Post-script

I guess it's true what they say. Right when you stop looking for love -- or at least the beginnings of a relationship -- it finds you.

I'm now happy to say that one of the three guys mentioned in my last post is boyfriend, and has been for the past two or three weeks. It's the first healthy relationship of my life, and I look forward to seeing where it goes.

And last but not least, I'm no longer a virgin. Hallelujah.

* Signs that you are in a healthy relationship.

In closing I would like to say...

To all my wonderful readers (aka my personal friends):

With the sleep apnea diagnosis and my use of the CPAP machine, I no longer consider myself disabled. I've retrained my body to be able to walk on a treadmill and drive, I'm back to being able to read for school every day, and I've just landed two freelance jobs.

Because of all these other commitments, I'm going to step down from this blog for the foreseeable future. I leave you with the following fun facts:

1) I have plans to meet with Middle Eastern "S" on Sunday -- a 26-year-old recent immigrant student looking for a road trip buddy,

2) I've been emailing back and forth with Pacific Islander "R" -- a hard-working painter, musician, writer who is recovering from war injuries,

3) And I'm planning to ask my white massage therapist "C," who will be biking from Alaska to Argentina, if he wants to join me for tango lessons (with my new and improved, functional body!).

I end this blog with some questions answered. I now know that men chomp at the bit to devirginize a woman no matter how old she is. I know, through my roommate's successful relationship that blossomed through OkCupid, that sometimes men just aren't very photogenic and if there's any inkling that they might look better in person than on the computer screen, I should give them a chance. Lastly, I learned that right when you think your health won't improve... Bam!... you get an answer.

So, lovely readers, don't give up on yourself and don't give up on love. Laugh at those first dates that don't work out, don't try to change an elusive man, and it's okay to cry over things that don't work out, as long as you dry your tears and get back up, fighting.

Whether or not to become a Kept Woman

Last night on OkCupid I got propositioned by an attractive 32-year-old man to be a "kept woman." It took me a few hours to realize that this was what he was after. One of his first questions was whether or not I had anything against dating an Arab, and since he's my age and working in the next town over, I assured him that the person was more important than the nationality. And it's true. I have nothing against Arab men whatsoever. But throughout our conversation he made it clear that to date an Arab meant I was to do certain things for him and to get certain things in return. Whether or not this is true for the entire Arab population in America is highly suspect, but for him, at least as a new resident, falling in love is not part of his equation.

Some women would have no problem with his proposition, and I'm sure he won't be hard pressed to find a woman who is flattered that he wants to buy her sexy clothes of his choosing, sexy underwear to wear for him, take her on extravagant outings, pay her expenses, have her move in almost immediately, get married in a matter of months, and settle it all even before the first meeting. I've seen enough Real Housewives episodes and seen enough celebrity couples to know that these kinds of deals are often made. Donald Trump said something to the affect of: "No, I don't mind that my wife married me for my money. I married her for her looks."

But for most of us, we see love and marriage not as a bartering exchange but as something that happens organically. In our world, a date is made because of a mutual connection. A second date is made because that connection was deepened. Physical intimacy and economic compatibility are important, yes, but cannot be the basis of our relationships and cannot be the only ingredient in whether or not they are a success. I suppose if a man wanted to marry a woman simply to "keep" her as a commodity, falling out of love would not be an issue because falling in love would a nice side benefit to an already done deal.

I can't help but think of Carrie Bradshaw and Aleksandr Petrovsky of Sex and the City. "The Russian" showered here with clothes, fancy accommodations, and treated her like a princess. While I'm disturbed that the writers had Carrie refer to her boyfriend by his nationality instead of his name, and had the character himself fill a cultural stereotype, in the end Carrie needed a man who saw her as an equal, not a trophy: "I'm looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. And I don't think that love is here in this expensive suite in this lovely hotel in Paris." I'd rather keep living off food stamps than giving my body away for material security. A true artist finds her own success and wears whatever she damn well pleases.

