Truth


Are You Crazy When You’re Right? 1

 

Most of you know the one side of the breakup: David/Romeo cheated. I know about 8 women, but other women are like roaches: for every 1 you see, there are 20 in the walls. I know that there’s more, but I don’t care to find out the details. I have alluded to The Dark Days and tried to make clear that I am far from blameless in our demise, but I have been too scared and ashamed and just generally clueless about how to talk about those things in great detail. In this version, I am a hero or a damsel or both. This was the story the world told me after my viral post. I was “admirably vulnerable” and “savage AF” and “standing up for all women” and did what others “wished” they had had the “courage” to do.

On the flip side, I’m prone to rewriting history to be the villain or martyr or both as well. The upside to taking all of the blame for what went wrong in a relationship (“Because I ____ that’s the only reason he _____ , so really this is all my fault.”) is that you don’t have to remember to wash your hair or shower or return phone calls because the ensuing depression is debilitating and trying to function is out of the question. This is the story I’ve been dancing with for the last 8 months. Since I found out about the other women in May, I have found every way possible to blame myself.

If I took all of the blame, that was infinitely easier for me to process and fix:

I am broken. I broke us. I need help. I will get help. I’ll go get help right now, actually- babe, you just stay right where you are. Now that I’m better, we can get better. Now we are better. Look! Everyone see how much better we are!

…Right?

But here’s the thing: both versions are true but neither are complete.

Back when I taught English, I would tell my students all the time that fairy tale hero and damsels and villains and martyrs don’t exist past kindergarten. In the really engaging stories- just as in really facinating people- there are hero that are deeply flawed, damsels that don’t want rescuing, villains that have emotional baggage giving them every reason to be even more twisted than they already are, and martyrs that are absolute monsters. Sometimes the main character can be all four at once. It’s not just complicated, it’s complex. But it’s closer to complete.

And so the other day when I was perfectly calm and telling David/Romeo that I had now made no less than 20 attempts to come to an amicable and fair resolution with our business, and he was backing us both into a corner that could only result in a nasty courtroom drama, he told me he wasn’t going to talk to me unless I calmed down.

“I’m calm,” I replied earnestly.

I was calm. I wouldn’t say I was even irritated, just explaining the facts.

And then it all hit me like wave made of rocks and garbage and all of a sudden I wasn’t calm at all anymore. I put down the phone and ended the conversation as it all started to be complicated and complex but more complete.

Let me back up…

I threw a glass.

One night shortly after I had moved in, Romeo and I had entire too much to drink at one of his work parties, we came back to the house and found ourselves discussing politics. If you read my previous post, you’re already aware of what a total asshole I am capable of being when it comes to politics. He’s just as big of a stubborn, inflammatory asshole but in my opinion he is even more insufferable because… well because he’s wrong, but also because he thinks he needed to convert me to Team Red, when I had long ago given up the idea of converting him to Team Blue and just wanted him to at least try to see my side of the conversation. But I digress.

We started fighting about politics, I started crying because that’s what drunk girls do when they “can’t even” but also what normal girls do when they’re still hormonally flooded from their new IUD and emotionally exhausted because in the past two weeks they have left everyone and everything they know- no matter how happy they are about that decision. And as I’m trying to explain this to David/Romeo, he starts in on me.

“Oh boo hoo, it’s so sad,” he said in a mocking cry voice. “It must be so hard to come move into a big, beautiful home. Fuck you are so crazy and ungrateful- you said you wanted to move here. Move back to Houston- I don’t give a shit. It’s better than listening to you bitch about it all the time (ahem- less than two weeks). Byyyyyye,” he nastily intoned as he pulled the covers over his head and told me to “drive the fuck home then.”

I threw a glass that shattered at the wall over his head. Good choices suffer when your primal brain is on overdrive screaming “WHO THE FUCK EVEN IS THIS GUY????”

He saw the most raw, terrified, wild-animal-scratching-and-hissing-in-the-corner version of me. He saw it over and over during The Dark Days.

 

Eventually that’s all he ever saw. Signs of emotion were treated as an attack. Any hint of humanity was accused of being crazy. Valid concerns were treated as verbal abuse. Even at my best and brightest, he would find ways to make me feel like I was never enough and always too much.

