It's Not You, It's Her

Let me set up the scenario.

You are a man.

You see a woman.

You ask the woman out.

She rejects you.

You get angry and yell at her and make everyone in the vicinity hate you.

…

One of the pieces of this puzzle seems irrational.

This feels like it shouldn’t have to be said but,

You are not allowed to get mad at someone for rejecting you.

The moment you decide to rationalize that any differently, you are wrong.

Anyone who has experienced this knows that the type of rejection doesn’t matter.

Kind rejection = explosion

Blunt rejection = explosion

Is the idea that you’ll scare us into going out with you? Or that all your rantings about how ‘We blew our chance’ will somehow make us see how great you are?

You are the worst kind of person.

Here is the scenario every girl dreams of but very few have seen.

You are a man.

You see a woman.

You ask the woman out.

She rejects you.

You realize that the moment you decided to put yourself on the line and ask her to take a chance on you that you may have to deal with some uncomfortable feelings. You know that asking someone to go out with you is a risk no matter how much or how little they know you personally. You understand that the entire situation is not about how you feel but about how she feels. This is because you have already taken the time to think about it and plan what to say and organize your many different feelings on the subject. You know she hasn’t had the processing time that you have and that you are springing this on her. You also are assured that if she wants to change her mind then she may take that opportunity later and you need not berate her with texts, making yourself seem even less ideal as a dateable human being. If there is no change of heart, you still understand that it’s not your problem. You will be just fine. And she will be just fine. And if you feel a little down on yourself, that is okay. It’s not her fault because your worth doesn’t rest in the hands of another person. You would never blame someone else for your own problems and you would never speak poorly of that person even if they weren’t as tactful as they could have been. You would not curse at them or threaten them just to save face. Because that is hurtful and also because that doesn’t save face at all but actually makes you look even worse. You care about other people and that is what makes you a good catch so you need not behave like a terrible human.

You do not rape anyone.

...

I’d say this one ends a little more successfully.

I don't want to take pictures of Trash. I don't think people will think that's Pretty

My son has developed a new hobby; doing whatever Dad does.

Dad has been taking pictures.

Four year olds have a different view of the world. Mostly it's a short view.

For a while he watched his Dad taking photos of an old, dilapidated building. He thought that was weird. People don't like trash, he said to me. What pictures do you want to take, I asked.

Houses.

Let's go see what Dad's up to.

I want to pick a different place.

Well, let's wait until Dad's done.

Let's cross the street.

Do you want to go?

Compliment Schmopliment

When I was a young teen I went to drama camp. it wasn’t very official. It was cheap. So who cared if I didn’t really like acting or going to places?

For some reason, we had to audition for parts we didn’t want or fully understand. I was handed some lines and pitted against another girl for the part of Main Girl. I was ready to just hand the coveted part over but I had a feeling that wasn’t an option.

I started saying the words out loud.

The instructor was impressed and said so.

It was the worst possible scenario.

I suddenly had nowhere left to go but down.

The pressure was intense.

My hands started shaking and my vision became blurry.

I couldn’t keep the paper still and couldn’t see the words.

I looked up at the instructor’s frozen grin.

She was no longer impressed.

My body settled down and I quickly finished up the lines.

I didn’t get the part.

The world made sense again.

15 years later and I still can’t take a compliment.

If someone says to me, You handled that well. I start to fumble with my words and try to convince them why they’re wrong.

Then they stare at me.

Then I don’t stop talking nonsense.

Then I run out of breath.

...

Then they change the subject.

I recently was speaking with a woman about a very small thing we had in common. I expressed to her that I often don’t pursue what I want because I assume I will fail. She threw her head back in surprise and said, I have never felt that way. That kind of thought has never entered my head. I’ve never felt like I couldn’t do something.

And I thought, So you used your confidence to become a lawyer? Maybe I’m glad to be self-conscience.

