Ugh... Men

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not here to generalize about men as a whole, but sometimes the phrase “Ugh…men” feels all too accurate. If you’ve ever found yourself dealing with attention you didn’t ask for—unwanted gestures that hover somewhere between flattery and discomfort—then you’ll know exactly what I mean. Working at a gym has provided me with more than my fair share of these experiences, and I think it’s about time I vented a little.

It all started with a 28-year-old man who made it his mission to kneel at the front desk every time I worked. At first, I thought it was just an odd attempt at humor, but it didn’t take long for this routine to become a permanent fixture in my shifts. He never had much to say—he just kneeled there, staring, as if waiting for me to initiate something. It wasn’t long before my coworkers started noticing too. They’d gently ask him to make room for other patrons, but that never seemed to be the end of it. Whenever he was asked to leave the desk area, he’d take up residence in the parking lot, pacing around in the dark or sitting in his car for hours.

One day, he decided to up the ante and brought me a meal. He handed me the container with a smile and explained, in painstaking detail, how he had driven 45 minutes out of town just to find black salt and other organic, heirloom ingredients. It was thoughtful, sure, but also deeply unsettling considering we barely knew each other (at least from my perspective).

Then, there was this 86-year-old man who seemed harmless at first. He’d come in, strike up a conversation, and chat like most regulars do. But one day, without warning, he dropped a bomb. “I’ve already bought the tickets,” he said, grinning. “We’re going to Las Vegas.”

It took me a second to realize what he was saying. “We?”

“Yeah,” he continued matter-of-factly, “I’ve booked the hotel and everything. We’ll fly out together. It’s all set.”

I politely declined, hoping that would be the end of it. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Every single day after that, he would bring it up again, as though I was just playing hard to get. The Vegas invites became a routine, like part of his workout plan. And as if the constant invitations weren’t enough, he started slipping me $50 gift cards and $100 bills. “This is for looking pretty and working hard,” he’d say, handing over the money with a wink.

Then came the financial offers. It started small, but before long, he was telling me, “I’ve got $6,000 in disposable income every month—let me take care of you. Anything you need—your college tuition, bills, anything—I’ve got you covered.” To say I wasn’t tempted would be a lie. I was working three jobs at the time, barely scraping by, and that money could have taken a huge load off my shoulders. But I knew better than to accept. With that kind of financial support came strings—ones I wasn’t willing to get tangled in. I didn’t want to owe anyone, especially not him.

His persistence didn’t go unnoticed by others, either. His friend—a fellow senior gym regular—often had to intervene. I’d seen him place two hands on the man’s shoulders, gently guiding him away from the front desk while saying, “It’s time to stop asking her to go to Vegas. You’re too old for that.” But, without fail, the next day would bring another offer.

To complicate matters even further, his wife—an incredibly kind woman who also came to the gym—was blissfully unaware of all this. She’d bring me homemade dishes and protein shakes, telling me, “He says you’re like a granddaughter to him.” I’m not sure how she’d react if she knew that her husband was offering to fund my entire life.

Next, there was the 30-year-old man whose goal wasn’t trips or gifts—it was “saving” me from what he assumed was a life of hard labor. One day, while leaning over the desk, he told me, “Let me wife you up. You don’t have to work so hard.”

I was caught off guard but kept my response simple. “I’m happy with my job.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “Let me wife you up. We can live lavish.”

He proceeded to describe his vision of our life involving endless vacations, luxury yacht trips, and a work-free existence—all of which occurred on his “whopping” $4,000/month income, which coincidentally was the same as mine at that time. Despite my insistence that I was content with my job, he kept asking if I was really happy as if he was waiting for me to finally break down and admit that yes, I did need saving.

Considering he barely knew me, he could have easily been a trafficker, preying on what he thought was my vulnerability. That thought alone was enough to keep me on high alert whenever he was around.

Then came the man who introduced me to one of the most bizarre health practices I’ve ever heard of: urine therapy. This particular gym attendee first approached me with a comment that threw me off guard: “You ever thought about why you have those breakouts?” he asked, pointing to my skin. I was taken aback by his forwardness, and before I could respond, he continued. “Have you heard about urine therapy?”

I hadn’t, so I asked, “What’s that?”