The One Who Got Away

The one love of my life got married two months ago. How I came to find out, just now, is a funny (read heart-wrenching) story.

I'm home alone after M stood me up and my roommate is out with her new boyfriend. I decided take a break from my Netflix streaming marathon of The Secret Life of the American Teenager after the protagonist got married. One more episode about a bunch of teenagers deciding whether or not to have sex was going to be too depressing to my 34-year-old virgin self, so I decieded to switch to something a little more adult. I started Season 1, Episode 1, of Ally McBeal, which has been sitting dormant in my queue forever. I'd seen a couple episodes here and there in the past but I just wasn't ready to commit. Tonight, however seemed like just the right time as I'm mature, alone, and working on my career. I assumed (correctly) that Ally and I would have a lot in common.

For those of you who have never seen the show, it opens with Ally starting work at the same firm has her childhood / high school / college sweetheart whom she hadn't seen in years and who is now married. Her one true love, her "man that got away," is now staring her in the face, never having given her a good reason for their breakup. I paused the episode in the middle as I often do (I have a bit of ADD when it comes to TV) and found myself at my computer. I clicked on my inbox to find an email from American Greetings reminding me about T's upcoming birthday -- my own "one who got away."

T is one of the few men who steer clear of computers to such a degree that he typed all his poetry for class on an old manual typewriter, so when I google him I never find much. Every once in awhile I will see something related to his graduate school studies on Latin American Language and Literature, but other than that a search brings up almost nothing. Today, however, the online register of his grad school city lists him and a woman under "marriage licenses." Middle initial: check. Age: check. There is no question that this is my lost love.

Now, I don't believe in god or fate but I do believe in something writing my life story -- everyone's life stories. And today that author threw me a curve ball. How else in the world could these four things connect: 1) TV show with a wedding, 2) TV show about a lost love getting married, 3) a birthday reminder about my lost love, 4) the registry of his marriage license from just two months ago. It's been almost exactly five years to the day since I have seen T (another un-funny joke by my unknown author, I'm sure) and I still have not gotten over him. Intellectually, friendship-ly, and physically, he has remained at the solid top of my straight man connections.

Five years later I sit here being stood up in the same manner in which he used to do, by someone I don't like half as much, or at least haven't been able to get to know well enough to know for sure. Ally's voice-over claims that being a lawyer was secondary to loving Billy. She went to law school because he did. She became a lawyer by default. Her entire career is based on trying to have kept a man. Now, I didn't go to college because of boy chasing, in fact, I got divorced in order to go back to school. And I'm certainly not a writer because of chasing after a boy either. But I've often wondered how many of us professional women are what we are because we have loved and lost -- and namely the latter. In fact, Ally McBeal was such a big hit namely because us women can all identify, to varying degrees, with making life decisions based on an emotional quest.

In a way the 21st century woman has the world open to her. She can choose what roles she wants to take on, whether it be work and family, just work, or just family. But in the end I can't help noticing that we all feel a bit guilty for whatever we choose, and we are always left feeling a bit dissatisfied... a bit lost. I can't help but feel that women are currently under an intense microscope of conflicting definitions. Ally followed Billy to law school in order to keep the man she loved. I went to graduate school because the love of my life didn't want a relationship. I can't help but feel grateful that I was given the chance to pursue my dreams because of being rejected, but at the same time, like any 21st century woman, I want it all.

Episode 1 ends with the following voice over:

"The truth is, I probably don't want to be too happy or content, 'cause then what? I actually like the quest, the search. That's the fun. The more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to. What do you know? I'm having a great time and I don't even know it." - Ally

Hold on a Minute

Today I had a date with M. Yesterday we spent hours rehashing Friday's conversation, and he realized I don't think he's the crazy nut job he was afraid I thought him to be. Or maybe we are both nutty together? Though when I sat across from him today at the quaint coffee shop down the street, he stated, regarding both of our "things that cannot be talked about": "I'm realizing that I can move on from those hurtful things. They don't have to define me. Good things can be in my future. In both our futures." Well, maybe that's not what he said word for word, but you get the idea.