And the entire time, the question remained “who the fuck even is this guy?”

I would watch him lie to his own mother or best friend or boss so casually that it gave me goosebumps.

I saw him calculate people and calculate money and always choose money over people and the ease of those decisions would consistently leave me speechless.

Honestly I can list more things that I even feel comfortable with right now because I’m not trying to run his name through the mud, I am just trying to reconcile what’s complicated and complex and complete.

When my beloved Dr. Jekyll showed glimmers of Mr. Hyde behind his eyes, I would lose it. I would scream and say things that make my heart hurt to think about now and generally act like a crazy bitch. I would be overwhelmed with what can only be described as genuine terror and it always reared it’s ugly head while scratching and hissing like a wild animal unsure of what her captor is keeping her around for. If he could dispose of all of these other relationships and use all of these other people as stepping stones and emotional scratching posts without a second’s though, nothing was stopping him from doing the same to me.

So I’m left with this one haunting question…

Are you crazy when you’re right?

 


“I ain’t sorry.” Except… Fine. Actually I am. I’m actually really sorry. 2

Alternate titles for this post include:

  • Self-examination can be a real bitch.
  • But I don’t waaaaaannna be a better person!
  • An open letter to a lot of people who have had it about up to *here* with me.

Ugh.

Sometimes I sit down to write and am relieved about finally getting everything rolling around in my brain downloaded and out of my constant thoughts. Other times I sit down to write and don’t really know what I have to say but trust that once the keys start clacking, it’ll flow. But occasionally I sit down to write and hope that I’ll feel better once I say what I have to say, but dread with every ounce of life in me what I know I need to write.

Here goes nothing…

I’m sorry. 

For those of you who have no idea why I would write that, you’re probably not friends with me on Facebook and probably haven’t tried to discuss politics with me.

–> Pause: When the election results came in, I basically didn’t get out of bed for two days because I was so upset. Not because I like really wanted Hillary to win, but because I’m genuinely afraid of what Trump will do to this country. I’m not actually looking to debate that, because this is driven mostly by gut instinct and feelings and those aren’t really debatable. Play–>

I have committed all of my least favorite sins:

 

  • Making broad, uninformed, inaccurate statements.
  • Lettings emotions control my word choice and therefore giving the wrong impression of what I really want to say.
  • Defending being an asshole when I should just recognize that I’m being an asshole, even it was on accident. Even if I still mean the heart of what I’m trying to say and believe that what’s at the bottom of my argument isn’t divisive or hurtful or ignorant. None of that matters if I’ve been an asshole.
  • Trying to solve all the world’s ills. Assuming I even understand all the world’s ills. This is maybe the most dangerous one- the intersection of delusion of hope and delusion of grandeur can make me a real dick.

Even as I type this I have this nagging fear that I’m saying something wrong again. And I say the following not as a disclaimer to my apology, but because in my mind a real apology comes with some sort of uncomfortable introspection as to why you slammed the door/ stole the crayons/ ate the cookies without permission/ acted like a judgmental, self-righteous prick on social media.

These past 3 weeks have been hard for me. (I’m sure you’re shocked.) They’ve been a different kind of hard that the 8 weeks before that or the 3 months before that or the 31 years before that. It’s a familiar but not in a good way kind of hard. It’s near drowning in inadequacy and fighting off crippling doubt that I’ll be revealed as a fraud because spoiler alert: I don’t feel brave or strong or any of the qualities that have been attributed to me in the aftermath of David/Romeo. I am scared every single day. I was a real bitch to him before we split and struggle with the “you deserved it/no one deserves this” debate in my head. I am angry and lonely. I am one Lifetime movie away from full on bitter. I am completely wingin’ it and charging onward with life because it’s literally the only option I have. Plain and simple.

And everything your mom told you about the loudmouthed kid on the playground being the one who really just is trying to convince themselves that they’re enough? Well, it’s true. And it’s been me. I have this unavoidable, overcompensating big ass mouth that always seems to pop up and pop off when I feel aaaaaaalll of the feelings and they are cranked aaaaaaalll the way up.

Two days ago I read my November horoscope and it told me that for this month I should really be cautious about thinking before speaking. THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL INFORMATION 25 DAYS AGO.

