I’d like to say that it wasn’t by fucking a much-younger man, although that was a small part of it—just not the whole thing. And that was short-lived anyway. Fun and exciting, sure, but not the type of thing that would undo the damage inflicted or last beyond a weekend trip to the Mile-High City. Besides, it was a much-older man who would interfere win that bit of sexcation fun before going on to break my heart a little more.
I know how it worked out for Stella, but in my experience, the problem could not be solved by a man of any age or a weekend of romps in cities at sea level, mid-level or far higher. The problem, it seemed, had buried itself within me, and I had to do the hard work of evicting it myself.
That’s not to say that this was a problem entirely of my own making. I held much of the blame—for beginning a romance with someone who sucked, for selecting a project over a person, for staying too long—but when dating a narcissist for the first time, most people find themselves in over their heads. I was not special in this regard.
The situation eventually became untenable. There were so many moments when I wanted to let go (and run for the proverbial hills), while also acknowledging that our lives and living situation were inconveniently tangled. Sure, both people want to break up, but absolutely no one wants to break a lease.
Perhaps in this situation, you, like me, would take a step or two to sever the bond, sunk costs be damned. Good for us, except that’s precisely the type of move that prompts this kind of lover to Hoover you back in again. Suddenly, you’re in a chess match with a vacuum, and it doesn’t matter how many moves ahead you’re planning because your opponent always has the option to steamroll the board.
But let’s not get too carried away. This story isn’t about some narcissist anyway. Despite the vanity that would lead him to believe otherwise, it’s actually about the aftermath, the journey to undo the damage already done. Time to skip ahead to the good parts. The meat of this comeback tale begins with a ClassPass subscription and a pole studio in southeast Portland.
The since-defunct Purr Pole Studio was my first exposure to the aerial arts. I wouldn’t call it a smooth transition. I showed up too early—a habit I have when I’m nervous, not sure where I’m going or what the parking situation looks like, and/or there’s a potential for additional paperwork—and felt awkward right away.
It also didn’t help that ClassPass allowed me to sign up a Level 1 class. You might be forgiven for thinking (as I did) that Level 1 is the place to begin. Unfortunately, there’s a Level 0, an intro course that would have ensured my first experience was focused more on the basics and less on failing miserably. The class was somewhat mixed level, which meant that newbies like me could feel both extremely inspired and excessively intimidated. I did leave the class knowing one thing: I wanted to get really, really good at pole dancing.
Realizing that Purr might not be the place to make that happen (given it closed almost immediately after my class there—a coincidence I tried not to take personally…), I returned my focus to the ClassPass search bar. Fortunately, there was a second option: Pole Palace. Located in the Kenton neighborhood, Pole Palace quickly became my home. I took an introductory class, then the full series. I took Pole 1 classes for a few months before gaining enough strength to invert (aka lift my ass over my head and go upside down) and move on to level two and then three.
I advanced quickly in part because I was already in pretty good shape. My biggest advantage came down to motivation: I had something to prove. I needed a way to feel good about myself again. And if I could send a big middle finger in the direction of my ex in the process? All the better.
Here’s the part that I hate to admit: My self-confidence had taken a serious hit in the two-ish years I spent in this emotionally disastrous relationship. Before my time with Portland’s very own Voldemort, I was pretty self-assured. I wouldn’t have gone so far as to call myself beautiful, but I felt attractive and sexually appealing most of the time. I knew how to flirt, and I was good at playing the game. I could get a guy into bed, if and when I wanted to.
My kryptonite, however, was that I based almost all of how I felt about myself on how men responded to me. I sought validation in the form of friends-with-benefits relationships and how often I could successfully Babe Ruth-it (point and hit it out of the park) at the bar. My ex must have seen this wound within me. He was truly masterful at exploiting it.
The execution came mostly in the form of ogling and talking about other women. He once convinced me to have a foursome (orgy?) with another couple. It was fine. I didn’t really need to repeat it. Each polyamorous experience chipped away at my self-worth. He also had a particular affinity for strip clubs, which he would drag me to with several of his (horrible) coupled friends. And he was so gross about it. Pushing the limits of closeness and touch, while tipping as little as possible.
Let me be clear that there is absolutely nothing wrong with strip clubs. I celebrate the people who do this work, and I’ve even contemplated participating myself. But I also don’t need to go to strip clubs. It’s not my thing. I don’t need to watch people strip or look at strangers’ naked bodies. It simply doesn’t do anything for me. And after reluctantly participating in my partner’s near-weekly need to be entertained by strippers, this became the final straw.
All that time, I’d sit there wondering: What was the big deal? I could do that, couldn’t I? I mean, how hard could pole dancing be?
Pretty fucking hard, it turns out. Not necessarily the tricks most performers are doing for your average patron at your average strip club, but the true artistry of pole dance? Incredibly challenging. It requires a lot of training, conditioning and fearlessness. It requires a dedication to balancing flexibility with strength, courage with proper coaching. You gotta be willing to work, to get uncomfortable, to build up your tolerance for pole kisses (bruises). But poling wasn’t impossible. Not only could I learn to do it, I could learn to do it well.
The real magic wasn’t the impressive tricks though. It was the practice that helped me to fall back in love with myself. It was the movement that helped me feel strong in my body. It was the sense of accomplishment that helped me get my groove back. This was all well and good. Perhaps the biggest bit of witchery, however, was that I eventually came to understand my self-worth as separate from those outside of me. I became unfuckwithable in the face of men much younger, much older and any age below, beyond or in between. I saw the power that was within me, and I knew I’d never give it away to anyone ever again.
P.S. Thank you to everyone who shared positive feedback on the “Two Rules for a Happy Household” post. For those curious about how R. responded to this startling dish-soap revelation, he found it funny. He admitted that he does sometimes space out when pouring the soap, but he also likes a lot of bubbles. Upon hearing that, my wonderful pole partner and friend sent this photo as a suggestion for spicing things up in the bedroom (sans pants, of course)…