Remembering MySpace

I’m a Facebook old-timer. I joined the ubiquitous FB way back in 2007 when it was still some little nothing-special website made up of mostly college kids posting photos of themselves and their friends. I joined to keep tabs on my acting friends, many of whom were college students or people in their 20s having just graduated. One of them was a good friend and responsible for my joining. It was sorta like MySpace except new and cool.

MySpace was not my friend. I joined back in the early aughts, but I never really knew why. Seemed like the kind of place that people posted a bunch of crap about bands they liked. Thus, I was a member, but I rarely posted anything. I got a lot of date requests from losers which I found infuriating — not because I was annoyed, but because many of my friends got date requests from better-looking losers. Losers of quality.

Curious why this was, I decided to conduct an experiment. I created an alter-ego and, using a couple stolen profile pictures, found a subject that was in physical appearance, the opposite of me as humanly possible. I didn’t want to go for a bombshell — that would have been too obviously fake — so I went with someone very attractive, but very different from myself. She was about my age, but she had very dark, short hair. She was kinda punk looking, but had even features, a small nose, and nice high cheekbones and was very attractive. Flat chest, very slender build. I called her Kayla. She was wearing olive khakis, a striped tee shirt, and a jean jacket. Nothing overtly sexy, but she looked cool. Sorta like a rocker chick

As part of the experiment, the only difference between us was name and profile pictures. The rest and the verbal chatter were the same.

Not surprisingly, Kayla got A TON of men messaging her — good looking ones. Good looking men who swore their undying loyalty based merely on a few photos. It was weird. I got men who were hitting me up “for a good time”, but Kayla got the men who wanted to sweep her off her feet and wine and dine her. Oh, sure, I suppose they were all categorized as creeps, but she definitely had the better of the lot.

And in it, I saw an explanation.

I realized, and felt I had quasi-scientific proof, why the world of men didn’t seem to take much notice of me. No wonder I always attracted the losers and the bums — I wasn’t whatever Kayla was!

While I didn’t think of myself as ugly at the time (I mean, I thought I was fairly good looking in good light and posed for a helluva photo) whatever my outward appearance was, was not what turned them on. Even though I had a few things going for me — sizeable boobage and my body was “normal size” at the time (not fat as I am now), I had long hair, attractively styled. Yet somehow, that wasn’t enough.

Now I got it.

I kind-of accepted my lot in life after that. I didn’t worry about dating anymore. There was something weirdly freeing in obtaining that insight. So the rejection wasn’t about ME per se, it was how I was born — things out of my control. Some wonky aspect to my appearance that I couldn’t even see. It wasn’t fair, but I chose to make the best of it under the circumstances.

Yes, I longed to be part of that exclusive club that the Kaylas of the world are part of. What mysterious coolness did she exude? Why was she so much more attractive and approachable? I guess it wasn’t for me to know. Being comfortable with being unwanted became part of my core belief system.

If a guy paid attention to me, I just assumed they were being nice and nothing more. I was a freak in a normie’s world, and that was somehow okay now that I had formed some rules around it.

That’s how it went for a while. Content in being weird. A few years ago, when I was in recovery, I had a shrink challenge this core belief. I really wish he hadn’t.

He asked me to consider if perhaps I had misjudged myself. Maybe the reason I didn’t have quality men in my life was that I was putting up walls, my defenses producing a spurning effect. Because I respected this shrink so much, I took his words to heart and wondered if he was right. I reconsidered. Could my experiment have been wrong?

I swear, as God is my witness, that’s how I ended up with frickin’ Bob because he came along shortly after this shrink messed with my thought process. It was as if, for one brief shining moment, I felt normal and thought I’d found the one. Yes, I know, I know, that’s asinine. But understand the circumstances. Someone I was deeply attracted to suddenly wanted ME — someone nobody wanted. Could I have been wrong? Was my shrink correct? I wanted to believe it. I tricked my own self into dismissing what my quasi-scientific experiment and my own core beliefs had taught me.