But real talk: I’m trying to be better. And I’ve been trying to be better at a lot of areas that I’ve been juggling, but this one slipped. I’m sorry.

Now I need to go drink like 32 beers because while I’m trying to rise above, I’m still a stubborn Sagittarius at heart, and damn a public apology is a hard pill to swallow.

 


Restoring to Factory Default Settings

Today I sold my last piece of furniture.

Last night I sold my bedroom set. Two weeks ago I sold my couch and a book shelf. Two weeks before that I sold 2 TVs, 2 bedside tables, a leather chair, a storage bench, 4 lamps, another bookshelf and this really cool alarm thing that simulates a sunrise so that you don’t have to wake up in the dark. Four weeks before that I had a temper tantrum themed yard sale and sold every spatula, picture frame, coffee cup, pillow, pair of shorts… everything every THING that I had. Two months before that I sold a bed frame. But that was because I had found out Romeo/David had slept with Erin Black in that bed, and I made him buy us a new one.

Maybe that counts as the same type “everything must go” tantrum.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But today the last piece of furniture- the last item I had that couldn’t just fit in the back of my Corolla, take two rights and go straight on ’till morning- walked out the front door for $225.

I’m not going to lie- I panicked a little bit.

Wait, no, if I’m not going to lie- I panicked a lot.

I’ve been counting down to this moment for 11 weeks. How could I get rid of everything? How could I unload the memories and recoup the cash and make it not my problem anymore? How could I find the freedom that I was SURE would come once it was all just out of my face? How could I untether myself from a 5 bedroom house worth of stuff that I had been collecting for the better part of the last decade with the belief that “well sooner than later I’ll be married, with a bigger house, and we’ll have kids, so I’ll need this Calphalon pan set/ Dyson vacuum/ suede sectional couch/ 52″ TV as an investment in my future.”

I had the house. I had the stuff. I even had the paper doll “husband” to match.

I also had panic attacks that I would never be enough to make him happy. I had medication induced nightmares and weeks without sleep and 4:00am debates with myself about which was worse. I had what can only be described as toddler level meltdowns because I could never cook the spinach the way he liked it which bothered me infinitely more than it bothered him. I had eerie, unfounded fits of anxiety that he had one foot out the door- those turned out to be right though.

I can only describe it as an out of body experience when you realize that you thought owning 800 thread count sheets could save you from the other shoe dropping. And it drops anyways as you sit in bed on these beautiful sheets and read the Facebook message that would send you down the rabbit hole and don’t know if you feel more betrayed by the lies the sheets told you or the lies the paper doll told you.

So here I am on the eve of my 32nd birthday.

Feeling the least excited about my birthday that I’ve felt since my parents bought themselves a new car for my 16th birthday. (No, they did not keep the old one for me. They traded it in. Showed up at my 16th birthday party in a new car… for themselves. All my friends started jumping up and down in excitement “for me.” Two days passed before I realized they weren’t playing a joke on me. If you ever wondered where all this deep seated dysfunction comes from, remember those are the people that raised me. Parenting Tip: You have roughly 6,570 days of raising your child. Buy a new car for yourself on literally any other day. Good talk.)

I digress.

Here I am on the eve of my 32nd birthday.

I launched my new professional organizing business today. It’s doing well so far. And I don’t know if it’ll be enough to put food on the table.

I should be getting final close out money from David this week. And it’s exactly enough to pay off the last of my remaining debt.

I accidentally died my hair dark lilac. And it should wash out before the end of the month and back closer to my natural color.

I own exactly 17 shirts, 8 dresses, 4 skirts, 8 pairs of pants, 11 pairs of shoes, and some makeup. Oh and a juicer that I just really love. And that’s literally it. And I don’t have a lease or a mortgage.

I have no less than 30 In Case of Emergency friends that I could and would call about a flat tire at 3:00am and know without a doubt they would be there. And every one of those people has their own In Case of Emergency that they would call before me.

I will see 1 of the 4 members of my family for a “Thanksgiving celebration” that we already promised will most likely be gumbo and wine. And I don’t have to see all of the other family members that I generally spend weeks working up anxiety about “how will the holidays go this time?”