We held hands as we walked back to his car, and I both wanted to squeeze tighter and let go and run the other way. We kissed next to his car and I both wanted to kiss longer and, well, run the other way. It helps me understand my roommate who just got a boyfriend from her own OkCupid connection. She has similar self-quenched desires of fear-induced "flight" from something not bad but very, very good. There are those you date who make you feel uncomfortable because they aren't right for you, and there are those you make you comfortable because you never get below the surface. Then there are those you make you uncomfortable because they see the real you, and that's a scary but wonderful thing, when the real you is appreciated and accepted exactly as it is. M's acceptance even includes my sleep apnea, my lack of a job, and my welfare status -- all things that scared me most about dating with a disability. "Things things happen," he says. "I'm sure you'll be back on your feet in no time."

This thing with M might be a totally healthy relationship. Or it might, despite friends' reassurances to the contrary, be a totally unhealthy relationship. Or it might not be a relationship at all. But he gets me. The real me. And I get the real him too. Our things that cannot be talked about can be talked about with each other... Not just talked about, but understood. I don't want to jump ahead of myself and say this date was anything more than what it was -- two individuals coming together for a nice afternoon of conversation and connection. I'm trying not to look too far into the future these days but appreciate each moment for what it is. Today was a good moment, and he's already asked for another. I said yes, and with him or with someone else, I know there will be even more.

Recycled Matches and Emotional Dumping

Last week was "let's give the guys another chance week." First I noticed on OkCupid that Hairy Guy who Forgot His Wallet on our date last year keeps returning to my profile, so I sent him an email thinking maybe I'd judged his flakiness and hairy hands too quickly. Of course I mentioned neither the flakiness nor the hair in my message, but he must have known the gravity of his faux pas because he reassured me that he would not forget his wallet next time.

Right after I emailed Hairy Guy (I sadly can't remember his name), I got an email from M whom I had rejected a couple months ago. The night of my hangout with D, I got my first text from M, which said among other things, "How is your day going on." I replied that I was about to leave to see a friend in Seattle, and he replied "Is it just a friend or a hot date. Either way enjoy your time." Now, since this was his second-ever text after just one or two emails, this question of his stood out to me as a big red flag. And because D's and my night did turn into a date of sorts, I texted him back something to the extent of, "It did turn into a hot date. Sorry!"

M completely forgot our earlier correspondence and messaged me on OkCupid just like he had on Match. I sent him a jovial reply, and we got to texting, chatting, and preparing for a weekend date. Sure, there were little red flags... He still seemed a bit insecure and nosy about just what my date with D had entailed. But on the flip side our conversation was more intelligent and mutually caring than any I've had online ever. He is also, from his picture, exactly my type.

Things took what I thought to be a positive turn when M returned from a night out with his sister, and all pretenses fell as he, and then I, and then he again, and then I again, shared what turns out to be very similar life stories, in both their good and not so good aspects. "I've never told anyone I've dated this before," he said. "We have this amazing connection," he said. Then he slowly pittered away over the next few days, saying that he was embarrassed by all he told me, and now, five dates later, we've barely spoken and have no future date planned. From what I can see, I have been officially emotionally dumped upon and then taken out with the trash.

M is obviously not ready for real emotional attachment, but frustratingly these types of men seem to be the ones who find me. It would take more than my two hands to count all the men who have simultaneously said they feel incredibly comfortable around me, think I'm hot, and then disappeared. And not just online, but throughout my entire dating life. What is the answer? Do you close yourself off? Become less understanding? More outwardly judgmental? Less caring? I have no answers, only questions. And a date with Hairy Forgot Wallet guy, which, despite my name for him, is a date I'm looking forward to.

Stepping Back to Move Forward

My love life, or lack thereof, has taken a back seat for the past month and has been replaced by literary and career pursuits: an online writing class offered by a NY Times bestselling memoirist, an inquiry into the possibility of substitute teaching, and developing a web-based side business with my roommate. All because my sleep apnea diagnosis and sleep mask have taken away a lot of my exhaustion (finally!).