Slowly, I’m returning to that state of nothingness. I’m nothing to no one, and maybe that’s okay. There are good things about living alone. Never fighting over what’s on TV. The room can be whatever temperature I decide. No uncomfortable discussions about where all this is going. Just me and my dog and that’s it.

That’s not really all THAT bad. Is it?

That said, things are changing. As I sit here, a couple weeks before the end of the decade, I can’t help but contemplate who I have been, what I have become, and where I am going.

Next Tuesday is a crucial day. My entire future rests on passing my final exam. This one little two-hour period will decide the rest of my life. I have to get a minimum of 75 (passing). If I don’t, I’m done.

I realize your instinct will be to reassure me that I’m gonna pass, but neither of us know that. Every question is like sudden death. I can ONLY get 18 wrong out of 75. That’s not that many. Each question is interpretive. For most of them, there is no clear answer. I have to make an educated guess. What if I guess wrong?

Thus, I am feeling contemplative.

While my MySpace profiles are long since gone, my Facebook remains as an ongoing testament to the last 10+ years of personal history. As often happens, Facebook collected a bunch of “Facebook Memories” to present for my perusal this morning. As I read through them, I couldn’t help but think what an ASSHOLE I was back then. Selfish. Self-centered. I mean, social media will do that anyway, but damn. Going through recovery, by and large, has clearly changed me for the better.

Maybe I’m being cruel to my former self, but most of the time, I really hate reading these old messages particularly ones from 2007-2012 while I was using. I feel they’re oversharing and sometimes mean.

So how have I changed for the better (I think)? Three things:

• I’m less argumentative online than I used to be. I don’t feel it’s my business (or right) to challenge others with whom I disagree. Mostly because I know it doesn’t matter. Arguing with someone on Facebook is a fruitless venture — you never change their mind and you might end up losing a friend over it. These days, if I see something I don’t agree with, I just leave it and move on. Even things I feel passionately about — vaccines, politics — I leave at the door.
• I hardly post about my personal struggles. Oh sure, everyone knows I’m in nursing and it sucks balls, or I’ll post about getting 15 feet of snow and how much that sucks. But I don’t post about money problems, job problems, or friend problems. Even complaining about school is kept to a minimum. I hate online complainers. Oversharing does not lead to increased caring. If I’m broke, it’s MY business. If I’m sad because Bob isn’t calling me back, if I report it on FB, the only reaction I can expect on the other side of the internet wire is a collective eye roll. Nobody wants to hear that stuff. I learned that.
• My posts are a lot more positive. While I can get seriously down on myself here in this anonymous forum, there, in public… I post a lot of internet memes. And I also post about my successes in life. New job. Passed a test. Sunny day. I rarely post anything crabby because I realize it’s not going to help.

Looking back on my memories, there’s a lot I’m either ashamed of, or a lot I’d rather not remember. November-December wasn’t a good time for me back in the early 2010s. My previous dog died in November 2011 — got to relive that grief when FB remembered it for me a couple weeks ago. When I was forced to move out of my home in 2010, it crushed my soul. I got to relive that too through Facebook Memory reminders this week. Not a lot of good things happened back then — things I’d rather leave in the past.

I also relived a number of dumb arguments — oddly, a lot of them were about TV shows or movies. I mean, how stupid is it to start a Facebook argument about an idiotic TV show that isn’t even on anymore? Come on, Past Me, what were you thinking?

So as I sit here, on the precipice of a new life, I sincerely wonder what the next decade will bring? First I have to pass my final exam next Tuesday. Assuming I do, I have to pass the Spring Semester (poorly named since most of it is spent in the Winter, but whatever.) Assuming I pass that, and pass the NCLEX, then I’ll be a licensed RN at long last.

Where will I go? What will I be doing? Will I move? Will I stay? Will my finances ever get in order? Will I ever clean my apartment and be able to have people over like a normal person? Will I finally break it off altogether with Bob so I can get a life I can be proud of?

Hoping for the best 2020 and beyond.