“Her green plastic watering can
For her fake Chinese rubber plant
In fake plastic earth.
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plants
Just to get rid of itself.
And it wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.”
-Radiohead, “Fake Plastic Trees”
It was the final round of my online dating experience that taught me a lesson: I am not ready to date. I think I already knew this, but loneliness and delusion had convinced my tender heart that it was ready to move past the depression and anxiety of the previous five years and start afresh. I deliberately ignored the fact that my choice of venue for The Great Moving On – online dating, the most impersonal meet-and-greet on the face of the planet – was evidence that I was unprepared. I ignored the fact that online dating gave me exactly what I wanted – human contact – but that I could take it only as far as I wanted without having to move past the boundaries of comfort I had built over the years. I ignored that this was my sickness, neatly packaged in a new, safe way.
What I learned is that I don’t want to date. What I want is to be redefined in the way that a new relationship would define me. I want to see myself the way a man would see me, before he experienced my emotional highs and lows, my insecurity, my sadness, and my disappointment in myself. What I want is for someone to look at me and know me in a way I do not see and know myself. For a glorious moment, I want to see myself without the cloak of disgust and unrest that I wear every day. I realized that I don’t want to bring someone into my life. I want them to drag me out of it and into theirs. I want to be rescued from the hole I have dug for myself.
My online dating foray ended sadly when I met (“met” meaning “talked with” and not “physically stood in each other’s presence”) a man that truly interested me. He was more messed up than I was, and that intrigued me. Here was someone who understood the hurdles of depression and the constant questioning that accompanies medication and therapy. Here was someone who saw me and didn’t wonder why I froze up when certain topics of conversation were broached. Here was someone who knew instinctively that there was more to my answers than the words that I spoke. He began to point out my idiosyncrasies, those that were funny or cute, things that I didn’t believe to exist. He began to paint a picture of me that I hadn’t seen in a long while. A picture that I desperately missed. A picture I needed to hang on my wall and stare at until I believed the picture to be real.
But he wanted to meet. He insisted. And I got scared. And refused to take the hand he offered that would have helped me out of my hole.
The loss I feel is twofold. I fear that I missed an opportunity that I will never be able to get back. And I fear that the person I have become, discontent and regretful, stagnant and unattractive, is the person that I am and will forever be. I fear that my hole is my final resting place, and that Life will continue to happen around me but that I will only see it and will never experience it.
I am responsible for myself, I know this. I have the power to change my life, I know this too. But what they don’t tell you before you embark on the rollercoaster of medication and therapy is that these “solutions” only take you so far. You may no longer want to die, but you also don’t have the energy to live. You function, you move, you work. You get up every day, tired and weary, but you perform out of necessity. The desire for something better is there, but initiative is not. Medication and therapy do not give you the strength to make changes, and the secret to getting well is to pretend to be well but the pretending kills you little by little.
I am not lost. I know exactly where I am. I created this place and have no one to blame for my unhappiness. The realization that I will spend my life with myself is more depressing than I can explain.
I wish I had the strength to change myself, but knowing that I don’t, I wish that someone else would change me. I wish that someone would pluck me out of my life, fix me, and then put me back. I wish that I didn’t feel this way. But most of all, I wish that wishes weren’t all that I have.
What I learned is that I don’t want to date. What I want is to be redefined in the way that a new relationship would define me. I want to see myself the way a man would see me, before he experienced my emotional highs and lows, my insecurity, my sadness, and my disappointment in myself. What I want is for someone to look at me and know me in a way I do not see and know myself. For a glorious moment, I want to see myself without the cloak of disgust and unrest that I wear every day. I realized that I don’t want to bring someone into my life. I want them to drag me out of it and into theirs. I want to be rescued from the hole I have dug for myself.
My online dating foray ended sadly when I met (“met” meaning “talked with” and not “physically stood in each other’s presence”) a man that truly interested me. He was more messed up than I was, and that intrigued me. Here was someone who understood the hurdles of depression and the constant questioning that accompanies medication and therapy. Here was someone who saw me and didn’t wonder why I froze up when certain topics of conversation were broached. Here was someone who knew instinctively that there was more to my answers than the words that I spoke. He began to point out my idiosyncrasies, those that were funny or cute, things that I didn’t believe to exist. He began to paint a picture of me that I hadn’t seen in a long while. A picture that I desperately missed. A picture I needed to hang on my wall and stare at until I believed the picture to be real.