I don’t have a partner that loves me and will wake me up to pancakes with a candle in it while singing happy birthday. And I don’t have a paper doll.

I don’t say all of this because I hope to throw a pity party en lieu of a birthday party. In fact, some of these things are pretty damn wonderful. (I’m looking at you Nordstrom credit card- don’t let the door hit ya’ where the good Lord split ya’!)

I say all of this because today when I watched that dresser pull away from the driveway and just hours later launched my website, I realized that like it or not, I have achieved a full factory reset. Two years ago- to the day- I started this blog and it was all about teaching, adventures and misadventures in love, dysfunctional family, and a halfhearted attempt at finding myself during a heartbreak.

And now…

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What Did the Skeleton Order With His Coke?

 

…a mop.

Get it?

See. I’m still funny.

Halloween is hands down my favorite holiday. When you have a crazy family, Thanksgiving and Christmas is more likely to give you a series of mini-strokes than the warm fuzzies, plus October is when the weather in Texas is finally tolerable for extended periods of time.

And Laffy Taffy, y’all. I’ve had 50 today and it’s not even noon.

Last year Halloween was a nightmare for me. I was right in the grip of The Dark Days, and all I wanted was to dress up as something sexy and host a party at our house that would remind David how fun and cute and pulled together I was. Instead, I ruined the chili, no one came because I only knew like 3 people in San Antonio and David put off telling his friends until last minute, and the day before I got a haircut that looked like a child did it with school scissors. In the dark. With his feet.

funny-halloween-quotes-4

So for two days straight we fought because he didn’t want to wear a costume, I was stressed no one would come, and he laughed at me for crying about my haircut- which was really me crying about feeling so utterly uprooted from Houston and not having my hair stylist around… or my boss or students or coworkers or roommates or my friends or my favorite yoga instructor or my dry cleaner or my church or my favorite running trail… or you get the point.

Instead of being something sexy, I was a witch. And also I dressed up as a witch.

This year though… this year I feel like I’ve given up on trying to be cute and fun and pulled together. There’s some undeniable low key depression going on, but also I’m just exhausted. I’m exhausted of being always too much and never enough. I’m exhausted of thinking about how I screamed and slammed doors and was a heinous bitch during that haircut fight, and most of all I’m exhausted of the endless death spiral of wondering, “what came first, his awful or my awful?” and always trying to find ways to give or take blame. As if that would make it make sense? And take the pain away?

Right?

So this year for Halloween, I will be not dressing up for the very first time. I’ve been dressing up in hundreds of roles over the years…

Baby Pumpkin, Baby Bat, proud big sister, protective big sister, Flapper, Cowgirl, School Girl, straight A student, smartass student, Cheerleader, cheerleader, Sexy Teacher, sexy librarian, teacher of the year, Wonder Woman, wondering woman, wandering woman, Queen of Hearts, protector of my heart, unabashed giver of my heart, self-inflicted breaker of my heart, Sexy Pumpkin, Bride, bride to-be, 1950s Housewife, 1950s housegirlfriend, Eve, temptress, the downfall, the accused, Tinkerbell, Hippie, hippie, Sexy Witch, Witch, witch, monster…

aaaaaaaand I’m straight up tapped out.

I’m going as an unapologetically heartbroken, strong, brave, terrified, exhausted woman who gave away two overflowing boxes of costumes to a middle school theater department in a fit of rage that freed her from a lie of a life, 95% of her worldly possessions, and any clue whatsoever on how to ever go back to dressing up and pretending.

Not that I’d want to anyways.

 


Eat, Pray, Fabio 2

When I was 6 years old, I ran away from home. I decided that the pressures of my impending 1st grade year were going to just be too much on top of being a big sister, and really I just had had enough of the tyrannical rule of my parents. No, I will not eat my peas, and I’ll show you who’s running the show around here, Mom– if that’s even your real name. 

