Craigslist Confessional

by Helena Dea Bala

  I can’t tell you how it happened—how I spent seventeen years with someone and had absolutely no idea what he was doing. How was I so comfortable just handing over our whole livelihood to this man, trusting that he wouldn’t get us into trouble, or at least trusting that he would tell me when he got us into trouble? I was so ashamed in our little town—everyone knew what happened to us and kept their distance, like our misfortune was contagious.

  In marrying my husband, I was probably mimicking the dynamic in my family growing up. My mom was sick a lot, and my dad didn’t want her to exert herself too much, so she didn’t work for much of our childhood. When she did find a job, it was part-time, as a receptionist at her doctor’s office—and it was after us kids had moved out. I guess my dad felt that if she did get sick and need medical attention, this was the best place for her to be. She moved on from her little job at the office, though, and eventually started working full-time—she was able to bridge her pension and retired well. But it took a lot of time for the family to get used to seeing her as a career woman, as someone more than a sick mom.

  My husband was kind of the same. He never wanted me to have a paying job because he told me it reflected poorly on his business—that his wife “had” to work. And I trusted him, I did. Until he ran us into the ground. We lost everything; he got a new job and moved to the coast. Just like that, boom. Left me holding the bag, so to speak. And all my fake, rich friends dropped me, too. My parents paid for my divorce, and I spent some time feeling sorry for myself. My self-esteem really took a hit. I’ve always had thyroid issues, and I also had breast cancer, so my weight was up and down. I felt worthless. When you’re single and in your forties, worthless is not a good way to feel.

  I’d always been a child. My husband had taken care of everything. After the divorce, I got pulled over because my registration had expired. I started crying, and I told the poor cop, “My husband always took care of these things, and he’s left me.” My situation called for an adult in the room, though, so I learned how to pay the bills, continued raising the girls, and started working full-time. Eventually, I decided to go back to school so that I could build a career for myself.

  But still, I was so used to having a man step up for me. I went to a matchmaking event, and the first person I met there was Don. We went out to coffee, and he talked my ear off. I remember thinking, Boy, this guy just won’t shut up about himself. I definitely had no plans of seeing him again. But a couple of days after the date, I got some white roses in the mail with a long typed note stuck in between them, all about how wonderful it had been to meet me. I was so touched. On our second date, I went to Little Italy with him and we had a very nice day. We started dating, and even though my family couldn’t stand him, we made it to two years. And then, out of the blue, he broke up with me. I was devastated. My mom had died, my dog had died, and my oldest daughter had gone off to college. I felt like my family was thinning out, so I was alone. Three months went by with no contact. And then he texted me, “I made the biggest mistake of my life.” Long story short, we got back together, and that Christmas, he proposed with the most beautiful engagement ring. We were engaged for two and a half years when I got an email from him, breaking things off again. I told him the ring would be on the kitchen counter and… finally, I got a clean break.

  I talk out of both sides of my mouth—I don’t really want to be in a relationship, but I also don’t like being alone. My current boyfriend was actually my neighbor for a while. Every time I’d go out to get my mail, he’d be there, trying to make small talk. Then I realized that his condo overlooked the mail room, and I teased him about us always seeming to get the mail at the same time. He finally fessed up and asked me on a date. I like him all right, and in some key ways, he is different from my ex-husband and ex-fiancé—for one, I make more than he does. But he has a lot of trouble expressing affection. We’ve been together for a few years, and he’s never said “I love you.” He buys me cards that say “I love you,” but he’s never actually written or spoken the words himself. And that’s a big issue because I need affection to be communicated.

  You know, I know that it’s not going anywhere, but I can’t break up with him. I can’t break up with anyone. I always wait for them to leave me because I can’t hurt their feelings. There was a ton of tension in the house when I was growing up. I internalized that as I’m not lovable—so I pick bad men, and I bend over backward to please them because I think I’d be lucky to get anyone. I know this is my pattern.

