hope that in the interim, someone might come along and save me based solely on vibes, whether that be in the form of a professional opportunity or romantically. This fantasy — and especially its potential for confluence — immediately lends itself to the dangers of reliance and fear-based decision-making that plague hetero relationships in particular, feeding back into that power structure.
As a girlie who was raised to believe becoming a wife/mother and creating a family is the ultimate goal, it’s easy to see how these issues become entangled for me, as much as I don’t want them to be. I have almost felt guilty about my current solo dolo lifestyle across the country from where I’m from, as I’ve seen the matriarchs I know be praised for selflessness as one of their highest values time and time again. I wonder if I’m seen as selfish for my seemingly minimal obligations, but the fact that trying to maintain my wellness and make sense of the world feels like an immense undertaking most of the time reassures me that it’d be reckless to voluntarily enter a role in which I’d be responsible for anyone else’s well being, at least for now.
When these intrusive ideas creep in, I’ve found myself impulsively reaching for my phone to numb the intensity of the feelings they conjure and maybe even find a quick solution, ironically, in the form of drinks with someone from a dating app who seems inoffensive enough. It’s the perfect double whammy — alcohol as a sedative combined with the dopamine hit of validation from a stranger. Scarier yet to think how many people are doing the exact same thing as me.
My Hinge roster is filled with men who have my dream jobs — a fact that might be funny if it weren’t so frustrating to me. I’m never sure if I want to be them or with them. It feels like divine interference that without fail I gravitate towards these people. One is a writer for an ad agency who pitches zany campaign ideas from the comfort of his well-decorated two-bedroom apartment, travels for work often and is besties with the CEO. Others include a professional photographer/gallery assistant, furniture designer, small publishing house distributor—the list goes on. Some of them have bashfully laughed as they admit they got their gigs through a family friend, or that they “sort of work whenever [they] want to.” I’m not necessarily suggesting they’re undeserving. Good for them.
Unfortunately, it seems to be the most perfect bachelors on paper who bore me to tears. It feels a bit too eerily formulaic for me to be the only missing piece in their hyper-curated world of pour-over coffees, 35mm flicks, and dinner parties with the homies. Fortunately, plenty of them are charming in ways well beyond whatever cachet they think they have to offer. My type, however, has revealed itself to be unavailable dudes who are rough around the edges and have a soft spot only for me until they don’t, or in reality tell on themselves from the beginning until I finally believe them. This, dear reader, is also known as a pattern.
Cut to another domestic scene: Me getting ready in my bathroom mirror listening to a song by Overcoats when I was hit with the lyrics, "What good are these new shoes I bought if I can't leave my room cause he hasn't called? / What use is this good news I got if you turned off your phone and don't care about me?" I was particularly susceptible to this kind of fearful thinking after a year of major change and an unhealthy amount of solitude. In a city of so many, what does any of it matter if no one knows or cares for you? As a femme person, so much of what we do, even for ourselves, is anchored to the gaze of the other. The idea of being the object of male attention sometimes seems to legitimize my very existence as a woman. I’ve always considered myself a hopeless romantic, and an embarrassing percentage of my will to live is fueled by whatever crush I have at the moment. In a more grounded way, I claim love in all its forms, the beauty of experience and the thrill of understanding to be my core values. Romance has often been the vessel for me to chart my progression as a human being and my ability to connect with others in ways that can be completely electrifying.
The trick is channeling this energy into people, places and things where it’s appreciated, nurtured, reflected back. For me, that has meant turning inward and investing in my community through practicing love as a verb for friends, neighbors, coworkers and family. We’re fed many messages culturally (or commercially, rather) about self-love which revolve around rigorous skincare routines or a sort of untouchable heartbreaker persona. While these things can be enjoyable and empowering, the complete truth of self-love is often a lot less glamorous. Most of the time, for me, it simply looks like doing less or being more compassionate toward myself. Some of my dearest companions and teachers on this topic for the past few years have been authors I’ve read — especially Mimi Zhu, bell hooks and Joan Didion. They all posit a way forward in love through radical honesty with ourselves and others amidst the hardship, confusion and grief of living.
In the Grease song “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” the late Olivia Newton-John croons, “I know I'm just a fool who's willing / To sit around and wait for you / But baby, can't you see there's nothing else for me to do? / I'm hopelessly devoted to you.” I’m no longer willing to waste precious time sitting around and waiting for anyone. My answer to these lines would be that there is always a lot else to do. My hurdle right now is breaking out of that mentality myself to figure out which interests and hobbies I might devote myself to.
I always think back to a quote that’s become a mantra of mine which I saw for the first time on Pinterest as a teen, the words printed out on a baby pink mylar balloon floating off into the sunset: “You are what you love, not who loves you.” When we dedicate ourselves to things larger than us, we are living even beyond the present moment in a way. Our worth is no longer validated by how anyone feels about us.
Choosing to be alone with intentionality and sitting in the discomfort of loneliness to see what can be made out of it has been infinitely more rewarding than the alternative. I would love to say that has consistently been the case thanks to my own discipline, but I’m always slipping, and a lot of it has been circumstantial. A new fav soundbite of mine comes from a Julia Fox interview where she says, “Rejection is God’s protection.” I’ve had multiple heartbreaks I prayed would work out that I’m so grateful in hindsight didn’t. Recognizing this scarcity mentality for what it is when it comes to love has meant that I’m done trying to force things that aren’t meant for me (which I maybe didn’t want in the first place). Sometimes we need to be alone with ourselves to recenter and silence the noise to realize where we’re at and who tf we really are.
A dear friend recently suggested that I write out a list of qualities I want and need in a partner and then focus on embodying them, which excited me just as much if not more than the idea of finding that person. It might be boring or lonely or painful at times, but until then I’ll be exploring the magic and madness of being hopelessly devoted to me. ♦