I decided that I wasn’t going to be rash about this process, so I began to pack the essentials and prepare for life on the road:

  • Copies of Eloise, Madeline, and Rosie Runs Away… check
  • Extra wind shorts, tie dye t-shirt, and scrunchie… check
  • A handful of change from the laundry room coin jar… check
  • A box of Saltine crackers… A sleeve of Saltine crackers… after much debate with my mother who told me I couldn’t leave her house with her food, I managed to finally convince her that my blood would be on her hands if she left me alone to my personal skills to acquire food, so we settled on one sleeve and a few packets of mustard… check

When I was 6 years old, I was infinitely more prepared to run away from home than I am now at 31 when I have run away to Italy. My friend Nicole offered me a place to stay with her for two weeks, and without putting much though into it, I booked a ticket and 8 days later hopped on a flight.

  • Preparing international phone plan… oops
  • Researching basic Italian phrases… oops
  • Deciding where in Italy I wanted to visit… oops
  • Packing a bag large enough to fit everything I wanted to bring… oops
  • Arranging transportation to and from the airport… oops
  • Remembering to tell my mom I was leaving the country… oops
  • Getting the address of where I would be staying in Lucca… oops
  • Sexy black dress, new lacy bra and panty set, and heels for our weekend to Rome… check. Priorities, y’all.

So here I am now, after 36 hours of travel that included three hours of shameless crying while reading Love, Warrior by Glennon Doyle Melton on my first flight, two crying fits in the Madrid airport that were mostly due to exhaustion but also because I couldn’t stop seeing Romeo everywhere, and one missed bus stop that resulted in a full evening of repeatedly traversing a busy road with two weeks worth of luggage by myself while trying to find WiFi so I could connect with Nicole and get directions to her place. All of which are full stories unto themselves but will have to wait until another time.

Italy has always been at the very top of my Travel Bucket List and for the last 2.5ish years, Romeo had deposited money in a “Travel Fund” as my birthday/ Christmas/ anniversary/ Valentines present and would put money in there with the promise that as soon as we had enough, he would take me to Europe for my very first time. When we broke up and Nicole extended this incredibly generous offer, it felt like God placing a first step for healing in my hands and reminding me that our lives don’t stop when we are heartbroken; our lives usually begin in these moments if we let them.

Plus if it was good enough for Elizabeth Gilbert, it’s for sure good enough for me.

And I’m not going to lie. There was a little bit of a “I’ll be damned if I wait one more day for a man to follow through on a promise for anything and I’m taking my happy ass to do exactly what I want to do. Men? We don’t need no stinkin’ men.”

But then Nicole told me about Fabio, the painfully sexy man who works at the meat market downstairs from her loft and speaks just enough English to say things like “you’re too beautiful for a heart that is broke” and “here is more wine, my love” and “this dress make me crazy.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

I’ve still got my broken heart chastity belt on, but maybe the bra burning man hating side of me that was simmering below the surface can give it a rest now. After all, it’s a new bra with matching panties and that would be just an absolute waste.

Ciao for now.


“The Truth Will Set You Free…” 4

gloria-3

Let me start by saying this: this is my 7th draft that I have started tonight.

The first 6 were abandoned because they didn’t feel real, or honest or just … enough. They offered a very inadequate, some what glib look at a snapshot of my last few days/weeks/months and all felt as inauthentic as bad botox- in order to keep the peace and be polite everyone will pretend they didn’t notice, but get real Monica Geller- your eyebrows didn’t move after season 7. Nobody is fooling anyone.

So here I am. Promising to tell the truth, when the truth is ugly, and complicated, and not necessarily the same truth that anyone else has or even the same truth that I’ll have tomorrow. I’m still not even sure I know what the “truth” of this whole mess is, because I’ve spent the better part of two and a half years subconsciously doing everything in my power to protect myself from the truth.

At some point, the truth became my biggest fear and my mortal enemy. 

Tonight I’m refusing to let myself hide from the truth any longer. Pour yourself a glass of wine, light up a smoke, or just hunker down, because the truth is too real to be pretty.

The truth is that I loved a man that was sleeping with what I discovered to be no less than 8 other women over the course of our relationship.

The truth meant that I loved him with all of my heart and no matter what anyone says and no matter how it looks, I know he loved me with all of his.

The truth is that his love is dark and twisted and selfish and broken and slowly destroyed me.

The truth is sometimes I look back at all the awful things I said and did, and the heinous bitch I was to him during The Dark Days, and I think I deserve everything I got and more.