While my love life has taken a back seat, thinking about relationships has not, as my weekly blogs have been replaced by weekly therapy sessions in which I enter the room with a veneer of poise and always wind up crying and wishing I hadn't worn mascara. Then by the time I leave I feel fabulous, like someone was able to break through my tough facade and see the true me. My therapist is skilled enough to really get at the heart of my feelings and beliefs about myself and others, to validate wrongs done to me and make me not afraid to look at them head on, and her background in English Literature allows her to use words understood only by fellow Lits, like the indefinable "personal agency."

Dating relationships haven't been discussed in my therapy sessions as it's not the focus of why I'm there. However, what I have gleaned from my sessions in regards to dating is that I am drawn to the wrong men. I've known this for quite awhile, but it is a hard habit to break, and I wonder how we successfully break it. It's pretty common knowledge that as women we are attracted to men like our fathers, in both positive and negative ways. The positive attributes that both my father and men I'm attracted to possess, is intelligence and determination. The negative aspect, however, keeps the relationship from actually forming in the first place, and that is the knowledge that I am attracted to me who don't want a relationship. My father would worship me from afar, praising me to friends, family, and pretty much anyone who would listen. But when I actually saw him he wouldn't know what to say, and we'd go days, months, and sometimes years in between visits. I've been addicted to the last season of Mad Men which finally came out on DVD, and I'm noticing incredible similarities between the patriarch, Don Draper, and my father. Don says, when speaking of the children he has with his newly ex-wife: "When I don't see them I miss them. Then when I do see them I don't know what to do or say, and I am relieved when I drop them back home. Then I miss them all over again." My father felt the exact same way.

My father isn't even why I'm in therapy. But something that my therapist has made me realize is that while I miss him, I show no emotion. I can talk about all our exceptionally good times, and all our heart-wrenchingly bad times, and I do it all with a straight face, and just a little bit of a smile. Maybe once I'm able to break through this wall of supposed strength and nonchalance, I can actually cry for my father and subsequently stop crying over romantic love interests who are just as elusive as he was. Maybe this is how we reprogram ourselves to fall for men who will make good companions when our fathers weren't very good fathers. And maybe the memoir I'm writing about the two of us will help me get there.

I'm also reading a good book on the subject: Dr. Seth's Love Prescription: Overcome Relationship Repetition Syndrome and Find the Love You Deserve.

Taken

Last Saturday night I went with my roommate to her work's annual Officer Ball. She herself almost had a date to it, but figured 6 dates (with no intimate contact yet) was a little short of being able to ask someone to what is basically a grown up prom filled with her nosy coworkers. So lucky for me, I got to dress up, look hot, and feel important.

My roommate had already warned me that most of the cops were married, and those that weren't liked to troll for pleasure. Well, even some of the married ones. No one really caught my eye except for a 40-something cop of some sort who read the nominations to something comparable to the Darwin Awards. Wow, I thought as his short, balding self with some unspeakably strong sexuality read for what seemed like a half hour of heaven. He became out of view as soon as he sat down, but when the ceremony was over I immediately glanced in his direction to see if his ringless hand was otherwise engaged. Turns out, it was.

Not only did the short, bald, 40-something have a date, but the date was a tall gazelle-like 20 or 30-something creature dressed in Victoria's Secret's slutty-chic finest, complete with those boots that go over the knee. I kept them in sight as the night went on, and was a bit morose to discover that the gazelle moved just like one on the dance floor and that the guy had his body all over her like he wanted to have sex with her at that very moment -- which I'm sure he had done countless times before. Suddenly flats-wearing me seemed highly inadequate for such a man. Especially because I am still a virgin.