He proceeded to explain that he drank his own urine as a part of his health routine. He didn’t stop there. He proudly listed the many other ways in which he utilized his own urine: as eye drops, shampoo, lotion, toothpaste, and more. His tone was so casual, as if these practices were completely normal. “It tastes just like coconut water,” he added, “mostly because I eat a healthy raw vegan diet.”

I was flabbergasted. Not only was this conversation bizarre beyond belief, but to think someone had actually tried to set the two of us up at one point? I was genuinely offended that anyone would dare think I’d tolerate this level of madness.

As if the gym experiences weren’t enough, my living situation brought its own series of frustrations. I’ll admit, the Airbnb listing looked perfect. The photos showed a clean, modern room in a well-maintained home, and the reviews were all glowing. Based on that, I booked the place for three months, paying just over $2,000 for the first month, planning to stay long-term.

What I walked into was a nightmare. The room was nothing like the photos. The bedsheets were covered in human and dog hair. Dust bunnies rolled around the floor, and thick layers of dust coated every surface, making the entire room feel gritty and dirty. The bathroom was somehow even worse—limescale caked the sink and shower, and there were visible urine stains on the floor. The mirror had dried spit splattered on it, and the entire bathroom smelled like neglect.

The kitchen? An absolute disaster. There were old food splatters on the stove and microwave, and the refrigerator was horrifying. Food had been left inside the ice and water dispenser, and the shelves were coated in sticky, crusty spills. But the most disgusting part was the refrigerator handle, which was covered in a sticky, white goo that made it impossible to touch without gagging. The kitchen floor was covered in grime, and walking barefoot in there made my skin crawl.

I contacted the “landlord” immediately—a 26-year-old who didn’t seem remotely fazed by the state of his place. When I told him what I had walked into, he brushed it off, telling me that I was “overreacting” and that he would clean everything by the time I got back from work.

When I returned, the place was barely cleaner. The same grime was still there, and the bathroom stains hadn’t been scrubbed away. The sticky fridge handle? Still disgusting. The only real change was that the dust-covered fan in my bedroom, which I had asked him to clean, was now completely gone. He had just removed it without a word. I was paying the extra cleaning fee for nothing.

“Why do you have three pairs of the exact same Crocs?” he asked. The fact that he had even noticed them told me he had been going through my belongings while I was gone. He started commenting on my wardrobe, too, calling it “super unusual,” which only confirmed my suspicion that he had rummaged through my things. Who knows what else he may have seen?

As if things couldn’t get worse, he commented on my Canon T6i camera, suggesting I could be his assistant photographer. “I do wedding photography,” he explained. “We could travel to places like New Mexico, Houston, Colorado, the world. You could help me with gigs.” Though I did have an interest in photography, I had absolutely no interest in spending any amount of time with this filth monster. No, thank you!

By this point, I knew I had to leave. But even after I had decided to leave, he wasn’t done with his bizarre behavior. Shortly after I had left, he had the nerve to call me and ask if I wanted to come over for Valentine’s Day and begged me not to leave a negative review on Airbnb. Foolishly, I agreed to spare him and even more regrettably, I didn’t demand a full refund, despite having every right to. I hadn’t slept for a single night at my booking, but I still let him keep the money for the first month. Looking back, it’s ridiculous that I didn’t stand up for myself. I had all the evidence, including photos of the disgusting conditions, but I chose to be accommodating and avoid conflict. I really should have demanded my money back and left him the scathing review he deserved for acting like I was the unreasonable one for being disgusted by his filth and invasion of privacy, but I was too focused on being polite. Nonetheless, I’m grateful I had enough dignity to not stay for any longer than I did.

There was the guy who printed an image of his house, wrote his address on it, and told me to come over anytime. Or the man who asked me what I was doing at a particular location, and when I told him I was taking a CPR class, he grinned and said, “I want you to put your lips on mine and do CPR on me.” My immediate reaction was to shriek, “Ew, disgusting! Please don’t ever say that again!” He just giggled as if my disgust was some sort of a joke to him. And then there was the gym patron that would always ask for a dap up. If you’re not familiar with it, a dap up is like a casual handshake with the vibe of a fist bump. But this guy would switch it up at the last second and use his middle finger to “finger” the inside of my palm. It only took me a few unfortunate instances before I made it abundantly clear that I would never dap him up again. From that point on, I stuck to fist bumps and closed-hand greetings that left no room for those kinds of violations.