Prelude

This is an exclusive prelude to my ebook, Reason’s to Stay. This excerpt can only be found on my blog but you can find my ebook here: amazon.com/author/emilysearle. Enjoy :)

Silas pressed his chin into his hands as he sat on the window seat, watching a pair a birds squabble over a piece of string. He sighed loudly and glanced over at his brother to see his reaction. There was no reaction. Abraham had earbuds in as he quickly mashed the buttons on his game system. Silas huffed. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring, unnoticed, at his older brother.

“You have to entertain yourself sometimes,” Abraham said in a lazy drawl without even looking up from his game.

Silas dropped his arms. He watched his fingers fiddle with one another for a moment before he sat up. “Let’s go outside.”

Abraham either didn’t hear or didn’t care to respond.

“Hey. Abraham.” Silas stood up and moved until he was standing right in front of Abraham.

The tapping of the small buttons snapped in the quiet.

“Go away.”

“Come with me outside.”

Abraham continued to ignore Silas.

Silas half gave in and sat on the couch. He watched as a behemoth monster struck several blows at a small, spiky-haired character. Silas smiled when the words Game Over faded onto the screen. Abraham’s jaw went tight and he plucked the earbuds from his ears.

At that same moment, they heard a familiar rumble outside. It was like a small explosion as their father’s sports car rushed over the loose pavement outside, flinging small rocks into the trees in the forest that surrounded their private mansion.

“Dad’s back,” Silas whispered.

Abraham jumped up and leaned himself toward the window, trying to gaze down into the corner where their father would be parking in the garages.

There was a silence that felt like an eternity as the boys remained frozen in their spots. The sun shone warmly in through the diamond shapes from the windows but Silas could feel his skin turning cold.

Finally, it came. The venomous shouts coming from down below. Silas could pick out the overused expressions of accusation from his mother and arrogant dismissal from his father. Silas looked up to find his brother watching him with his large, hazel eyes.

“You know what you have to do around loud noises?” He said. “You have to be louder.” He stepped up onto the window seat and jumped high into the air, landing with a thud.

Silas grinned. He grabbed an aluminum baseball bat and swung it at one of the thick beams surrounding the play room.

Abraham laughed and Silas reveled in his approval. Together they banged on books and toys. They shouted nonsense and slapped their feet over the wooden floors.

At last, they paused, out of breath and ideas. They listened for the continued sounds of arguing coming from downstairs. Outside was still for the time being. Silas felt an unexpected emptiness and he frowned.

“Let’s play a game,” Abraham said, walking to the board games sitting on the shelves in the far corner of the room.

They quietly set up the pieces to the game. Neither of them spoke nor acknowledged the insecurity that lingered in the air.

The game was nearly halfway through when there was a soft knock on the door. Abraham and Silas looked up as a maid poked her head into the room.

“Dinner,” Abraham said. “We’ll finish after we eat, okay?”

“Okay.”

Silas woke in the dark. He didn’t open his eyes at first. He wasn’t even sure what had woken him. He felt as though something had crashed. No. That wasn’t the right word for it. It was a sound like a hammer to hollow steel. Not the sound itself that had stirred him but the memory. An immediate memory, though, as if the sound had taken its time to slowly register within him and wake him up.

When he did open his eyes he saw his mother. Her back was to him. Her long, curly hair hung down to the middle of her back and the moon spotlighted her perfectly like she was the star of an unsettling show. Silas was not surprised to see her but he couldn’t think why. It should have been unusual to see her.

“Mom?”

“You’re a murderer, Silas,” She said without turning from the window.

“What?” Perhaps she was sleep walking. Silas looked to his door, readying himself to go find Abraham. But he couldn’t for some reason. There was a blackness inside him that kept him from moving.

“I should have kept you away from him from the beginning.”

Silas had heard that phrase before. She used it once when Abraham had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. Mom, just let it go, Abraham had said to her.

“Where’s Abraham?” Silas asked. He was probably asleep, but, then again, he was sure he wasn’t.