  About a year ago, my boss got promoted out of her position and she gave a friend her job. I was miserable under the new management—I felt unappreciated. Plus, I went to get my master’s degree when I was in my fifties and I knew that the clock was ticking for me, in terms of making moves in my career. There, I was plugged in as a middle manager, a solid performer. I could ride out my days, but I was unhappy.

  I put out some feelers and started going on job interviews. I was kind of like Goldilocks—this bed is too hard; this one is too soft. I was looking for excuses not to move because I knew that a career move might end things with the neighbor. I guess I was okay with that, though—I had always worried that I was just a convenience because I lived in the same building. Plus, the neighbor is hot: he’s younger than me, he has a full head of hair, and he doesn’t have the middle-age spread; I mean, at my age, that’s the trifecta! So what was he doing with me? Was I crazy to put work first and run the risk of losing him?

  I did eventually find a job that was just right, and I took it. It meant a whole lot more money but also moving to a different city. I’ve been here eight months, and I absolutely love it. My boss is in her sixties; she is loving and kind. The company is smaller, and they care about their employees. I commuted for a couple of months, but I managed to sell my old condo in ten days for a profit. I moved into a beautiful rental in my new city, so—I guess—go me!

  I thought, for sure, that it would end things with the neighbor, but instead he doubled down. My youngest daughter got married, and I thought he wouldn’t go to the wedding as my date, but he went with a smile on his face and charmed my whole family. My ex-husband was there, of course, with his green-card wife who is a couple of decades younger than him and spends the majority of the year out of the country. Is that unkind of me to say? Whatever, after what he’s done, I’m entitled to one snipe. I thought he looked so old. I guess the sins of the past caught up with him.

  He did say, during his toast, “And thank you to their mother, Linda, for everything she did to raise our daughters so well.” So, that was nice.

  But I always tell my girls, “With your last name, don’t ever not pay your taxes.”

  As for the neighbor, there he was, the feelings-are-for-suckers guy, dancing at my daughter’s wedding and making jokes. Every time I think our relationship has run out of gas, he surprises me. I guess I would miss him if I lost him, but I endured a seventeen-year marriage going down the drain, and a five-year engagement, too. I am convinced that it will end, and I think it might be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ve learned that people leave—just wait long enough and they’ll go.

  So, wherever you go, there you are. I’m proud of my work. And proud of raising my girls. I’m proud that I turned things around for us and figured it out. But I wish I was in a good relationship. I need to work on myself: I’m overweight. If I lost the weight, maybe that would give me the confidence I need.

  Scott, thirties

  I run a successful Instagram fitness account with hundreds of thousands of followers. I spend my whole day at the gym, meal prepping, eating, training my clients, and managing my online persona. On Instagram, I post five to eight times a day during specific high-traffic hours (I use an app to schedule the posts), and I have a photographer whom I occasionally pay to take professional photos of me. I get paid to feature products, to train clients, and to create meal and workout plans for people. I don’t use Photoshop, but that’s only because finding a good Photoshop artist is difficu
lt and expensive. I do have Facetune, though, and I use that to fix things here and there. And I do all this on top of my nine-to-five in law enforcement. Nobody in my life knows how tolling this is and how unhealthy it has become.

  On Instagram stories, I post videos throughout the day of myself working out or making food. I also post on YouTube about twice a week—mostly recipes, workout plans, or challenges. The last challenge I did was to consume twenty thousand calories in twenty-four hours—that’s when you epically overeat during a cheat day (and probably do some serious damage to your body) for the sake of views, likes, and subscribers. The point of the exercise is to show that even a huge splurge wouldn’t significantly derail someone who is in fantastic shape. None of my “fans” are sitting there, worrying about what’s happening to my cholesterol and blood sugar. Everything I do is meant to portray an image of strength, health, and discipline. All of it is calculated and posed.