The truth is there are no less than a thousand moments that I look back on as pivotal chances to be more calm, gracious, beautiful, quiet, supportive, loving that would have saved us from ourselves.

The truth is there’s no use in praying and pleading to change the past.

The truth is I’m not sure anything could have saved us from ourselves.

The truth is the same day that he told me that he wanted only me, he slept with someone else- not even 24 hours passed.

The truth is I never for a second doubted his faithfulness.

The truth is after I found out about the first 6 girls all at once, I told him I would forgive him of anything but he had to come clean- had to tell me all of them and he swore on his dead father’s life that I knew about all of them.

The truth is there was one more.

The truth is when I asked him why I didn’t just tell me about her then, he told me he “forgot.”

The truth is that after I found out the first time, I told him I wanted access to our shared phone account and he wouldn’t give it to me.

The truth is that after he refused, deep down I knew it was still happening but did everything in my power to keep that voice medicated and meditated so that it wouldn’t wake up.

The truth lead me to drive my little beat up Corolla like the mother fucking bat mobile to San Antonio in the middle of the night because something in my soul woke up for a brief moment and told me that I couldn’t lie to myself about what I saw with my own eyes and that I had to, GODDAMNIT I HAD TO LOOK HIM IN THE EYES SO HE KNEW I KNEW.

The truth is I prayed the entire 3 hour drive there not that I would come home to him alone, but that I would come home to them in our bed so that I could finally set us both free.

The truth is he tried to lie even after he was caught- even after I saw him leaving the hotel room that was under her name, he tried to deny it for a solid week.

The truth is that I wrote that infamous Facebook post because I knew I would forgive him; it was the insurance policy I took out against myself to make sure I didn’t go back once I calmed down.

The truth is I sometimes wish I never wrote it so that I could back to being his favorite, if not his only.

The truth was I didn’t want to walk away, and sometimes I wish I had never found out.

The truth is sometimes I hate myself for wishing that.

I’ll throw my hat into the ring at an attempt at funny or witty again another time. But the truth is today, I have emotional vertigo; I don’t know which way is up or down or back or forward. I don’t trust my own instincts anymore and my truth morphs and changes and in the same second can go from damning to freeing to damning again. People keep giving me advice and comfort but it’s like when you’re so drunk at a party that you can hear your friends all talking about and around you while your head hangs in the toilet, and you kind of wish they would leave you alone to slowly die in peace, but you’re also so thankful they’re there because you’re literally not sure you would survive without them, even if they do keep trying to stick their fingers down your throat when you just want to sleep. Yes, I know I’ll feel better tomorrow if I get it all up now, but also I’m not sure I’m ready.

*Pours self another glass of wine.*

Goodnight.


When My Worlds Collide 2

Once upon a time, I was in a sorority. The greatest nugget of wisdom I gleaned from my time in a sorority is to never smell a shot before you take it. The second greatest nugget of wisdom is that when you are introducing two people who have never met before, always share with them something they have in common. For example:

Katie, this is Ryan. Katie is from Florida, and Ryan, didn’t your brother just move to Florida?

Daniel, meet Lindsey. Did you know she also is played tennis in college?

Erin, this is Taylor. My boyfriend cheated on me with both of you. (Still a little bitter. Whatever.)

So here I am now, with my worlds colliding in a good way, trying to figure out how to best introduce the readers of Terrible Poker Face to Whitney Holt, and the friends of Whitney Holt to Terrible Poker Face:

Readers, this is friends. You both like to read raw, unfiltered, occasionally witty commentary about the adventures and misadventures of Whitney.

Friends, this is Terrible Poker Face and its readership. It’s just like the Facebook posts you’ve grown to know and love, except that until now it’s been anonymous so that I could embrace my DGAF nature and let it all hang out. 

For those of you who know me in real life (or in Facebook life), SURPRISE!!!! All those times you told me I should start a blog? Well… umm… I did…. I just didn’t tell you about it. Check out the Little Black Book if any part of you wonders why I might be tempted to not shout this from the rooftops.