His mother snickered. “You don’t remember already? Fine. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s here to punish you whether you know what you did or not.” She turned to face him and Silas jumped. His face fell open to scream but the terror had blocked his air. Abraham stood outside Silas’ window. It was Abraham but it was something different. Its eyes were black and wide. Its body was pale and it stood bent as if gravity was trying to push it deep below the earth.

Silas leaped out of bed and flung himself at his mother, trying desperately to find refuge. His mother closed the drapes over the window. She placed her hand onto Silas’s head. He grunted when she yanked his head back by his hair. “I’ll be leaving you here. I need to go to the city to take care of some things.” She pushed him away from her.

Silas panicked. “No, wait. Let me go with you. You can leave me there if you want. You’ll never have to see me again.”

“Why would I do that? You deserve to rot here.”

Silas began to cry. Large tears rolled over his cheeks and he wheezed as he spoke. “You’ve always hated me. Why did you even have me?”

His mother turned as she stepped out into the hall. “Every human has a right to live. But I was made to hate you and you were born to be hated.” She disappeared in the darkness.

Silas struggled to breathe. He jumped back into bed, shielding himself with his blankets. “Go away!” He screamed. “I’m sorry for whatever I did! Go away!” His sobs echoed throughout the empty house.

Warriors

There are a few people I have picked out to be my own personal warriors. I look up to these people and use them as examples of who I’d like to be someday. They are all fictional. Fictional characters just will never let you down. They can’t. That’s what makes them perfect idols. Here they are.

4. Leon Scott Kennedy: It’s not just the jacket. Here is a man who is a ball of blonde, muscular fearlessness. A strong warrior who jumps into action. There are plenty of people who do the right thing but Leon does the right thing even at the risk of treason. He always knows what the right thing is, too. No questions asked. No one can mock him because he has more important things to think about than the petty issues of other people. He doesn’t need anybody but he is willing to face, in its simplicity, a zombie virus to save the whole world, with or without glory. He’s a Lone Ranger of sorts, except when he needs fancy gadgets. The police department was holding him back with all their rules and red tape. He is devoted to one love, but we all know that’s never going to happen. Ada is awesome but she’s narcissistic. Let’s just face it.

3. Jane Eyre: Jane is very simple but powerful. Practical and naive. Self-disciplined and righteous. Everyone hates her for no reason. They just decide to hate her and instead of developing a personality malfunction she just accepts it without harm to her soul. She uses her weaknesses to her advantage. She’s naturally wise and nonjudgmental despite growing up in deep darkness with misery following her everywhere. Jane’s is a story of Beauty and the Beast except in reality where beauty simply means pure and beast means the jerk who loves you but has secrets that nearly killed you that you shouldn’t forgive him for but do anyway because what’s life without drama?

2. Dana Scully: If I could morph into a single person it would be Agent Dana Scully. It’s hard to describe how perfect she is. Dana is the smartest person I know. She is a surgeon and an FBI agent. She saws into dead bodies without so much as a tremor. She has been abducted several times by various assailants from more than one planet and comes back just as amazing as ever. There are no gender barriers for Dana. She doesn’t even worry about being oppressed because she can’t be broken. You can’t break Dana. No one can. There is a calm, wisdom about her. Also, she has a still way of talking. Dana is the perfect human… kind of.

1. Sherlock Holmes: Sherlock is not perfect. He’s amazing. And I’m talking about Doyle’s Holmes. Not any of the ones you’ve seen on T.V.  What I like most about him is that he doesn’t waste time. He gets stuff done. He doesn’t let other people tell him what is moral or not. He just does what needs to be done and handles justice case by case rather than an absolute rule for all criminals and victims. Sherlock Holmes is timeless because he’s everything we want to be but can never actually be.

No one told me pregnancy could kill me

No one told me pregnancy could kill me. At least, if they did, I wasn’t listening.

I always knew I wanted to have kids.

That being said, by the time I did get pregnant, I was not excited. Terror flooded me. I cried and cried and cried. It’s one thing to imagine being a parent and another thing to make it a reality.

After the initial shock I just kinda felt…

Nothing.