Point being, these incidents were just the tip of the iceberg, happening far too frequently for my comfort. Was it my presentation? My demeanor? Something about me seemed to invite these wildly inappropriate approaches. Is it pretentious to feel insulted that they assumed I was in their league? Or wrong to be offended that they thought my standards would tolerate such behavior? Regardless, I knew one thing for sure: if they felt comfortable enough to act like this, something needed to change. Drastically.

I Don’t Want to be the Bigger Person—And I Shouldn’t Have To

Every morning, as I drove to the behavioral clinic where I worked as a Registered Behavior Technician specializing in autistic children, I’d park my car and just sit there, clinging to those last few precious minutes of calm. I’d stare at the clinic doors, dreading the moment I’d have to walk in and face another day of frustration and tension. I’d linger as long as I could without risking being late, trying to fortify myself for the relentless, toxic atmosphere waiting inside. It should have been different—I loved those kids. Watching a non-verbal child finally string words together or seeing parents cry tears of joy over their child’s progress should have made every day worth it. But my coworkers seemed determined to make my life miserable.

Two particular coworkers turned the clinic into a place I dreaded walking into. One was relentless, throwing out baseless accusations—claiming I slammed doors in her face or gave the kids tasks that were “too difficult.” She’d weave ridiculous stories about me, trying to turn everyone else in the clinic against me. Her sidekick wasn’t any better—pretending to be this sweet, kind, church-attending, innocent mother to a newborn while spreading her own toxic lies and complaints about everyone and everything. Together, they made it their mission to cast me as the clinic’s scapegoat.

Not a single day went by without some sly comment or a condescending look from one of them. In their pettiness, they spread some of the most damaging rumors, even going so far as to accuse me of abusing children. Just think about that. I poured my heart and soul into these kids, and here were these people throwing around the most vicious, baseless, false accusations. Every day became a struggle to keep my head above water, trying to stay focused on my work when my mind was consumed with their lies and manipulation. I was drained, mentally exhausted, and unable to be the caregiver those kids deserved.

I decided enough was enough. I went to my supervisors, the Board Certified Behavior Analysts (BCBAs), and requested a meeting. I laid it all out for them—the false accusations, the constant negativity, and the way these two were twisting the truth. I wanted to make sure my supervisors understood what was really going on, to counter the false narratives these two had been spreading about me. I hoped they would step in and address the situation. But instead, they told me, “We know your character, and we know hers. She’s had a history of not following the behavior plan and doing things her own way. Honestly, she might be envious—of your work ethic, the bond you have with the children, and the respect you’ve earned by always being ahead on reports. You’ve set a higher standard here, and maybe that’s made some people uncomfortable. But for now, it’s best to be the bigger person and not let it get to you. We all know the truth, and that’s what matters.”

“Be the bigger person?” I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to be the bigger person. I was done being the bigger person. Why was it always on me to endure, to rise above, to keep taking it? Why did I have to tolerate their behavior while they got off without any consequences? What I needed wasn’t platitudes about taking the high road—I needed real action. I needed accountability. I was tired of pretending that turning the other cheek was some sort of virtue when it only enabled their cruelty.

I tried addressing the issue directly with these coworkers, thinking maybe just maybe, they’d listen if I confronted them face-to-face. But they doubled down, playing their manipulative games and flipping the script. One of my bosses tried to be supportive in his own way, even teaching me how to shoot and helping me get my gun license outside of work. But in the clinic, nothing changed. Every day was still a battlefield of passive-aggressive comments and outright hostility. I couldn’t breathe without feeling their eyes on me, waiting for me to slip up.

I had crafted my entire future around this career, researching universities to pursue a Board Certified Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) degree and hoping to make a meaningful long-term impact. But nonetheless, I couldn’t shake the constant thoughts of quitting. Doubts flooded my mind and the fear of potential regret weighed heavily on me. Was I walking away too soon from something I had invested so much in? Was I making a mistake by leaving a career I had been so passionate about? I knew I would deeply miss the children I worked with every day—their smiles, their progress, the bonds we had formed. The idea of parting ways with them was heartbreaking. Moreover, I didn’t want the parents to feel like I was abandoning their child or giving up on them. The mental tug-of-war between staying and leaving lasted months.