But he wanted to meet. He insisted. And I got scared. And refused to take the hand he offered that would have helped me out of my hole.
The loss I feel is twofold. I fear that I missed an opportunity that I will never be able to get back. And I fear that the person I have become, discontent and regretful, stagnant and unattractive, is the person that I am and will forever be. I fear that my hole is my final resting place, and that Life will continue to happen around me but that I will only see it and will never experience it.
I am responsible for myself, I know this. I have the power to change my life, I know this too. But what they don’t tell you before you embark on the rollercoaster of medication and therapy is that these “solutions” only take you so far. You may no longer want to die, but you also don’t have the energy to live. You function, you move, you work. You get up every day, tired and weary, but you perform out of necessity. The desire for something better is there, but initiative is not. Medication and therapy do not give you the strength to make changes, and the secret to getting well is to pretend to be well but the pretending kills you little by little.
I am not lost. I know exactly where I am. I created this place and have no one to blame for my unhappiness. The realization that I will spend my life with myself is more depressing than I can explain.
I wish I had the strength to change myself, but knowing that I don’t, I wish that someone else would change me. I wish that someone would pluck me out of my life, fix me, and then put me back. I wish that I didn’t feel this way. But most of all, I wish that wishes weren’t all that I have.
7 comments:
I truly believe you can change yourself into someone you would like to spend time with. And I hope you will try.
I'm not a therapist, but I think it would help if you just tried to change one little thing. One step at a time, right? Trying to overturn your whole life is too daunting for even the most happy of people.
Also, I know you know this, but no one else is going to save you. That's your job alone. Friends can help, though. Maybe even blog friends?
Take care.
IANAT, but I found this to be helpful today...
http://www.k2xl.com/games/boomshine/
This is amazingly worded, and so well-said that I feel as though any response doesn't do it justice, Canary.
I do agree with jamy, though. One small step at a time, my dear.
Oh, honey.
What makes life so interesting is that it is varied and unpredictable, and this is true even when you think you know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow and tomorrow and forever. Maybe the little miracle you need is one step further than this mystery man, one who understands even a tick further than this guy does, one who will persist, gently and funnily, until you feel safe enough to dip your toe in the water.
Improbable? Maybe. Rare? Surely. But even this guy showed you that there are wonderful things about you that even a stranger sees, and that your hurdle is not being worth loving, but feeling safe enough to see if it can work.
Trust your Uncle Wunelle. It will happen. You just have to know that it takes time, and more time than would be necessary if you were simple and sunny. We can't all be that, and someone will be eternally grateful for it.
(((HUG!)))
Firstly, this was wonderfully written.
Secondly, I'm a firm believer that you have to move at your own pace. So what if you weren't ready to meet this guy? There will be another, and I'm sure that there will be a time where again, that hand will be offered. Maybe you won't be ready then, either, but there will be another after that, and at some point you'll be ready to take that hand. You are *obviously* a great girl, everything you write screams that you are, and there will be another. There will always be another, you won't ever have a problem with that.
It's like anything else that you've been away from for a while. It can take a while to get used to something again, but over time your attitude towards it will change, and then something that seemed like a horrible idea before, suddenly makes absolute sense.
And THEN you get to have rip-roaring sex on a trapeze while your new lover paints your body with whipped cream and adoration. : )
At least you have the wishing...the desire, the emotion of wanting to change. I really do believe that's a start.
Many thanks to you nice people for being so gosh darned supportive during my meltdown. No worries, I am back on track and officially Working On Things. Small change Numero Uno is to GET MY ARSE TO THE GYM. I figure if I can build up some strength, then I'll be better able to enjoy the trapeze Marika mentioned. (Aside: DAMN STRAIGHT, Marika! Bring on the whipped cream! And the adoration.)
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