by Anna Akana
Because if I don’t treat myself well, why should anyone else?
Love
When I was little, my dream (besides acting) was to be a wife and mother. I was brainwashed by romance novels and fairy tales and movies and TV shows. I was addicted to infatuation. I had fantasies about walking down the aisle in a puffy white dress, seeing my belly bulge with life in the mirror, taking long walks on the beach with my husband, and blah blah blah. I’d lie in bed reading YA novels and imagining that someday my boyfriend would spoon me while I read. That’s how selfishly I viewed love—I actually thought someone would hold me and do nothing for hours on end while I read a book.
Every time I went to the store or to a friend’s house or walked the hallways of school, I kept an eye out for my one true love. My soulmate. The One. He was out there waiting for me, and he was perfect. All of his edges would fit mine and, like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, we would click neatly into place.
Ugh.
I’ve been a serial monogamist since I was fifteen. I’ve kept relationships going way longer than I should have. I’d build an epic narrative in my head about the relationship, and I’d be horribly let down when the person I was dating turned out to be just a human being. Not an immortal vampire with eternal love for me, or a fierce werewolf with a jealous streak and super strength, or a knight in shining armor who took one look at me and fell to one knee to propose.
In hindsight, I can see how crazy I was. I thought love was dramatic and high-stakes and fierce. After the honeymoon phase of a relationship ended, I’d become convinced that the lack of passion signaled that our love had ended. And sometimes, by that point, I realized there had never been any love there in the first place.
Once the relationship became more routine and mundane, I would begin to wonder: Am I not in love anymore? Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life? I’d notice all the little flaws in my partner, and instead of loving him anyway, I’d daydream for the golden days of yore. Where oh where had perfection gone?
We’re taught to have unrealistic expectations about love. We expect our partners to be perfect, to read our minds, to put us above themselves. And we expect our emotions to always be strong and passionate, our relationships effortless, our happy endings predetermined.
For years, I spent most of my relationships in love with the idea of a person and what they represented, all while disliking the person I was actually with. I’d be attracted to the types of boys who would only mean misery for me—sex addicts, brooding guys with anger issues, ambitionless stoners—thinking that I, or love, could “fix” them.
I thought that love was synonymous with struggle. Every romantic movie and book I’d ever read was rich with conflict. The girl always cried and walked away, the boy was always moody or misunderstood. There were fights. If you’re lucky, you fought (and made up) in the rain. These were the ideas I used to mold my own relationships. Misery meant it was working! Yelling at each other was the sign of The Notebook–level love!
It’s only when I began going to therapy that I finally understood what healthy love was: communicating with each other, being clear and direct about your wants and needs, treating each other with respect, and trusting your partner to do his or her best.
It turns out that the best kind of love is quite boring. It’s supporting each other on a daily basis. It’s being in touch with yourself and knowing (and communicating) what you need. It’s having realistic expectations for your partner, being responsible for your own happiness, and being a good friend. It’s give-and-take. And it is hard. It takes work.
But before anyone bothered to explain this to me, I spent my teens and twenties in codependent, destructive, emotionally/verbally abusive relationships. I learned the hard way.
If He Doesn’t Listen, Ditch Him
I had my first serious boyfriend when I was fifteen. I was living in Hawaii and met Andrew at a friend’s birthday party. He was a cute surfer who called me “ma’am,” which I found insanely adorable. He was two years older than me, didn’t take school seriously, and didn’t really know what he wanted to do in the future. At the time I gave him a free pass on that one. I mean, we were teenagers, right? He was careless and reckless and impulsive—a free spirit, I thought. I’d happily do his homework whenever he asked me to “help,” I’d write his essays when he insisted he had writer’s block, and I’d cook him meals despite the fact that I hated cooking. It’s easy to be a free spirit when someone else is doing everything for you for free, I guess. But being in love can turn you into an idiot, so I guess that made two of us.
Now, at fifteen your hormones are raging. I can’t tell you how many hours I wasted dry-humping him on the bench in front of our house. I could’ve taken a college course in that time. I could’ve read a dozen books. Instead, we dry-humped for about a year and a half and I ended up giving him my virginity for his birthday.
We were at his house in his bedroom. We weren’t even alone. His family was home, but at this point we’d been dating long enough that they didn’t care to check in on us. I remember thinking that this would be a huge moment. I wasn’t going to be a virgin anymore. I was officially crossing the threshold of adulthood. I was going to be a woman.
I was nervous but, thanks to the Internet, I’d seen penises before. So no surprise there. When I was thirteen and we had dial-up, I’d look at porn and cringe with horror. Penises were so scary. They reminded me of the monsters from Tremors. They were veiny and weird and looked like faceless girthy men swaying back and forth. Even Andrew’s penis freaked me out sometimes. I would hold it and it would be so warm. And he could make it twitch, which he often did because he liked my startled reaction.
But on the day I lost my virginity, I wasn’t thinking about Tremors. Andrew slipped a condom on and laid me down on his bed. He kissed me and said he loved me and then I felt a rip. I’d read that some women liked it their first time, and that if you were a horseback rider chances were high that you’d already ripped your hymen open. I figured I’d done so many high kicks in martial arts that I’d probably gotten rid of mine a long time ago too. Nope.