Until it didn’t.

I realized I was waking up every day with a knot in my stomach, dreading work. I loved those kids with everything I had, but it wasn’t enough to keep sacrificing my sanity for a place that refused to enforce its own standards of decency. So I wrote my resignation and made it clear, this was effective immediately. I was done.

“Being the bigger person” is always pitched as the “right” thing to do, but let’s be real—at what cost? Why should I be the bigger person when the aggressors face no consequences, when their behavior is practically encouraged by the sheer lack of accountability? I shouldn’t have to keep swallowing my pride and my peace just to make everyone else comfortable. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is walk away—leave behind the toxicity and refuse to be the target for someone else’s bitterness. And the next best thing you can do is to learn how to communicate effectively, so no one feels comfortable to even dare cross you.

Breaking Free: When It's Time to Leave Family Behind

For many, the concept of “home” is synonymous with safety, warmth, and stability- a place where one can retreat from the world’s chaos. But what happens when home becomes a living nightmare? When the walls that are supposed to protect you become a prison, and the people meant to love you are your tormentors? For those who have grown up in a narcissistic family, the idea of home is often a source of deep psychological terror. And for that reason, the decision to leave behind this suffocating environment, even if it means facing uncertainty or homelessness, is the only path to true freedom.

Imagine growing up in a home where every word you speak is twisted, every action is scrutinized, and every achievement dismissed. Where you are constantly blamed for everything that grows wrong, as if you are the sole cause of the family’s misery. This is the grim reality for those cast as the scapegoat in the narcissistic family unit. The scapegoat is often the child who doesn’t conform to the narcissistic parent’s demands, who dares to have their own thoughts, their own identity. In response, the family dynamics shift into something out of a psychological horror story, making this child the target of relentless blame, criticism, and emotional abuse.

In such a family, love is not just conditional- it’s weaponized. Do as the narcissist wishes, and you might receive a sliver of approval, a brief respite from the constant onslaught. Deviate from their demands, and you are met with coldness, anger, or outright rejection. The scapegoat is isolated, not just from the world outside, but from other family members who have learned that siding with the scapegoat only brings them trouble. Gaslighting is the family’s daily bread, making the scapegoat doubt their own perceptions, memories, and very sense of reality. Over time, this constant invalidation erodes their self-esteem, leaving them feeling worthless and trapped.

Many scapegoats spend years, even decades, trapped in a toxic family dynamic without realizing the extent of the psychological manipulation they are enduring. Instead of recognizing the abuse for what it is, they internalize the blame, believing that they are inherently flawed or defective. This self-blame is a direct result of the narcissist’s insidious tactics, designed to make the scapegoat feel responsible for the family’s dysfunction. However, for those who eventually break through this fog of deception, the truth comes crashing down like a bolt of lightning- sudden, jarring, and utterly terrifying. They come to the devastating realization that no matter how much they sacrifice, no matter how hard they try to conform or please, they will never be enough for their narcissistic family. The weight of this truth is almost unbearable, as it becomes clear that remaining in such a toxic environment is not just a slow death of the spirit, but a living hell that drains every ounce of their will to live.

I remember when I made the decision to leave. I was early twenties and had already spent years trying to unify my family. During this time, I was constantly in a state of suicidal ideation, feeling every attempt to mitigate my circumstances were futile and seeing no other solution to my despair. I thought that if I could just figure out the right way to approach them, to bridge the gaps, everything would change. But as time passed, I realized nothing was going to change. So, I set a deadline for myself: if by the time I was 25 things were still the same, I would leave my childhood home with no trace and no contact.

At 23, I began gathering all of my hidden legal documents- things I knew I might need when I need my escape. By 24, I started storing my belongings in my new office at work and rented a storage unit for the things I couldn’t keep there. I knew I had to be smart about this, so I got a 24-hour gym membership for access to showers and a place to go if I needed a break. I bought an ice cooler with re-freezable ice packs that I could keep in the break room refrigerator while I was working, just to have some form of cooling to take to my car after work during the unbearable Texas summer heat.

