—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
I’m still brokenhearted and sad, but I am starting to clean up my own messes. As Larry snores at my feet, on my “office” duvet, I grab my shiny silver laptop from my bedside table and open it up. I flinch, as if worried a bomb of hateful insults will lob themselves out of the bright screen like criticism grenades, but they don’t.
I stare at the blinking cursor of my laptop.
Slickreaders deserve an explanation. That much I can give them.
I pull up my lastSolo Februaryentry and want to punch myself. Look at these words I’m throwing around. I sound ridiculous. No wonderSlickreaders hate me.
I begin typing.
To everyone pissed at me, I get it. And you are right to be pissed at me. I’m pissed at myself. I told you all I was #GoingSolo and then I bailed, hoping I’d get my happily ever after, but you know what? I didn’t.
I pause, hands above the keyboard. Am I going to out Jack to the hundreds of thousands of readers ofSlick? I should. He’d deserve it. Yet… something stops me. Blame-shifting doesn’t solve my problem here. I can’t blame Jack for my decisions.Idecided to end Solo February early and brought the wrath of basically everyone down on my head. That’s on me.
And you all called me fake and a fraud, and in some ways, I was. I pitched this story to my editor, but I’m not sure I ever really truly believed in it.
Sure, I was bitter.
I was angry at men I’d dated.
But I started the Solo February challenge for the wrong reasons. Because I wanted to get paid for more articles, and because I was angry at my exes and sick of the dating game. I never really believed in it. I never really intended for Solo February to become so big.
But it became big because of YOU, not me.
You made this real. Not me.
And, yes, I blew it. But blowing it actually helped me see Solo February not as a gimmick, or a joke, but as something truly meaningful and important. And that’s all because of you, readers. You all helped me see that putting our mental health first is important, that getting to know ourselves IS important.
I know you’re angry at me and I get it, but just know that I’m cheering you on, if you decide to go solo forever, or if you decide to get married tomorrow. I trust that you can make the best choices for you. You actually don’t need aSlickconfessional to get you where you want to go. You don’t need me telling you what to do. You’ve been doing a pretty good job of making decisions for yourselves all along.
You can be mad at me. I can take it. But the real secret is you didn’t need these columns. You didn’t need me. You were making yourself better, all by yourselves. You made this happen, not me.
Keep on doing it. Even if you fail.
Especially if you fail.
My mom used to always tell me not to stick my neck out. Not to take risks, and I always thought that not taking a risk was better than taking one and failing. But now I realize how wrong that thinking is. If you don’t risk some, you’ll never win some. Sure, you’ll fail sometimes. Life will hammer you down.
But Mom also told me taking a risk is the only way to build anything meaningful in your life. So, go on. Take the risk. Whether you win or lose, you’ll be on the path to being better, and being your best self is worth the risk.
I send off the article to Arial.
During the coming week, the article turns the tide of the pitchfork-carrying online mob.
A majority of supporters forgive me.
Thanks for your brutal honesty.
That took courage.
You made me realize it’s okay to blow it. All I need to do is pick myself up and try again. Thanks for letting us know you’re human.
Sure, there are still those angry at me. Those who don’t forgive me and who let me know it all the time.
But in the end, I let it go. I said my piece.
I’m focused mostly on applying for new freelance gigs, reaching out to women’s health magazines and feminist nonprofits, looking for more meaningful articles to write. Then I throw myself into massive spring cleaning. I’m putting my condo on the market. I am finally doing it. Goodbye, Pam (even though Pam is nicer than I gave her credit for). Goodbye, memories of Marley. Time for me to move on.
