Seven Deadly Sinners: Self-Blame, Sex and Responsibility

A thick stream of men trapezed through my university career, weaving between my legs and back out the front door. Most left little evidence of their existence. The fainter the trace, the better the gossip.I don’t know if they left because I was a handful, or because they all quickly realized that they could not reach the unattainable expectations I had set for them.

I couldn’t help but laugh sometimes, realizing that Darren* had brought his shoes inside my closed bedroom door to avoid the watchful eyes of my roommates. All the while loudly pounding my brains out for all to hear. Even though what was happening to me was sort of horrible, it was also sort of funny.At least he helped me keep off the looming freshman fifteen.

One Monday night, wallowing in self-pity, I headed for the bar. I conveniently lived a short walk from the strip, so I never turned down a quick drink with my friends. Three hours and ten shots later, I giggled myself all the way to the passenger seat of my new friend’s car. Damian* had kept my blood thick with rye all night. He was tall and a little bit older. It was love.That’s the climax of this particular night (thank God). He tried to lay down some moves in his lavish one-bedroom apartment, but I spent the rest of the night more interested in the Brita water jug I found in the fridge. I passed out.

In the light of the sunrise, I found a frog. Horrified with my mistake, and unsure of my location, I woke the sleeping amphibian, frantically muttering lies about missing class. He drove me home, still buzzing from the night before. His slime sweltered with false pride in the light. I filled the car’s cockpit with empty promises: “of course we can do that again.” I slammed the door, and never returned his calls.

This pattern continued for almost four years, but I’m not complaining. At the time, each heartbreak seemed like a big deal. I’d spend one evening eating ice cream on my kitchen floor, the next night drunk off my ass, and the following night I’d meet a new boy toy to complete the cynical cycle. The mistakes and heartaches blended like a tragically beautiful mosaic of self-blame.

I worked most nights, partied through my days off, but started actually spending time studying in between. It’s a miracle what class participation can do to your grades. Sometime in my upper years, I had an epiphany. Or at least as much so as the twenty-first century will allow. After having a two-hundred pound man fart in your face while peering between his log-like legs (downward dog, anyone?), you start to realize that there are worse things in life than being dumped, banged and ditched, never called back. In that order.

It’s funny how the smallest moments freeze in your mind and butterfly into your future. I’m not going to say that “I saw the light,” “I was a changed woman,” “I found my true self.” But I was able to recognize my previous behaviour as reckless. I created the cycle that I was stuck in. While the cycle definitely did not positively affect my wellbeing, it did teach me.

There’s a difference between self-blaming and taking responsibility.

*names changed

Photo Courtesty of: The Things I Wish I Knew –
Kimberly Wolcott Designs Embellished King James Bible (Horchow); John Derian for Astier De Villatte Skull & Bones Mug (ABCHOME); Kat Von D Lipstick (Sephora).

Author Description

Jill Clark

Jill Clark is a Montreal-based freelance writer grappling with her current niche. She writes life as she sees it, but embellishes for fun. Anyone she meets is quirky enough to be a character in one of her half-written stories. Everyone she meets (unknowingly) teaches her a little more about self-love. You can follow her via instagram @ohjiggy

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