When I started this two years ago, I thought my DGAF was as low as it got. Turns out, posting about your boyfriend‘s infidelity in a very public, very vulnerable, very “only God can judge me” sort of way, is actually an even lower level of fucks given, which rendered the entire idea of anonymity for this blog to be rather useless. It’s time I start shamelessly whoring myself out to the blogosphere so that someone, somewhere will decide that they will pay me monies to write full time, and I can just stop pretending that I was ever meant for consistent, real life, public consumption.

So for those of you that aren’t new to me but are new to Terrible Poker Face, make yourself at home. I suggest you pour yourself a glass of wine, go watch an episode of The Mindy Project, pour yourself another glass of wine, maybe let the dog out while you let it all sink in, and then only after you have your wine coat on, start exploring my backlog of posts. I’d like for you to think of it like a two drink minimum sort of situation up in here.

And for those of you that aren’t new to TPF but are new to Whitney Holt, I’d say I’d like to properly introduce myself, but you know probably more about the ridiculous and salacious and dark and twisty and intimate details of my life than 97% of my acquaintances. I guess the only thing that’s been missing is putting a name to the man behind the curtain.

For anyone wondering what you can expect moving forward, well, I process my life through writing. Always have, probably always will. Right now I’m still reeling pretty hard from this shit show of a breakup, so it’s a given that the emotional post mortem will make the greatest hits list. I’m also about to move cities (to where? great question), change jobs for the 5th time this year (to what? great question), and reenter the dating world (why? because I’m a hopeless romantic and apparent masochist great question), so I can promise you’ll get to be a part of that inevitable roller coaster as well.

But for right now, I’m going to binge some Netflix, cuddle with some wine and pretzels, and enjoy getting to sleep like a starfish alone in this bed.

… Good night, y’all.


Forgive me Father for I am happy. 7

terrible poker face taco bell border sauce packet mild i love you too i can't stop pooping

Updates since we last spoke…

1. I’m still trying to figure out how the new site works. I really only know two tricks – clicking to add a new post and checking the home page.  I’m pretty sure I like it but the same way you like your new neighbor that seems really nice and a little more hip than I’m comfortable with. I feel like my new site could wear hats if it wanted and totally pull it off. When I wear hats people assume I’m trying to be funny. So that’s neat. But mainly that’s intimidating. I need to bribe my Digital Manager with another wine night but not actually drink the wine myself while she explains the functions.

2. My stomach issues have not improved, but truth be told I’ve eaten an inordinate amount of Taco Bell over the last 4 days, so I don’t think I can still blame the anxiety. 

3-79… and there’s SO MUCH MORE I want to tell you, but chronology matters in all these revelations. So first thing’s first, let’s pick up where I left off last night.

I’ve had that^ intro written for the last 5 days.

FIVE FREAKIN’ DAYS.

Some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten from my boss is that when you find yourself procrastinating like whoa on a task, you need to step back and ask yourself why are you going so far as to sabotage yourself just to avoid this task? So I had to start asking myself…

When did the idea of writing stop being something to escape to and started being something to escape from?

When did I start dreading the idea of sharing my story – I mean I say almost exclusively stupid shit, so what’s so different about this stupid shit that’s causing me to find excuse after excuse to not post?

When did being honest stop being what I was best at?

I know I told you I was anxious to post in my last post, but it’s more than just being a little psyched out. It’s dread. It’s crippling insecurity. It’s fear of vulnerability. It’s realizing that the over-the-moon happiness that I’ve been feeling for the last month could be jeopardized by trying to share it.

So it’s time to rip the band-aid off…

Romeo and I are back together. I’m moving in with him in July in a state that is yet to be determined by the Air Force powers that be, which also means I’m quitting my job and leaving my home in Houston. We’re talking about getting married and yesterday I went shopping for rings with one of my friends because he told me to figure out what I want. 

There. I said it.

I should be using all sorts of flowery language about how happy I am. I should be explaining to you all the ins and outs of how we got back together and how he cried and told me that breaking up was the worst mistake he’s ever made and begged for another chance. I should be explaining why I’m not even the slightest bit scared to move across the country to a city where I know no one but him and don’t have any leads on a job because I’ve never felt anything was so right. I should be telling you how I honestly never knew I could love or be loved like this.

But instead I’m trying to not throw up.