I haven't mentioned this last part in awhile, largely because it is embarrassing, and largely because I rarely have gotten to a point in a relationship lately where it matters. Since having my surgery to fix the vulvar vestibulitis I have gone to bed with one man, my upstairs neighbor O. Trying to be the good girl -- while also trying to mask my complete apprehension -- I played hard to get and wouldn't let him go all the way. But the fact that my body did tense up even though I don't have pain in that area anymore, did make me question my ability to sleep with someone without letting them know of my virgin status. As a 34-year-old divorcee, no one expects that I am so sexually inexperienced. Sure, I've done lots of other things, but when it comes to anything getting close to that particular area, I become a 13-year-old in the back of her boyfriend's car wondering if "it will hurt." Or rather I become my 19-year-old self "knowing" that it will hurt, just like it did back then.

Part of the reason I wear flats is because with my movement disorder I can't walk in heels. Part of it is because I just prefer the comfort. And I'm sure another part of it is that my go to style is cute rather than sexy. I have a huge butt and huge boobs and I like flaunting both. I even wore black fishnet stockings with my dress to the ball. But the black flats with little fake pink pearls on them and little tiny satin bows represents the virginal side of me -- the side I desperately want taken away but also don't know quite how to rid myself of.

Naturally this has been something I've discussed in detail with my sister and close friends. In my mind, I can't sleep with a guy without letting him know of my virginal past, or else he will try to ravage me without knowing that I am still a delicate flower that needs to be opened slowly. But now I'm wondering if this good girl act is really doing me a disservice, especially in regards to the type of men I find attractive. While I don't believe that sex can be used as a tool to reel someone in, I'm learning that perhaps I should let go of the antiquated notion that I have a proverbial key around my neck that needs to be protected and given to the man of my dreams at just the right moment. Advice I have gotten lately is rather to live in the moment, and while I have no regrets about not sleeping with O, especially because he lives right above me, this advice might be just what I need in getting through my divirginization. "Instructional aids" are soon coming to my doorstep, hopefully replacing the need to go into any kind of backstory while in the heat of passion with my next lover, making it more likely that he will actually become one, whoever he is. Then I may still not show up to a ball like a gazelle in Victoria's Secret's finest with heeled over-the-knee boots on my feet. But if I ever do get that short, balding 40-something-year-old in bed -- or on the dance floor -- I'll know how to take him like he's a true victim of prey.

Get your own pair of gazelle boots here.

She Ventures Forth

In the U.S. we're obsessed with finding "The One." When we have relationships that don't end in marriage, we tend to see them as either stepping stones for our "real" relationship, or as stumbling blocks that have gotten in the way of our true path and destiny. The mindset of "The One" is what The Bachelor is based on. Never mind that the Bachelor is always sure his future wife is in the room of 25 women that the show has picked out for him, and never mind that he is (almost) always sure he has chosen the "right one" at the end of each season. This quest for perfect wedded bliss is what draws so many women into the series. We judge the female contestants based on what they do or don't do, and we try to mirror those in our own relationships so that we can find our special one. Even if we don't out and out say that we are mimicking or rejecting their behavior, I'm sure many of us sit in front of the TV screen going "Of course he rejected her," or, "What a nut case." Let's admit it, at times even the best of us can be catty bitches.

Women watch The Bachelor for the very same reason that it is criticized and made fun of. In all of its 14 seasons, only two couples have actually gotten married. One bride was the runner up swapped for the winner after the show was over, and the other couple weren't even on The Bachelor but The Bachelorette. Every other couple has split up, and often rather publicly. Not that there haven't been other Bachelor weddings, but these are made up of contestants who meet each other at Bachelor reunion events. Which makes sense. Let's face it, a room full of 200 plus people making up an equal number of men and women is much more likely to have lasting hookups than one contestant with 25, especially when the one goes around making out with multiple women at once.

