I would never suggest that my taste in media is particularly exquisite, but before I dig into the introspection that’s been plaguing my brain this last week, I need to go on a brief tangent. I don’t think I’m that snobby of a semi-aspiring “““writer””” but I generally pride myself on reading stuff “of value,” which I more or less categorize as classic literature, scientific/educational nonfiction, or otherwise anything that makes you think and re-assess your values and experience as a human. But I have a guilty pleasure: reading/listening to the audio versions of Ali Hazelwood’s “STEMinist” novels and novellas.
These books… they’re not good. The few I’ve read follow the same plot of ditzy over-thinking science lady falling for a big gruff misunderstood science guy. The only details that change are the field of science and the unrealistic circumstances which the main characters find themselves in. In The Love Hypothesis, PhD student Olive accidentally makes out with the scariest professor in the building (Adam) while trying to prove to a friend that said friend can date Olive’s ex-boyfriend because Olive has a new boyfriend of her own and she “fake dates” Adam until it turns into real dating. In Love, Theoretically, Elsie sells her services as a fake date/girlfriend to subsidize her day job as an adjunct professor and falls for the scientist brother of the guy she’s fake dating. In both books, the female main character is convinced the romantic interest is just pretending to be nice and really hates the female lead. Also, the male leads are very muscular and large and have big hands and monster dongs. There’s weird academic subterfuge and all feelings of love and romance are related to scientific concepts that are so wildly unrelated.
And yet.
They’re called guilty pleasures for a reason I suppose. Hazelwood’s stories all follow the same story beats and have eye-rolling details that aren’t funny and don’t add anything to the story (like repeatedly bringing up the main character’s obsession with cheese) but goddammit I will be reading or listening to the ones I haven’t read yet because sometimes I just need to enjoy a shitty romance novel. Especially after re-entering the dating scene and being low-key obsessed with having my own special little love story, Hazelwood’s books scratch an itch that I didn’t know I needed to scratch. I like dumb meet-cutes and true love finding you where you least expect it and romantic gestures both small and large from the male leads. These books are genuinely NOT GOOD but I love them the way people like Star Wars and other franchises that are poorly written but still enjoyable despite not being works of creative genius.
And yes, Star Wars is very much Bad But Fun.
Anyway, as I’m enjoying my Guilty Pleasure Science Romance Books, I was struck with an unexpected outcome: I relate heavily to Elsie, the female lead in Love, Theoretically. A major point of the book is that Elsie is a social chameleon, always shifting and morphing to present her current company with the version of herself that they want or need. For much of the book, until Jack effectively tells Elsie to stop contorting herself to fit everyone’s expectations, she’s constantly bending over backward and not making herself heard because she doesn’t want to rub folks the wrong way. And boy howdy, that’s very similar to my life experience.
I don’t think I always flatten myself for others; it’s one of those fun things that has ebbed and flowed through my life. Over the last three or four months I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that the last couple of years have not been great for my mental health and how I interact with the world. I’ve certainly had worse depressive episodes, and life was a lot more consistently shitty before I started taking medication for my dumb broken brain, but I was in a rut in a lot of ways. After gaining back a ton of weight, I didn’t want to go out or be seen by anyone. There were months when I was embarrassed to see friends or family because I was unhappy with myself and my body. I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on clothes that fit better with my new, squishier body, so I basically lived in sweatpants and t-shirts, which in turn made me feel even worse and even frumpier. I was once again fighting a losing battle with self-doubt and loathing, self-esteem, and insecurity. Being unhappy with myself and passively floating from day to day became the norm and despite having loving and supportive friends and family, I gave into it. I don’t have a better explanation as to why I “let” this happen to myself, but I suppose mental health battles wouldn’t be an issue if it were as simple as saying “nah” and just doing the opposite. I’ve masked the negative feelings decently enough, I think, as even on the days when I was feeling the worst, I had folks telling me I was so great and confident and funny. “Fake it ‘til you make it” is the story of my life.
A part of this fun little rut I’ve been clawing out of has been remembering that I can be a confident, self-assured person. Reading this damn guilty pleasure book was a much-needed reminder to have my own opinions, to do the things I want to do, and to not be so concerned with what others think. This is by no means a major revelation, but the book beat that lesson into me at a time when I most needed the reminder that being comfortable and confident in myself is what matters, not what other people want or expect of me. I shouldn’t bend myself to fit what I think will make a person like me the most. What a concept.
I feel vulnerable in sharing all of this, like I’m airing some very deeply sad and pathetic truth about myself, even though this is not an uncommon experience and I know I’m not alone in it. Funnily enough, my deepest insecurity recently has been making sure people don’t think I’m as deeply sad and pathetic as I fear they think, so there’s something cyclic here that I’ve got to break. But none of this is an earth-shattering revelation and all I can do is stay the course of picking myself back up and re-developing the confidence and security that I haven’t felt for a few years. I’m already seeing some improvement over the last few months, at least, but I still have work to do.
About nine ago, my friend Katie wrote me the following poem:
Never apologize for being fire.
Those burned would rather
you be tame, but tame
you could never be the sun.
Be the sun.
I will stand in your light,
and we will both
be made better
for the times when we touched.
There’s a reason I have the first line of the poem tattooed on my upper arm with a phoenix. This poem has been my mantra since the day I first read it, and there have been countless times I’ve recited it to myself to draw strength from the words. Sometimes I make myself sad thinking that I’ve snuffed my own flames, but the phoenix is a reminder, too: I can always be reborn and start anew. Instead of dwelling over having lost sight of myself the last two years or so, I want to choose to be grateful that it’s never too late to start over.
I’ve spent this summer rediscovering myself, my values, my motivations… everything. I still have my moments, and I am still very much a work in progress, but tonight I’m grateful to take a step back and see that I have been feeling more and more like myself again.
One day, years after receiving the framed hand-written poem from Katie, I knocked the frame over and the back side popped off. On the back side of the poem was the following note:
Kat, those of us who love you will always understand.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so loved or so seen as I did when I first discovered that secret message, and even now it reminds me that the people who love me will bear with me as I figure things out.