I’ve always cared too much what people think of me. Somewhere along the line (I’m thinking around the $8,000 mark in therapy) I learned to be okay with embracing my negative emotions, but emotions like “happy” and “in love” and “calm” give me the same feeling I used to have as a middle school student dreaming that I had showed up to school naked: even the things I’m happy with behind closed doors make me wish I could crawl under a rock when they’re on display for the whole world to see.

The thing that’s really tearing me up is that I’m not just worried what my Terrible Poker Face friends are going to think; I’m having this exact same reaction in real life as well. Every time I share what I consider to be the best news of my life, I feel my heart beating behind my eyes and wonder if anyone would notice if I put my head between my knees for just a minute. Exactly 0% of this has to do with feeling unsure or unhappy with my decisions, and 100% has to do with assuming everyone is assuming the worst.

This is some of the stuff they’ve said, <but even worse this is some of the stuff I assume they’re thinking.> You would think that I think my friends hate me from all the filling in the blank that I’m doing between what they’re actually saying.
hyperbole and a half terrible poker face assume

“Y’all were broken up not even six weeks ago and now you’re talking about marriage…” <ooooookaaaaaay… yeah, that sounds really responsible.>

“I mean you swore Not The One was the love of your life less than a year ago,” <so you’re clearly just desperate to get serious with a guy. Why don’t you slow down?>

“The last time you moved across the country for someone was for The Psycho.” <Haven’t you learned your lesson? You don’t even know each other.>

“You’re putting your career on pause for an entire year so that you can follow him to go support his pilot dreams?”  <Worst feminist ever.>

“My boyfriend and I have been together way longer and we aren’t talking about marriage yet.” <You guys are clearly unprepared for steps this big.>

“Marriage is a big deal.” <You don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into.>

“I could never do that military wife life.” <I have no idea what makes you think you could do it either considering what a hot mess you’ve been with relationships in the past.>

I know my friends love me and don’t want me to move. I know they’re scared for me, not because they don’t trust my judgement, but because bad things happen even when people do all the right things, much less when people do things that appear reckless on the surface. I know they don’t want to see me heartbroken and that they want to protect me from myself because for so long I’ve needed them to do exactly that.

I know.

To those friends – real life or blog friends – I know. Thank you. I love you and am so appreciative towards you and grateful to the universe for putting people like you in my life.

I don’t have a nice neat bow to put on the end of this.

I will still assume everyone is taking over/under bets on how long it will be before I come back to Texas. I am still fighting the gut instinct to defend Romeo and myself and our relationship when I should just say “thank you, I’m excited and nervous too.” I still feel weird sharing happiness and feel terrified sharing this happiness because it doesn’t look like the A+B=C love story that is easy to cheer for. I still feel like middle-school-me showing up to school naked every damn time I tell someone our news.

boy meets world mr feeny terrible poker faceI wish I could Boy Meets World this shit and Mr. Feeny would pull me aside, give me some great life advice, and from now on I would be strong and unphased when I get the “you’re doing what” looks. I wish I could put up a filter that would tell me when having my feelings hurt by a reaction is justified vs. when having my feelings hurt is mostly in my head.

But for now I’ll take a deep breath and trust that everything will be okay.

Okay, that’s way too zen.

For now I’ll take a deep breath, pour a glass of wine, and probably get a Cheesy Gordita Crunch (with the fire taco) for the fifth day in a row.


Romeo Part 4: Star-Crossed 13

Continued from Romeo: Part 3.

This is hard. I do and I don’t want to write this:

1. When I’m done, that means his chapter in my life is done. I know it’ll bring me some closure, but I still feel a little like I’m putting the nail in a coffin of someone that the smallest part of me refuses to believe is dead.

2. I promised to only ever be honest with you guys, but being honest with myself through these posts has been incredibly hard; I don’t want to over romanticize or under value. I can’t pretend I have answers because truthfully I feel left with more questions than anything. (more…)


I’m pretty sure I deserve a hug and a slap from Stevie Nicks. 13

If you already don’t like me, this post certainly isn’t going to help.

Then again, if you don’t like me you probably don’t know about or don’t care about my blog, so really this post is only going to make people who already like me a little like me less, and make those who like me a lot reconsider.

The thing is, I really like to feel sorry for myself. (more…)