The decisions and confusion that take over whenever I meet a man I like. How much do I tell? And, how much can I leave out? It’s like an ex-con being interviewed for a corporate job. I don’t dare say a word. That would be a simple sabotage. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. That’s the person they’ll always see. Even when that person is miles away from who I’ve become. I don’t want to ruin it. I want the man. But, I don’t want to have to tip toe around any secrets.
One of the pleasures I got from living in a small town was, everyone knowing everything there was to know about me, whether I liked it or not. No secrets. Now, I’m in this big, crazy ass city and it’s like, nobody knows my name. I’m a blank page with nice tits.
I don’t even know who I am when I’m on a date. I get distant and awkward, like I don’t want to be there. Or worse, I turn into a real Negative Nancy and critique his every move. By the end of the evening, I’ve chopped him down to size and, he can’t get me home soon enough.
I’ve been doing this for years. For YEARS. I’m twenty-eight now. I don’t want to be doing this at thirty-eight.
Which leads me back to my madness. I think it’s always been easier for me to go through men like sweat socks - without either of us ever getting a real feel of who the other is, than sticking it out with one worthy guy and letting him see who I really am. I don’t know if I’m ready to invite someone into my world. A world filled with indecisiveness and mood swings. Spontaneous behavior and “heightened” sensitivity.
I don’t know how loud I’m ready to announce that I’m afflicted with mental illness. I don’t like how it sounds out loud. "I went through depression throughout my teens, but I’ve dealt with that and put it behind me.” I read that script. It didn’t work. People ask. Men ask. The want to know what “made” me like that. Then, they go into their story’s about when they were sad. Nine out of ten times, it can’t hold a candle to the shit I’ve been through. But I listen and I nod, and I tell them, “That’s heavy”. And then I think to myself, Why didn’t I just stay in tonight?
Because, that’s what happens when I tell a guy I’m dating about my relationship with depression. Not the first date either. I’m talking many outings down the road. They find out, and they want to fix me. They want to make me “better”. And when they can’t, they bail. They’re like, “Why bother? She’s broken.” I’m aware of how heinous that is to dismiss someone for something they can’t control, so I’m all-too-happy when lame-o’s stop calling and texting.
I think about how important it’s going to be to convince Future Lover that I’m in stable condition. Even though depression is a disease that warrants minimal levels of concern, love, and a listening ear, it doesn’t have to hinder a relationship. Then, I think about how I need to convince that to myself.
Ahh, the decisions and confusion that takes over whenever I meet a man I like!
Tamela
Be sure to check out Tami's blog at Baby, Beat Those Blues
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