You know the stereotype – crazed chick who throws shit and breaks glass, threatens fist fights, uses fear tactics to intimidate men, not unnecessarily known for stalking – otherwise, “The Psycho Bitch.”
I don’t think any girl aspires to be the psycho bitch. I know I never had such intention. Previously, I had perceived myself as the shy girl, the one who avoided men and waited for them to come to her. If it doesn’t work out, she takes it in stride and moves on without any reaction –
classy and composed.
Well….I was at a friend’s book launch recently when my sister spotted a former love interest. Naturally she says, “Look who’s here. Let’s go say hi.”
Immediately I went into panic mode and I confessed, “I kind of like
drunk emailed him a series of soliloquies and I’m pretty sure the theme
was murder.” Then I spent the majority of the evening avoiding this guy
and wondering how I had made the transformation from regular dateable
girl to psycho bitch.
I mean I had not keyed his car or stalked him at home, but I did rant on
in a series of emails and even though they were borderline satirical,
I’m still shocked by my behavior.
NOTE TO SELF: Never ever email whilst drunk. EVER.
ALSO: Possibly consider eliminating vodka from alcohol diet.
And by former love interest, I mean I almost had sex on the dance floor
with this guy — I’m not sure if it was the most passionate encounter
I’ve ever had in the history of my existence or if the fact that I had
just turned 30 had turned the heat up on my libido a trillion percent,
which in turn morphed me into some sort of nymph. I may have attempted
to hump anything that night that qualified as hard, stiff and reasonably
sized. But I mean, I had not even had sex with this guy. It was one
encounter one time. We were a non-issue. Why had I become
Which leads me to the second stereotype. Oh God, I can hear the JAWS theme
song playing in my head. You’ve heard it — desperate 30-year old not
capable of a stable relationship, throws fits and tantrums before a
relationship has even begun. Not capable of love.
Was I that?! Had I turned 30 and grown canines around my vagina. Or perhaps
I had always been the psycho bitch and it was simply becoming clearer
with age, which led me to evaluate my relationship history:
First Boyfriend: Age: 18 Ended with restraining order.
Second Love interest: Age: 20 From Chile; didn’t speak English. Break-up was relatively simple.
Third Boyfriend, Slash Husband: Age 20-24 First orgasm – led to marriage.
Married in Vegas. Big Mistake. Also ended with restraining order after
he threatened me with gun. Turns out it was a fake gun, but still. End
End Result: Divorce.
Yeah, not a good start. The last experience left me a little damaged and I
had spent years going on meaningless dates and insignificant (well I
wouldn’t really call them relationships, let’s say temporary
partnerships) between accepting life as a permanently single woman,
feeling absolutely nothing towards the opposite sex. I had tried it all –
older men, artists, hippies, a Secret Service Agent. I even tried being
a lesbian one time. Eventually I gave up entirely and determined I was
too intelligent for love or emotion or any of that crap.
But then last year, I relapsed and re-entered the world of “Boy meets Girl.
Girl meets Boy.” I’m tempted to blame my recent insanity on all that
It was on vacation in Krakow, Poland when I met a Naval Academy graduate
who had done a tour on a submarine. He had the most amazing pecks and
come on, he was on a submarine. So uniquely awesome. I
asked him to do push-ups on the dance floor – the ones with the claps.
He did. (SIDE NOTE: What is it with me and guys on dance floors?!) Then
we met up in the U.S., had wild sex and after he flew back to his part
of the country, the psycho bitch emerged. Incessant emailing, texting
and calling. Eventually when I figured out he was avoiding me, I let it
go. But perhaps I had ended it with my craziness before I even gave the
relationship a chance to develop?
Then it happened again with the guy at the book
launch. I was a repeat offender. It was time to fess up. Given my history, it
became clear: I had always been impulsive in relationships, all of them
based on some strange concoction of hype and fantasy. I had been
misinformed about love and its meaning. I am totally totally blaming bad
eighties rom-coms, Basic Instinct and girly magazine advice columns.
Perhaps it was time to stop seeking spontaneity and resign myself to the idea
that maybe love at its best is ordinary? No more guns, threats or
craziness. It’s not easy letting go of the inner psycho bitch. But one
Die! Psycho Bitch! Die!
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