As I watched the "Women Tell All" reunion episode tonight, it struck me that while the show purports to be about finding the ONE love of your life, maybe it isn't really so much about the destination as it is about the journey. What struck me today is that the current bachelor, Brad Womack, wouldn't let any girls apologize for anything they thought they did wrong. Ashley H., who had his heart from the beginning and let insecurity overwhelm her as the show went on, apologized to Brad on stage saying that she was at fault for things ending badly. He replied with something to the effect of, "Never apologize, because you are an exceptional woman. Maybe I just wasn't the guy to bring out that confidence in you." And really, can you blame her? I would be insecure too if a guy I had a great date with started kissing all these other girls. Who wouldn't get jealous? He had also sent away Ashley S. -- a girl much like myself who always has great first dates and then the guy says he's not looking for anything -- and she asked Brad tonight what he meant when he said she would make someone a wonderful wife, but not him. "Who am I to say if you would make a good wife or not?" he responded kindly, helping the girl realize she was not defective, just one girl that one guy didn't want to spend the rest of his life with. Who knows, this may all be a plot by the producers to boost women's ego and have them continue to watch the show, but it worked for me.

For the first time in a long time, my head is filled not with finding love, nor my medical condition, but with an entrepreneurial endeavor. For the past day and a half my roommate and I have been consumed with a business venture that kind of took on a life of its own. While because of my anonymity I won't go into the details of my idea, it combines my love of writing, my sappiness, my non-traditional upbringing, and my plethora of gay friends. Suddenly I'm not worried about what I will say to D or when I should say it. I write what I want, when I want, and he responds. In between his responses I'm not thinking about when I will receive the next one but am lost in my current project. Finally I have something I can focus my attention on even when in flareups, and with this quest, it's all in my hands. I do believe "The One" is out there, but making my own way is what's important right now. As is knowing that all those relationships that didn't turn into marriage (and the one that did) were not roadblocks or stepping stones but merely connections made between two people that had a start time and an end time. Sometimes things really are just that simple.

2011 Catch-up

I purposefully write my blogs as entries in a developing story. Because of that, if you've missed one or two posts, I'm sure you feel reluctant to jump back in without reading everything in order, which takes time. Because of this, I've decided to do a catch-up post of the developments of the past two months, as there have been quite a few.

At the New Year I decided to take a break from dating, and was promptly contacted by a guy one of my readers calls Captain SmartyPants on my defunct Match.com profile that hadn't been active since the middle of last year. He was perfect on paper but not in person, and another Match contact I call S was intriguing until after he showed a jealous side before we had even met. The same exact weekend I hung out with my year-long friend D and had a hang-out session turned date, and have returned to the hangout stage as his impulsive kiss came as a shock to even himself.

Health-wise I finally received a diagnosis of sleep apnea which has put me on a CPAP machine to keep me from waking up every six minutes. Turns out what I thought was deep sleep was not really deep at all. Just as they say patients need to be their own advocates, I'm the one who suggested seeing a sleep doctor, and I'm very glad I did.

As the year goes on I continue to fight for social security benefits -- the next step being an administrative hearing which my lawyers are in the process of setting up. I'm also fighting for my disability insurance to pay for my CPAP machine, since even though they don't cover durable medical equipment, the sleep apnea is what is (at least partially) causing me to need their insurance in the first place. From my point of view, if they pay for the machine and I can get better, get off the insurance, and then they won't have to pay anything. The insurance alone was a struggle to keep this year as my GP stated in my mid-year review that I could work. Thankfully my neurologist has come around and declared that this is not true, stating sleep apnea and ataxia as the reasons for incapacity.

Lastly, I've started seeing a therapist as my mom has disclosed some events from my past that need working through. This therapy -- which I get at an alarmingly low sliding scale rate -- is changing my views not so much about the world around me, but about myself. What I thought were weaknesses are coming out as strengths, and so I enter this new year with a firmer self-awareness and appreciation of my personhood.

All of the happenings of this year make the current focus of this blog that of loving ourselves just as we are, appreciating what makes us uniquely us, and knowing that fighting for what we need and want is -- while a continuous struggle -- something that pays off and keeps us on the road to wellness.