It was so uncomfortable. It felt wrong, like he wasn’t supposed to be there. The latex on the condom felt weird and Andrew’s body on mine made it hard to breathe. It hurt so badly that we had to stop after a few minutes. I remember thinking that if just a penis could cause that much pain, I never even wanted to think about pushing a baby out of there. Forget that shit.
Luckily we’d had the foresight to lay down a towel, because there was a bit of blood. As Andrew cleaned it up, I sat there feeling nothing. I didn’t feel like a woman at all. I didn’t feel liberated or sexy. If anything, I felt like a kid who had made a horrible mistake. It wasn’t the romantic moment that I saw in movies. It felt more like the porn I had seen on the Internet: rough and fake and filled with bodily fluids. Overall, it was disappointing. But I was happy that I’d shared my first time with someone I loved.
The second time we did it I felt a little better. By the fifth or sixth time, I genuinely enjoyed and looked forward to having sex. Though there were a few times I thought I’d climaxed, I definitely didn’t. And I wouldn’t for years, until I discovered clitoral stimulation toys. (But that’s another book.)
Andrew and I would waste a lot of time watching TV, going to the beach, and playing videogames. But most of our time was spent thinking about, having, and looking for places to have sex. (Fun fact: Hawaii is known for having the highest pregnancy rate among teenagers. That’s right. It’s such a small island, you have nothing to do but each other.)
There was a girl in my high school—we’ll call her Arlene—who got pregnant twice. I saw her binge-drinking on the steps outside of school, and when I asked her why, she said it was “pregnancy control.” It took me a few years to realize that she was trying to give herself a miscarriage. She got pregnant again her sophomore year, and her mom took her out of school for a few days, probably because she’d caught on to Arlene’s form of “pregnancy
control.” She finally had a kid her senior year, and though I was living in California by this point, a friend told me it was because Arlene just knew “it was time.” Seriously. And this wasn’t uncommon. If I had to guess how many pregnant girls there were in my Hawaii high school, I’d say it was in the double digits.
Sidebar to the governmental powers who may be reading this: PLEASE make it mandatory to teach contraception, not abstinence, in high school sex ed classes. Don’t you remember what it was like to be a teenager with throbbing genitals? Don’t you remember how determined you were to find a suitable location for sex? Give teens condoms and the pill, not a lecture. Your words are falling on hot and bothered ears.
I think I knew Andrew and I were doomed a little over a year into the relationship. Andrew had a shiny red sports car that he’d just gotten for his birthday. It was used but looked cool. On this particular day, we were headed off to the beach. As my dad saw us off, he told Andrew to make sure to buckle up. He repeated it a few times and with grave sincerity. I thought this was super weird and rolled my eyes accordingly.
As we drove down the highway, I noticed Andrew’s seatbelt wasn’t buckled.
“Buckle up, babe,” I told him.
“Nah.”
I stared at him. “My dad told you to buckle up.”
He shook his head. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“It’ll take you like, what? Two seconds? My dad was all weird about it, so just do it.”
Andrew looked at me. “Nothing’s gonna—”
Of course, since the universe works in mysterious ways, he hit a car. His head flew into the windshield so hard he cracked the glass. His hand smashed into the dashboard and the skin split. His front bumper was dented and damaged.
I got whiplash, but it could’ve been worse. I was wearing my seatbelt.
Andrew was thankfully okay, but unfortunately, the insurance situation was not. Because he rear-ended someone, the fault was on him. His insurance only covered the other vehicle, not his own. The insurance investigators suspected he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, and insisted this negligence meant they were not obligated to pay the medical bills he had accumulated for his head injury.
Since I was the only witness to the accident, Andrew begged me to sign a statement that said he had been wearing his seatbelt and that it must have somehow malfunctioned and released him upon impact, thus explaining the giant crack in the windshield and the giant crack in his head. He asked me to lie.
There was a lot that I would do for Andrew, a lot I had done. I’d do his homework. I’d clean his room. I’d fill his car with gas. I’d cook for him. I’d give him my love, my time, my body. I was in love, and like I said, love makes you a bumbling idiot.
But there was no way in hell I was going to lie on an official document when we’d argued about a seatbelt for two minutes and he’d said, “Nah.”
All he’d had to do was listen. None of this would have happened if he’d listened to me or my dad. And not only had he refused, he asked me to lie. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. He had put his life in danger. For what? To look cool or something? He certainly didn’t look cool with the stitches on his forehead.
I put my foot down: I would not sign. Though he pleaded and fought with me about it, I didn’t budge. He’d broken the law. He’d have to live with his mistakes.
I’m proud of this rare early moment of self-respect I displayed in my first relationship. It established where I wasn’t willing to go. I knew it was unfair of him to ask me to deceive anyone on his behalf, especially when he had no one to blame but himself. My gut told me what the right thing to do was, and I listened.
Eventually he got over it. And then I got over him.
