Diary of a Demisexual Mess

Welcome to my nightmare.

I guess I should start this with dear diary or like hey journal. I don't know. This was my therapist's suggestion to work through my "follow-through anxiety." So umm... let me introduce myself to you, new best bud.

I'm Mara Odinsmark. Yeah, I know. My ancestors were pretty full of themselves when they picked that last name. Very Viking. Very "we are the chosen ones." You know Odin--the god? His "mark" meaning the mark he left on earth? Yeah, they basically claimed to be the human descendants of Odin himself. Totally reasonable, right? Peak delusion. Love that for them. Love that for me.

Anyway.

Going on 27. Still a virgin--not by choice, exactly. Honestly, at this point, it feels like a cruel joke of fate.

I'm autistic. Not the kind most people notice. I'm social, functional, even funny--but I've got that deep, obsessive tunnel vision that never lets up. When I want something, I want it bad. And when I feel, it swallows me whole--and then chews me up and spits me out most of the time. See what I mean by that fate thing?

I figured out I'm demisexual recently, which makes my taste in men absolutely hilarious. Still waiting on the diagnosis to explain that one. I'm drawn to frat boys, hockey players, and Canadian guys--the ones who smell like whiskey and trouble (the more trouble, the better). The ones who'd break me into a million pieces if I don't stay two steps ahead. Not that I ever do. They catch me with a crooked smile, a flannel shirt, and a low voice saying something stupid like "you cold?"--and I fold faster than cheap lawn furniture.

I've had three boyfriends. Almost had sex more times than I care to count. Always close. Never quite there. I've spent too many late nights going shot-for-shot with some blue-eyed dream in a backwards cap, only to find myself trapped under him while he snores into my big curly hair. It's happened so much I actually started doing deadlifts so I don't get stuck. I lift weights now because men keep passing out on me. If that's not girlhood, I don't know what is.

One time, I was halfway out of my dress before he passed out. I stuffed my bra in my purse, my shoes in my hand, and did the walk of shame--barefoot--with nothing to show for it but a hangover and a regret kink. And let me tell you, there is nothing more character-building than walking down the street at 5AM in yesterday's makeup with no panties on and absolutely no serotonin in sight.

My first boyfriend? He was long-distance. He broke me in the quietest, most beautifully painful way. I think I've been chasing the version of him that's taken up residence in my head ever since--some emotional ghost I can't let go of. And every time I get close with someone new, I freeze. I remember how it felt when someone made me believe they saw me--then stopped looking. It's like I'm bracing for the moment they blink and forget I was ever there.

But I swear to god, this man is haunting me. He's around every corner. I fucking moved 1500 miles and he just shows up in the new town that neither of us have ties to. I live here--but he just comes here to watch hockey. Like the universe decided I hadn't suffered enough and now he gets to orbit me like some emotionally unavailable moon.

Of course, every time I see he's in town, I reach out. I fall in love again. I get my heart broken and hate myself all over again. He plays the part of wanting to see me so well--it's Oscar-worthy, honestly--but never follows through. We make plans, get excited, and then boom--he ghosts me for about 10--14 business days. Then he apologizes, makes up some lame excuse, and we do it all over again in three months.

And every time I tell myself this is the last time. That I'll be smarter. That I won't let him in. And every time I do. Because I remember how he made me feel once, even if it was just a fluke. Even if it was never real. I hold on to the version of him that loved me. Or maybe just the version that wanted to. And that version lives rent-free in my chest, redecorating the place every time he texts me "hey stranger."

Maybe this is where I'll write the things I couldn't say out loud. Where I let the almosts live and breathe and burn in writing. Where I take back the nights I left unkissed, unpleased, unloved. Where I finally let myself feel it all--without apology. Without shrinking. Without begging anyone to stay.

I might not have the fairytale ending. Hell, I might not even have chapter one. But I've got words. And I'm not afraid to bleed with them.