  I started working out when I was in middle school because I was getting bullied. I was a very small kid, I wasn’t too athletic, and I had a slight stutter that showed up when I was anxious or upset. I got picked on a ton, and that made school really unpleasant for me, so I started acting out at home. I was the youngest of my brothers, so I always felt like the runt of the litter, as though I didn’t matter. Of course, they were tall, athletic, and popular, and I seemed to be their exact opposite in every way. My dad noticed that I was struggling, and he helped me channel what I was going through into working out; he really took me under his wing during a difficult time. I remember watching Pumping Iron with him, and deciding that I wanted to get into bodybuilding.

  Everyone rooted for Lou Ferrigno, Franco Columbu, or Mike Katz because they were the underdogs. But not me—as soon as I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger, I just knew he was a winner. He had this confidence, this swagger about him, that was magical to a kid like me. And of course the ladies were crazy about him, whereas I couldn’t repel them fast enough. I became a little obsessed with emulating him. In the documentary, Arnold said that the bodybuilder is an artist and a sculptor; he sculpts his body to perfection, adding and subtracting necessary pieces in order to reach the ideal. He said that it was important to work methodically and tirelessly, and to devote yourself to the goal. And I took that really seriously. I didn’t want to be the underdog, the loser; I wanted to be a winner.

  In some ways, discovering bodybuilding was good because it helped me take control of my life. I felt less like a victim and more like I could fight back. I started working out every day, twice a day. Gradually, I started getting bigger and bigger, and my confidence really skyrocketed. I stopped getting picked on. I started eating more carefully, working out more strategically, and my body was responding. I could control everything it did, and there was something exhilarating about that control—you know, when everything else is falling apart, you can go work out and you know exactly what to expect. Like Arnold said, I was sculpting my aesthetic. Eventually, once it became a lifestyle, I started competing and placing.

  But at some point along the road, I found out that I’d tied my self-worth to my body shape. Whenever I don’t do well in competitions, I punish myself. I did, and still do, a lot of unhealthy and unnatural things. I take steroids, I take supplements, I take diuretics; I’ve made myself throw up. I’ve gone on every diet you can think of—keto, counting macros, vegan, etc. I haven’t had water in over a day to water-deplete before a competition. I weigh my food. Every Sunday, I plan my meals for the week, and I batch cook them so that I’m never tempted to deviate. I haven’t had a cheat meal in years (one that’s not being filmed for YouTube, that is), and when I go off my meal plan even slightly, I go to the gym for hours. I am hypercritical of myself. Once a week, I get naked and mark myself up in front of the mirror like a plastic surgeon might so that I know what I need to work on.

  All of this makes it hard to get close to someone, so I haven’t really ever had a serious relationship. The only person who really knows what it’s like to live a day in my life is me, and that’s really isolating. But there’s also a little bit of comfort in the distance and the discipline. I know that I don’t ever really have to worry about judgment in a way that would truly hurt because I keep myself so hidden. Having everything so rigidly planned gets rid of uncomfortable gray areas; it makes me feel that, ultimately, I am the master of my fate.

  My last relationship ended because I couldn’t let her see “the real me”: the physical and psychological punishment, the grueling workouts, the bullshit social media posts, the image obsession. There was always a polite distance between our lives, and she started to sense it. She started to ask questions: “Do you want kids? Where do you see us going? What are your plans for the future?” There’s only so long that you can sidestep questions like those. The more I’d avoid them, the more direct she became. We were driving on the highway one day, on our way home from visiting her older sister. Every time we’d visit, she’d see the baby, I guess, and feel pressure to also move her life forward. So she started up with the questions again, and I lost my cool. I started yelling at her and almost lost control of the car. I remember I was banging my hand on the steering wheel, and I guess the horn was going off because cars were passing by, looking at us. She broke up with me after that. Over text. Can’t say I blame her.

  Most people don’t see that side of my life, though. They see what I post online, and they assume, Here’s this attractive guy with thousands of followers, he must be really killing it. The whole thing is for show, even the muscles. Even though I shouldn’t take anything that’s said online personally because I know it’s not real, I’m still human. The impersonal nature of an influencer’s public Instagram account makes people think that they can say anything and pick a person apart without any repercussions. I’ve gotten all sorts of vicious comments about my body, my intelligence, and my manhood (a favorite topic of discussion). Of course, I’m sitting on the other side of that screen, reading every comment and taking it to heart.