I was neither excited nor displeased.

Even when I heard his heartbeat for the first time it meant little to me. Same with the second time and the third and so on. I mean, I was happy he was alive, of course. Otherwise, it would have been kind of a hassle.

I had zero connection with the supposed miracle I was growing.

In fact, I was so disconnected that I hardly prepared anything for him.

If I had clothes or diapers or even a crib it was because someone else gave it to me and I had to store it.

I figured I’d just wing it.

I was soon on the cusp of labor.

So far, everything had gone smoothly.

No, it wasn’t like those ads where the hot, pregnant woman has her hands placed over her belly in the shape of a heart as she smiles warmly at the prospect of the perfect child that will magically appear clean and precious in her arms with no effort.

But I had little complaints.

Until the night the little destroyer decided to make me feel something.

That something was death.

But I didn’t know I was dying.

I just thought my stomach was trying to push its way out of my body via my spine.

I went to the hospital in mild to very not mild pain.

I was admitted then doped up.

Then I felt great!

Everyone around me was pale and rubbing my arm.

They held expressions of It’s so sad her husband will be a single father so young.

I understood that I was technically in a bad situation but I felt so chill that it was hard to get on board.

They said I would live as long as I got the baby out of me as soon as possible. But labor wasn’t happening fast enough.

They would need to cut him out.

What?

But first, they needed to give me a blood transfusion.

Wait, what happened?

Unfortunately, there was no blood on hand. They would order it from the hospital across town and have it in an hour.

That seems like kind of a long time.

We will try to get it sooner.

Or I die right here?

Luckily, the blood came in much faster! I now had everything I needed to die on the operating table.

I was awake during the cesarean.

It was unpleasant.

The little murderer was taken away and my husband was sent to look after it.

They left me alone to be stitched up and stapled, yes, literally stapled, closed.

After that, I was hooked to my bed via a catheter.

My baby was wheeled in.

Unlike a baby food commercial, I didn’t really care. I was on some more drugs and the baby didn’t seem real or that it was even mine.

I just thought, Oh neat, a baby.

Sometime between midnight and 3am, someone came in. They explained that the baby wasn’t eating and needed to go into the NICU.

I was like, Oh, okay, sure.

Then I went back to sleep. (But not really because who can even sleep in a hospital bed? Especially when you are awoken every hour by a tech who tries to get normal answers out of you at all hours of the night just after you had been sawed into. “Hey, sorry, I just need to test a couple things. How are you feeling?” What? “Are you in any pain?” Who are you? “Okay, I’ll be back later.”)

The sun eventually came up. I was stuck to my bed. My husband was back and forth between me and our son.

It was clear he loved our son very much.

I was so happy for him.

I still hadn’t really met the kid but I was sure he was cool.

Finally, they cut me loose.

My husband was excited to take me to meet the little explosion.

I hadn’t been out of bed for a few days so I was down for it.

He wheeled me down the hall and into a little hand washing area. We scrubbed our hands raw with soap that, to this day, makes my stomach churn.

We approached the baby’s little room and the nurse helped us unclamp him from his feeding tubes and someone pushed him into my arms.

I looked down at his shockingly itty-bitty face.

I realized that he was more than cool.

He was the best human that existed in any lifetime!

He was him and I didn’t even know who him was but he was, and I loved him.

He was worth loving for no reason; just because.

He could have tried to kill me and I would still love him.

Cultural Divide

My family is pretty white. To give you a point of reference:

My memories started when we lived in Wyoming. Which was pretty white also.

But as a family, we felt we were pretty diverse because my dad spoke Spanish fluently and made tacos for dinner almost more than we had spaghetti.

One fateful day, when I was 8, My parents held a family meeting.

We were informed that we would be moving to New Mexico. My dad was thrilled to the point of kicking his feet with delight. My mom seemed happy in her calm and cautionary way.

