What about you?

"What about you?"

The laziest question a man could ask—and yet it’s haunted me ever since.

I am the short time. The guide. The manic pixie dream girl. I don’t exist as the reason for the story, but I exist to help the reason to their next step.

I knew this particular reason was in deep agony the moment he answered the telephone, and by golly I dug in to figure out why. I asked him something to the effect of why he doesn’t believe he’s worthy of love. And after he kicked his toes in what was probably an avoidant answer he threw the accusation back at me.

“Well, what about you?”

I didn’t have an answer, and I still don’t.

The funny part of the question is it takes the belief of unlovability for granted. “You obviously don’t think you deserve love” it seems to taunt, “so why not?” It finishes with an innocence unbecoming of one so coy.

I don’t remember what, or even if, I answered.

But I think it was the start of my realizing just how deeply I despise myself.

13 months later I explain to a friend that I am his “break-up fairy”… we have too much chemistry to be friends when we are seeing other people, but between relationships I always seem to be there to help him process his mess and put himself back together. We laughed at the stupidity of the analogy and he had the audacity to ask

“Who is your breakup fairy?”

Ice ran down my spine as I choked on a cry I didn’t even know existed.

“I don’t get one.” My wry smile could hardly hide my true pain. “I’ve learned to pick myself back up and be my own fairy.”

That is to say...

Over a year later and I still own my belief that I am unlovable in my current state—and I am unable to find the bridge to get me to the version of Hannah who does deserve love. So I sit here, single and fully alone at 30 waving a white flag.

I have spent 30 years in pursuit of a Hannah worthy of love and she continues to evade me at every turn. So I will stay as I am, grubby and messy and unmanageable.