  The thing is, you build a following by engaging with your audience and you start to kind of get to know the people who are always liking and commenting. People get really demanding and nosy—if you miss a post, your DMs are getting blown up. When my girlfriend and I broke up, people noticed almost immediately that I wasn’t posting photos of us anymore—they wanted to know what had happened. I’m putting my life out there willingly, so it’s not like I’m expecting privacy, but it can really become overwhelming sometimes, like a pseudo celebrity. Whether you like it or not, people also start to idolize you. A lot of my followers are younger, and that makes me feel kind of guilty. I’m responsible in what I post—even though I use unhealthy methods to achieve my look, it’s not something I am open about on Instagram—but I am afraid that I am portraying an unattainable aesthetic to young people.

  I guess I would say, to anyone looking at my account online, to not be distracted by people who put up “real” unposed photos in order to humanize themselves and make you feel that you’re just like them. Don’t—for a second—think that just because someone seems “no-nonsense,” he or she wouldn’t try to sell you a weight-loss tea or a vitamin that won’t do anything for you but will make them thousands of dollars. It’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s all a business—the business of selling one’s image.

  But at the end of the day, anyone going to the gym as much as the people in the Instagram fitness community do is not healthy; there’s no balance in that lifestyle. It’s an obsession. Maybe someone else’s obsession is money, or fame, or validation. But whatever it is, eventually it all comes crashing down. My obsession is control. If I can control my body, I can control something. What worries me is the long-term repercussions. I can’t bring myself to think about how much damage I’ve done to my health.

  Psychologically, I am so messed up. I am still that little kid who wanted to be loved and accepted—who never was. It’s aggravating to me that someone like me, who thrives on control and order, can’t seem to get a handle on
something that happened such a long time ago. It’s just so hard to address because a lot of it has crusted over already and I don’t feel like picking at it. So instead, I’ve put on these layers of armor to protect myself from other people—the muscles, the lifestyle, the whole image—and nobody’s ever really gotten to know the real me. I’m not even sure I remember who that is anymore because I’ve put on blinders and told myself that this is what I need to do to be happy, so now there’s no turning back.

  I see the likes pile up on Instagram, and it’s this shallow gratification because I know it’s not even really me they’re liking, but I still sit there and watch the notifications. They’re liking someone I’ve created, and I guess there’s still some pride in that. It’s exactly like a drug: it’s beyond logic. I know that as soon as it wears off, I’ll be back in the real world. But it feels so good while it lasts, so why not just let it run? And then, as soon as the likes slow down, I’m thinking about the next post, the next pose, the next challenge. If I stopped doing it, I would be nobody. I have to buy into it now; it’s too late. If the cracks show, people sense it. Especially online, people are vicious; they’re unforgiving.

  Ben, early thirties

  One of the central roads in Pristina runs right behind my apartment building, and I stood on the balcony that night and watched rows of tanks pass by. I was twelve years old. We were watching BBC in our living room a couple of weeks before, and the news anchor was reporting that Serbs were taking Kosovar families out of houses in the villages and killing them. Women and children, too. And I remember thinking, Why would they kill women and children? A few days later, there were violent demonstrations in Pristina and I watched on TV as the Serbian police forces beat protesters.

  Soon after, the news became saturated with stories about violence in the smaller villages in Kosovo. Our classes in school started filling up with displaced children from those villages. They spoke Albanian, but with thicker accents. I remember the OSCE [the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe] had sent a mission to Kosovo to observe the situation, and they left. Slowly but surely, over a few weeks, most of the other foreigners left, too, and then everyone who had a car or could take a bus went to Albania, Macedonia, or Montenegro, to live in refugee camps. But we were stuck in Kosovo. And that’s when things got really scary.