Sharing my story; why I started The Modern Femme Fatale.
If you refer to the date above, you may have already figured that I’m writing this during the midst of a global pandemic (you may have heard about it). So, you’re right to assume that, just like many other people who have been forced to stay in their homes until TBC, I’ve taken this time to fill the hours in my day with additional activities/hobbies/lifestyle changes.
I’m all for a good glow up. I’ve been inspired to try different diets, take up hobbies, new habits, move, and redecorate my room. There’s nothing more inspiring than a new environment that completely engulfs you creatively.
I don’t know about you, but my inspiration usually lasts a month. Then I get bored and struggle to get back on the band wagon. One thing that has stuck with me since my first round of battling depression and anxiety was journaling. I mean, I’ve journaled for years. It started when I was 11 and I would write letters, lists, lyrics, stories, etc. I would envision what life would be like in a year ,or when I was in high school (obviously thinking life didn’t go on after high school). Would I be popular, would I have a boyfriend, would I command attention like Cher in Clueless when she walks through the quad?
I would find myself writing for hours, lost in my own imagination.
These journals evolved to short stories – which my father would find, read, and encourage me to share with the world. To me they were personal (and, besides, I’d never wanted my peers to have an insight into the way my brain operated - clearly a vortex of teen angst and boys), but my writing was a place I could envision a better time and plan how I wanted to be in the future. How my humanity had a purpose and I was bigger than this world.
It was a creative outlet – until the demands of high school writing and learning gave my creativity a backseat. I was never much of a reader, but I loved TV and movies and music. That became my brain dump medium. I can’t remember ever journaling during university, either. Then, like most habits, it fell away into the background.
Until I needed it – I became severely depressed around 26 after the pressures of the media industry, a cosmically torturous and mentally abusive relationship, and the revelation that my father was in fact a proud homosexual. This all spiraled me into a dark place.
Journaling sincerely helped me channel all my emotions onto paper. But, again, these words are mine.
Fast forward – I’m 32 now. I live in New York. I’m employed at the peak of my career. I have made new friends that have become family. I have power in places that I’m always discovering. I am at the peak of my sexual awakening. I know my body and how to dress, how to eat, how to drink… I am – for all intents and purposes – a very privileged human. That still battles with anxiety and depression.
WHY???
Great question. I’ve been beating myself up for years because I’ve always felt like the least desirable person in the room. I have always felt 100% unloved and unable to be loved by a man.
The woman scorned. The girl picked last to dance. The bridesmaid, never the bride. The damaged, unattractive, undesirable best friend.
I have never received a valentine.
I’ve never had a man chase me to be a part of his life.
I’ve read dating books, listened to podcasts, gone to therapy, gone to workshops, attended courses…
I have tried to improve my self-worth through yoga, meditation, moving cities, and travelling.
For all intents and purposes, I’m a catch! I have a lot to offer. So, why was I not getting the same “let him chase you” attention that every girl around me receives?
These were the thoughts that would swirl around my brain from as soon as I woke up until the moment I went to sleep. I would write them down in my journal, to get them out or find myself spiraling.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to be held right now?”
“He’s coming, I can feel it.”
“Wait an hour to text him back.”
“Today I could meet anybody.”
“What have I done so he doesn’t want to speak to me?”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”
Let’s talk about my last spiral that lead me to now.
5am – Alarm goes off. I keep it on the other side of my room. I walk over to turn it off and check my phone to reveal no response from the guy I’ve been seeing for the past 2 months.
5:30 – Weigh me. Slight increase. Nothing to be concerned about normally, but I’d been trying really hard to be better.
6am – 30-minute run down the east river park. Need to clear my head from the morning thus far. My entire train of thought is a roast of everything my former paramour has put me through these last few months.
6:30 – Shower and dress. I am so upset that I have gone through YET ANOTHER potential relationship.
7am – Uber to Newark. Two days in Boston for work. I want to get to the airport early so I can go to sky miles lounge and feel like a boss lady. The entire ride I am listening to “the unexpected joy of being single” (again) to try and lift my spirits. However, I honestly feel rejected and alone – tears start to run down my face.
8am – Newark airport security – need I say more? I have my head buried, looking at my feet because I don’t want anyone to ask me what’s wrong. I just want to go to sleep.
8:30 – Flight boards in 30 mins. I’ll get a coffee and catch up on some emails in the lounge. The woman can’t clear my name because of small typo through our work travel system (apparently a dash in between two last names is the defining feature of a master criminal). I yell. And burst into the most child-like tantrum over not getting a piece of candy. Storm out of the sky lounge, go to the bathroom, lock the door, and begin journaling in my phone. However, what comes out is dark, grim, and undefiant. It was a goodbye letter. It was me taking responsibility for not being good enough - for not being an asset to this world. And for the people I love to accept my defeat and know they couldn’t do anything about it.
As a woman of 32, unmarried, unattractive, undesirable, and rejected from the sky lounge for a technicality, I could not bear the idea of going on another year feeling solo unhappy. So, I planned to end it. I wanted to go to sleep. Forever. That’s where I felt safe.
I spent the flight to Boston wiping away tears because I was so scared of my own decision. When I made it to my hotel to check in, I crawled into bed completely clothed and cried in hysterics. Eventually I had to get up and go to my first meeting – and because I am a professional, I put on a brave face and turned off the part of my brain that was so upset.
Something inside me knew this wasn’t the right choice. That same fighting spirit – the one that I was not listening to – sent that letter to my best friend back in Australia. She was asleep when she received it, but around the same time that Australia was waking up, I began receiving texts and calls and messages and pings from friends, brother, mother, roommate. I ignored them. However, she had saved me. She called in the troops and made sure I was safe. I didn’t follow through with my plan.
I never want to have an episode like that again.
I never want to feel so defeated and powerless that I believe there is only one way out.
I am aware that the route of my problems is a self-love issue. It’s not something I have done or am doing that steers men away (okay, let’s be honest, I’m probably doing something). However, the fact that my brain takes me to such a dark place when a man simply doesn’t see a future with me – that’s unhealthy.
After all my years of journaling, I read back some of my words and realized I have had the power to save myself every single time I have felt so low. My words have been poetic in these letters to myself (albeit slightly grammatically incorrect), but I’ve had the strength all along.
All my years of writing, I had nothing I wanted to share with the world. My short stories were mine. My letters were mine. And they still are! Only now, I’m on a mission to change my own perception of myself and what I stand for in society. And it’s taken the form of a powerful, unapologetic, feminine fire storm – The Modern Femme Fatale.
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