I, on the other hand, panicked. Despite feeling comfort in the idealized understanding that I wasn’t racist, I was wary of moving somewhere that English was not the primary language. My parents laughed away my ignorance, explaining that we were not moving to Mexico. That we would still be in the United States. “Their state bird is the roadrunner!” My mom was happy to exclaim as though this would change anything. As though I would be so thrilled at the prospect of a roadrunner that I would jump in the car with my dad’s sombrero atop my tiny head.

Unfortunately, this was my only experience with roadrunners:

“They aren’t big,” my mom said, her lips pursed in the way they get when I demanded proof rather than taking her word for it.

I was unsatisfied.

We moved.

Everything was weirder.

“Where are all the trees?”

“This is the desert.”

“What’s that poky thing? A cactus?”

“No, that’s a tree.”

“I thought this was a desert.”

“There are some trees.”

“Where are the cactus’s?”

“Cacti. They’re those little round things.”

“I thought they were tall.”

“That’s Arizona.”

“... The houses remind me of The Flintstones. I don’t want a flat roof.”

“Our house has a flat roof.”

“...”

“Don’t worry. We are going to get used to everything. There’s a roadrunner!”

It was clear that the Warner Brothers had grossly exaggerated the poor animal. Also, it wasn’t nearly as fast as the cartoon which was, perhaps, a bigger bummer than flat roofs and small cacti.

Over the next few weeks, while my parents tried to get things settled, my sisters and I tried to cope. We went outside to play which, in Wyoming, had been our favorite past time. The first thing we learned was to not take off our shoes. Grass was not your friend. It bit you and stabbed you and kept hidden bombs which I called thistles until I was mocked into calling them by their New Mexican name, stickers.

The next thing we learned was that it was far too hot. The sun hated our mountain-prepped skin.

Playing outside was about as fun as that time my sister and I accidentally stabbed each other with steak knives while emptying the dishwasher. Of course, to console ourselves, we went outside to play in our large yard with soft grass and a row of lilac bushes and honeysuckle.

No Longer.

Once school started I was not thinking about our brown and dead backyard. Nor was I worrying about poky plants or what green chile was. I was terrified of meeting new people from this strange land of nothingness.

I reluctantly entered my classroom which was held in something called a portable. The main school building didn’t have room for all the students so they had little classrooms made out of, what looked to me to be, semi trucks.

I walked into a sea of different shades of brown skin and black hair. I remember being grateful for being a brunette myself. I quickly realized that my favorite Mattel doll, Theresa, was no more Mexican looking than I was.

I stood in the doorway, magnetized to my mother’s sweet leg. The teacher asked for someone to volunteer to show me around and teach me the way of things. Nearly every girl raised her hand. I was not used to that either. In Wyoming when the teacher asked for help the only person who raised their hand was the class suck-up.

I felt a little better; enough to let go of my mom and allow her to go home.

The first week was rough but I was quickly accepted by all.

For 8 or 9 years I was happy. I still missed green plants and community activities that involved my own culture rather than one I was admiring from the outside but, all in all, we were integrating well.

Then tragedy struck.

Loss of health.

Loss of work.

We were forced to move in with family in Utah. For one day I was excited at the prospect of change. The next day I was sobbing until I had a headache.

Everything was hard.

I started school. There was no such thing as a portable. The school was a large, expensive, brick building. I stood in the classroom doorway, staring at a sea of blonde heads and fashion icons.

One girl took it upon herself to take me under her wing. She was nice but we had nothing in common.

Lunch was unusual. The black kids sat with the black kids. The Samoan kids sat with the Samoan kids. The gay kids sat with the gay kids. I wasn’t used to that level of division.

I soon found comfort with the Colombian kid who sat with us. He may never know how much it meant to me to laugh with him. We weren’t close but those few lunches that we got to spend time together will never be forgotten.

I eventually found friends in an obscure group of people who were isolated from others and even each other.

I also got to know my extended family more. They weren’t so bad. (There's one black guy in the bunch. Try to guess which one!)

 

It wasn’t long before we eventually made our way back to New Mexico. Despite their not having the superior cacti, I felt like I was back home.