Last night, I had an amazing date—like, textbook amazing. But before we get into that, let’s rewind a bit.
Earlier in the evening, I was living my best Sex and the City moment in San Francisco with my friends. We were sitting in a restaurant, overpriced cocktails in hand, dissecting our love lives and gossiping. One friend was debating whether she actually liked her situationship or was just caught up in the routine. Another was venting about her ongoing boy drama. It was all very cosmopolitan—a moment of camaraderie, laughter, and brutal self-reflection.
But as they talked, I found myself spiraling, overthinking the date I was about to go on. He was nice, respectful, and above all, very attractive. We had the most romantic night—a jazz bar, my favorite sushi, walking through town talking about life, getting drinks, and me giving him a little tour of my college town. The perfect ending? Sitting down together, his arm wrapped around me. It felt like a scene from a movie.
Yet… something was missing.
I couldn’t shake this feeling of disconnection. Like, on paper, he was the ideal guy. But deep down, I didn’t feel that spark. It made me sit down and reflect on all my past relationships. My last one ended so fast—because of his lack of attractiveness. And the worst part? I thought he was cute, but the people around me didn’t. My closest friends, the ones whose opinions I value most, subtly (or not so subtly) let me know he wasn’t “the one.” And somehow, that mattered more than it should have. He was literally perfect—kind, successful, we connected. But I let superficial doubts creep in and ended up cutting him out of my life.
Why do I keep screwing myself over?
Do I care too much about what people think? Do I feel like I’m not worthy of love? Do I just secretly hate myself? Have my past, worst relationships altered my brain chemistry? I don’t know, but what I do know is that I need a therapist ASAP.
For now, it’s just me and this blog, where I can try to make sense of my self-sabotaging tendencies. These guys are literally perfect, and yet I fumble. And worst of all—I do this to myself.
God, why?
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