I hate bees.

I abhor those nasty little buggers. I am not allergic to them, however, isn't everyone a little bit? They can sting the shit out of us. They each have a biological apparatus (read: stinger) designed specifically for making us back the fuck off. Whether or not we meant to be in the way in the first place. I stepped on so many as a child, inadvertently was attacked through no fault of my own. When I was sixteen, shortly after getting my driver's license, a bumble bee flew in the window of my car landing in my lap and stung my inner thigh. I was traveling at approximately fifty miles per hour with no where to pull over.

That's just one of the many reasons I hate bees. I don't just hate them, I'm petrified of them. Nothing frightens me in the exact same way.

Every year, since I was about twelve, my parents and I have gone to visit my grandfather in Montana (yes, I'm citing the "Maced in Montana" post I just wrote). Perhaps I don't need to tell you, but there are loads of varying types of equally horrifying bees and hornets in Montana.

At, oh perhaps age 14, my grandfather insisted on taking the drift boat out on the Kootenai River. Sounded like a fine idea. I'm always down for a little boating. I enjoy the novelty of being on a craft that can float about and not drown - something I cannot do. Ten minutes into this two hour long float, we were surrounded by swarms of yellow jackets. I lost it. I started crying my eyes out and burying myself in my parka-made igloo. My grandfather yelled at me, "oh they're just bees, don't get so exercised!" Exercised - what the hell does that mean? Well he's a king of metaphor. It didn't matter what it fucking meant, he had just informed me that I was a meek little weakling and in my mind, I had lost his respect. I wasn't tough enough for him and my parents weren't about to stand up for me. I must not have been tough enough for them either.

That's only one incident in which I was taught that being sensitive or being afraid was not an option - there were many.  I later figured out (oh about two weeks ago) that is one of the subconscious reasons I started getting tattoos. Of all the valid reasons, there was one that was dumb: I was doing it to look tough so that nobody would bother me. If anyone needed to assume one thing about me, it was that I wasn't a pussy, I wasn't a weak little girl.

For many years I was tortured by the fact that men would never treat me like a girl. I was never offered love, I wasn't even a prize, I was just sexless person that happened to be equipped with a vagina. A vagina brings no benefits if the possessor isn't mentally equipped to understand the perils that come with it. It must be managed and respected appropriately.

But I didn't do that. I was (and still am a little bit) a fucking masochist. I loved my misery. It was my one true companion, it understood me, it was there for me, and it made me what I was supposed to be: tough.

Maybe I could pretend to be tough, but I just couldn't be happy. Earlier this year, I broke down while drunk (yes, brilliant and classy I know, I'm quite famous for classy drunk maneuvers). I was crying to my boyfriend (the only man who has ever truly loved me, and I let love me) that I didn't know how to believe that he loved me. He asked, "what, do you think I am lying to you? What do you want me to say? I love you and I'm not going anywhere."

In my drunkenness I knew there was nothing he could say. It was all up to me. I had to stop being tough, trust someone for the first time in my life, and really believe that yes, he loves me.

A doctor helped me connect this thought to a more tangible notion.

My misery that I love so much was also closely tied to my need to impress. I have to be funny, be cute, be sweet, be crass, be smart, be everything that is my entertainment factor all at once. If am not, I believed (and am moving away from believing), then no one has any reason to keep me around. What good am I doing them if I'm not entertaining them?

I have a horrible habit of apologizing to my boyfriend for silences. If we are in the car, I will notice it is too quite because I may not be in possession of some monologue to trot forth from my word-hole. "I'm sorry I have nothing to say." I'll announce. He'll say, "that's okay, I just like being with you, obviously I don't have anything to say either." Clearly, he doesn't care.

I realized this must get annoying. I needed help. But in order to retrieve such help, my lovely brain decided to attach it to another problem that my boyfriend must simply hate me for (I use the word hate sarcastically): my weight.

I weigh 130 pounds and am 5'2". I'm no Taylor Swift, but I'm no Oprah either.

Really, I don't have a problem. But I pretended I did, so as to provide another thing to my beloved misery to feed on.

Misery...I'm sorry...but I need to break up with you.

So I saw a doctor about my weight gain. He is a holistic/western/psychological type doctor. He examines everything, from metals in your body to holes in your heart and head.

The first time I met with him he asked me lots of questions about my parents and my boyfriend. I explained the whole sordid deal about how I made my boyfriend chase me for so long (something I wasn't typically doing at the time, I was quite easy to catch).

He asked me, "why did you run away?"

"I don't know...I just wasn't ready I think." I said.

"No, it was too easy, you had never felt unconditional love before." He told me.

I repeat that every day in my head. It's been two weeks now since I saw that doctor.

He was right. I hadn't. Even if say, my parents, and thrust unconditional love upon me, I didn't feel it because I wasn't providing them anything. I wasn't always being entertaining, I wasn't being smart enough, I was being disappointing. I had not paid them enough in emotions and achievements to be returned with unconditional love. At some level, yes, they are responsible for me feeling like I have to give them something in order to receive unconditional love. Though I can't fathom that exact moment. It's a culmination of my whole life.

Before this doctor drew my blood he said, "tell me you are ready to be happy." I knew that meant I had to break up with my misery and commit myself to the real life unconditional love that I now receive from my human boyfriend. I tried five times to get the words out of my mouth. Finally, through tears, I said it, "I'm ready to be happy." With that he attempted to strike platelet oil from my extremities. I let him stick me six times. In my wrists and even my ankle. That pain didn't compare a bit to the pain of realizing that I had to give my misery the boot.

Before I left his office he said, "do you think Shakespeare was a smart guy?"

I said, "he was a great writer, sure."

He replied, "alright, fine...remember this...'assume a virtue if you have it not.'"

"Your virtue," he said, "is that you are not broken."

I'm not. I just pretended I was to give myself another reason to wallow in misery.

In July I went to Montana with my family. There were fucking bees everywhere. Bald hornets, bumble bees, yellow jackets, honey bees...you name it and those stingy little fuckers were there. I was immediately uncomfortable as I sat down on my grandfather's porch, maybe 10 years after the drift boating incident on the Kootenai, again surrounded by bees and my fear came bubbling up. It was insufferable.

On day two I relegated myself solely to the indoors. I sat inside, in my bee-free area, while my parents enjoyed the porch and all those bastard hornets. I sat there with my book, in the cabin, and I realized, "fuck them and fuck the bees. I don't have to prove anything. I'm an adult."

I don't have to prove myself to anyone anymore. I have developed a fabulous career without the help of my family, I have a boyfriend who loves me unconditionally, I have a great apartment, I have a whole new family of non-blood friends who love me without question - I have a great life.

Yesterday while driving back from visiting my boyfriend's parents there was some silence in the car. When you live with someone you're bound to run out of dialogue from time to time. I said, "y'know, when I was in Montana, I realized I didn't have to expose myself to the bees if I didn't want to...I could tell everybody to fuck off and I'd go enjoy the inside...I'm an adult...their judgments about my bee-based character don't matter."

He said, "absolutely true. I'm glad you realized that."

I said, "it's probably pretty late for me to have realized that."

He said, "no, it's not."