I even practiced sleeping in my car periodically. The first few times were rough, and I quickly realized that a USB-charged fan wouldn’t last all night, so I saved up for a battery-powered fan. I planned every detail meticulously: I would need window tinting and covers for privacy at night, and I even considered recoloring my car so it wouldn’t be easily recognizable, though that was something I had to put on hold due to the cost.

Managing two full-time jobs and attending school full-time was exhausting, but it also provided a way to access air-conditioned and temperature-controlled areas for extended periods of time without raising suspicion. I knew I was pushing myself to the limit, but I had a goal-peace, quiet, and financial freedom. Until then, this strategy would have to do.

Leaving a narcissistic family is not an easy decision. It requires immense courage to walk away from the only life you’ve known, even if that life has been filled with pain and suffering. The period following this departure-whether it spans days, weeks, months, or even years- can be incredibly challenging and filled with deep grief. For the scapegoat, this journey often involves confronting the phantom “death” of everything they once knew, including the shattering of the illusion that their family was unconditionally loving.  The reality they now face is start and painful, as they must grieve not only the loss of their family as they imagined it but also the stability and connection that, despite being toxic, once provided a sense of familiarity.

As the scapegoat steps into this new reality, they are met with uncertainty and loneliness, and the daunting task of learning to fend for themselves. The comfort of the familiar, no matter how damaging, is gone, and in its place is the vast unknown.

Living in uncertainty is not easy, but it is often preferable to the suffocating stability offered by a narcissistic family. Uncertainty, while daunting, is filled with potential. It is the canvas on which I could paint a new life.

For many, the journey from being the scapegoat in a narcissistic family to finding freedom and self-worth is a long and arduous one. But nonetheless, a journey worth taking. The road may be filled with obstacles, and there may be moments of doubt, fear, and grief, but with each step forward, the weight of the past becomes lighter, and the future becomes brighter.

Green vs. Blue: Why It's Time to Move Beyond Text Message Colors

In this digital age, the devices we use can sometimes define us in ways we might not expect. A notable example of this is the divide between iPhone and Android users, highlighted by the color of their text messages- blue for iMessages and green for SMS. This seemingly innocuous difference has sparked endless debates and even influenced social dynamics, but why does it matter and moreover… should it?

The distinction comes from Apple’s proprietary messaging service, iMessage, which displays text bubbles in blue when communicating between Apple devices. Messages sent to or received from non-Apple devices, such as Android phones, revert to the standard SMS format, which appears in green. This technical necessity has evolved into a cultural divide, with some iPhone users expressing a preference for blue bubbles and associating green with a lack of functionality or a perceived downgrade in communication experience or status.

I once had a personal phone that served me well for years, until it was shattered beyond repair, exposing its internal mechanics-screws and all. Thankfully, I had a work phone, which I began using occasionally for personal matters while saving up for a new one. After sharing this number with a gym acquaintance who texted me a casual “hola,” her reaction was unexpectedly vehement when she saw the green bubble: “Girl, what the f***!” she shrieked. “You got an Android! EWWWW! Why’d you do that!” Her irritation seemed disproportionate- she even attempted, fruitlessly, to toggle iMessage on, not knowing it was disabled on my work phone (though it was, indeed, an iPhone). At 28, married and with two kids, her preoccupation with text colors struck me a surprisingly juvenile. Aren’t we all adults here?

The entire “blue vs. green” issue is such a trivial matter and honestly a case of technological elitism, especially among younger demographics where peer pressure and belonging are significant to one’s social standing. The preference for blue messages sometimes leads to Android users feeling excluded or negatively judged based on their choice, or lack thereof, technology. Focusing on message colors distracts us from what truly matters-our interactions and relationships. Whether arranging a meet-up, sharing news, or having long heart-to-heart conversations, the content and intent of your messages are far more important than the color of the text bubbles and the medium should not overshadow the message.

As consumers, the best approach is to choose technology that fits our needs, budget, and preferences without demeaning others’ choices. As a society, moving beyond superficial judgements based on text message colors could foster a more inclusive environment where technology serves its primary purpose: to connect us, not divide us. It’s time we put the “ew, Android” sentiment to rest and focus on what brings us together: our shared experiences and the joy of staying connected, regardless of the color of our text bubbles.