Tag Archives: self worth

Happy International Woman’s Day to a Me Still Craving Male Affirmation

8 Mar

I’m having such a blah day. The landlord to that house I want isn’t sending me the contract and I’m beginning to worry there might be something fishy going on there. I’m dying to move, but I need to let the daycare know what’s up in two days, and I’m not sure things will be final by then, or ever…

To make things worse my Boy is sick again, for the fourth time this month. High fever, not planning on going to daycare tomorrow. So mommy has to miss work, AGAIN.

And then there’s the other thing. It’s no secret that one of our most basic needs as human beings is to be touched, and it’s been really long. This sex deprivation is making me agitated in an already agitating situation. Bad for my health. And there’s not much I can do about it. I have no life, it’s all work and motherhood, and by the time I get a night off, I’m usually too tired to do anything. Then I finally get a break and my boy is healthy for an entire week, and he goes to his dad, and I go out drinking and meet a creepy weirdo who doesn’t get a hint.

My ego has really taking a blow lately. I feel unattractive, unsuccessful. Even if rationally I know I’m doing well, I feel like a failure nonetheless. And in this pool of self-pity that I’ve sort of let myself sink into today, there seems to be only one thing that can drag me out: male attention. Affirmation that does not come from within. I just really need someone to think that I’m cool right now, and that someone has to have a penis and a nice smile.

I’ve come a long way this year, but here’s something that hasn’t changed a bit: I still don’t think I’m worth a dime if I’m not constantly told I am by others.


It’s not you, it’s me.

5 Jul

It’s not you it’s me.

It’s not who you are. It’s not your sweetness or your intelligence, or your sensitivity. It’s not your looks, or how good you are in bed. It’s not your gorgeous red curls. It’s not your naive perspective of life. It’s not your ideology. It’s not your crushing arms and the way they used to hold me. It’s not the way you started it. It’s not the way you ended it. It’s not your response to my text telling me to let go.

It’s not you, it’s me. It’s my self doubts. It’s my need of affirmation. It’s my yearning for affection. It’s my loneliness. It’s my childishness. It’s my motherhood. It’s my horniness. It’s how I interpreted your love for me as proof of my worth.

It’s not how you kissed my shoulder, it’s how my shoulder met your lips. It’s not how your lashes fluttered over your big brown eyes, it’s how I looked into those eyes and saw myself reflected in them, it’s not how you loved me, it’s how badly I needed to be loved.

It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not your goodbye, it’s my fear of letting you go, in case I never find anyone who can see me again, love me for who I am, simply, wholy.