Take Your Birth Control
When I got pregnant I was young, broke, and dating this guy that we’ll call Dick (yes?). I was twenty-one years old and had just moved to Los Angeles.
I met Dick while working on a TV show. I was a background artist (all the people you see in the background on TV and in films are hired extras) and I remember walking onto the giant studio lot and feeling awestruck. Hearing the strange lingo used on set was like hearing a language I hoped to speak fluently one day. I’d watch actors take their marks and directors call action (later I learned it’s actually the AD who calls action on most big-budget productions), and I’d feel a sense of belonging and hope and excitement. It didn’t matter that most people treated background like shit, or that our craft service consisted only of bananas and apples. I was elated. I had left the boring, soul-sucking classroom behind and walked right onto a living, breathing, filming set.
The day I met Dick, I was running late. I ran to the second second assistant director (they’re in charge of all the background) and apologized for my tardiness. The second second, a tall guy with dark blond hair and killer blue-green eyes, said not to worry. He introduced himself as Dick and shook my hand. Though I immediately liked him, I never considered him a romantic possibility. He was tall, handsome, in his thirties. I wrote him off as out of my league. He probably dated models or whatever.
Later that day as I was signing out, Dick asked if I’d like to be on the show again. I loved working background when I could. You sat around all day until you were needed, so I often could spend the downtime working on writing sketches or stories—all while being paid. Plus there was free food. And in those days I was buying my groceries at the 99-cent store to supplement all the Costco mac-and-cheese packs my parents had bought me. I wanted all the free hot meals I could get.
Dick asked for my number so he could book me directly. I gave it to him, and sure enough, every week he called me for work. I loved it. When working background, you normally rotate between many different sets. But working on only one show gave me a chance to get to know the cast and crew. I developed friendships and professional relationships. The lighting guys happily answered all of my questions about setups and color temperatures and the basics of three-point lighting. I learned why sound people used both booms and lavs. A lot of my technical knowledge of filmmaking is from working (and asking endless questions) on that show for a year.
Dick was great to work with. As a background artist, you get used to people screaming at you and treating you like you are subhuman. Sometimes you’re not given ample (or healthy) food or cover in harsh weather conditions when you’re filming outside. It can be—and usually is—a nightmare. Dick was a refreshing boss. He was kind and friendly, and he treated everyone with respect. Everyone working background loved him.
One day, while signing out of work, Dick started to flirt with me. I was taken aback. I hadn’t known this was on the table. But now, suddenly, all bets were off. If he was flirting, that meant he found me attractive. Since I found him attractive also, I could now relentlessly pursue him. It didn’t take long till I was asking Dick when he’d take me to dinner, sending him smiley-faced emojis in my texts, and imagining what his butt looked like underneath those baggy cargo pants.
I was friends with another girl on set named Rachel. We bonded over how adorable we thought Dick was. I’d notice them flirting in a hallway, and instead of feeling jealous, I took it as a competition. May the best wooer win. The easygoing nature with which I pursued Dick changed when Rachel told me that Dick’s brother had died a year ago.
My delusional self immediately created an entire romance novel starring us. Two survivors. It was a confirmation that we were meant to be together. We could understand each other’s pain. We would help each other heal. In my head, we had an insanely deep connection that no one else could comprehend. We shared a mutual grief, an understanding of mortality and death.
I was an insane person. This is why they say don’t date actors.
From that point on, I bugged Dick a lot. I’d text regularly: When are you gonna take me out? When are we gonna have dinner? Part of me liked the competition with Rachel (I would prove my love and beat my foe), and part of me was seriously buying the romantic narrative that I’d be
en feeding myself.
Finally Dick caved and took me out on a first date. He picked me up and we went to eat sushi in Venice. Over dinner I learned that he liked to meditate, was an aspiring director and an avid reader, loved the outdoors, and didn’t believe in monogamy.
I asked him to elaborate on that last point.
He shrugged, saying that he thought it was an outdated concept that no man could uphold. I, like most hopelessly infatuated idiots, figured that he just hadn’t met the right person yet. After all, he’d had girlfriends before, hadn’t he? He said he’d once proposed to someone right after college, but she’d turned him down. That explained it! He was probably just afraid of getting hurt again. And I wouldn’t hurt him. No, in fact, I would heal him. Our love was that special.
He dropped me off at home and gave me a fist bump. This mysterious gesture only fueled my attraction to him. I probably thought something stupid at the time, like: Wait till I tell our grandkids about this! Your grandpa dropped me off and gave me a fist bump. He liked to play hard to get.
Although I didn’t have a ton of interaction on set with Dick because of his demanding job (and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to date people he worked with), I got serious about wanting a relationship with him. One time I saw him flirting with Rachel, touching her shoulder and laughing with her. I got so pissed off I ran up to one of the other actors on set and gave him my number. I didn’t know that he was a series regular on the show (I didn’t watch the show, and when I was on set, I spent most of my time fantasizing about what Dick looked like naked). We’d had a brief conversation once and I assumed he was another background artist. So what the hell? After hearing that I gave out my number, Dick confronted me.