D-D-D-Drowning

I went into counseling wanting to fix myself. Over the years I have noticed patterns in my dating relationships that keep resurfacing, and with the new knowledge of "the thing that happened that I cannot talk about," everything started coming into place. So far instead of learning how to change, I'm learning that I'm not messed up to begin with. Sure, the things that happened to me were, but I myself am strong, not weak, and whatever weaknesses I think I have are actually strengths -- or at least two sides of the same coin. This is not just words of wisdom for me, but for all women out there who think we have to be a certain way or do a certain thing (or more often, not be a certain way and not do a certain thing) to find love.

When I have an awesome date with a guy and he kisses me at the doorstep, I naturally expect to hear from him again. When I didn't hear from D for a week and a half I was sure he changed his mind, and I wrote him an email asking just that. He responded pretty quickly and we've gone back to our friendly facebook banter and the mutual understanding that he isn't looking to be with anyone right now. In the past such a statement meant that the guy was gay, which was always later confirmed. In those cases the guy always thought I was the greatest, most beautiful, and most talented woman alive, but wasn't looking for anything because he wasn't looking for a girl. In this case, D is -- from what I can tell -- as straight as they come, and his reserve really is because of what's going on in his own life, and has nothing to do with me or a lack of genuine interest. Instead it comes from interest itself and a desire not to get in over his head. At least that is what I took from our conversation.

The counselor's first successful lesson was teaching me that it's okay to have needs. Her second lesson was to help me learn that what I thought was bad about myself is actually good. As I explained to her, my usual PMDD pattern with relationships is to stop treading water and to instead flail my arms around madly as I cry out "Help! I'm drowning!" Of course the drowning is only made worse by my panicked response. After therapy I learned that that response is not just a weakness -- it's also a strength. I flail around for survival. Instead of letting myself drown into a resignation or depression I fight for what I know I need. It may not always be the best thing to do in relationships or even a necessary one, but it's gotten me where I am today. As I related this realization to my best gay friend J over a hot dog and a hard cider, a light came on over his head and he said, "Yes! It makes sense. You're a fighter." I've fought financial odds to get college degree. I've fought against abusers who told me I was nothing. I've fought the graduate department to let me get a (harder) assistanceship that would work with my illness. I've fought the Department of Social and Health Services to give me benefits, and I'm continuing to fight Social Security.

Sure, when I don't hear from a guy I like for a week and a half I panic just a little bit. But it's that exact desire to get what I need that has gotten me so far in life. I don't let my arms go slack and delve into the depths. Instead I flail around until the storm calms down and I can once again tread water. There's no lifeboat out there, no light house or vest or even rations. This is not to say that there aren't people -- even family -- who help me along the way. But at the end of the day it's just me and the storm. And I always win, even when I think I've lost.

3..... 2..... 1.

The older I get, the more obsessed I become with finding some magic formula to make a man love me. Last year I read Why Men Love Bitches, Why Men Marry Bitches, Flirtexting, Make Every Man Want You, and How to be Wanted. I read countless articles about the clothes men like, how much makeup men like, the sexual positions men like, the kinds of things you should and shouldn't talk about, if you should wear your hair up or down, if you should or should not wear nail polish, and if you should call him or wait for him to call you. Then today I had my first therapy appointment for that thing that happened in my past which I cannot talk about. After the therapist heard the half hour version of my dysfunctional past, she said she would help me learn how to get my needs met in relationships. My tough and flippant facade was torn right down as I said between tears, "I can have needs?"

There are, of course, some needs that I've known I can have for some time, including the need to be emotionally and physically attracted to my partner. Unfortunately Captain SmartyPants was great on paper and great on the phone, but the spark was just not there in person. He texted after the date saying how much fun he had, and I texted back to be polite and because I want to give it one more shot before throwing in the towel. But as it's been four days now with no further contact, maybe he has realized that there is just nothing there. D, on the other hand, seems to have moved from "are we friends or something more" to "something more." I regret that I cannot tell you the details of this particular date due to us having mutual friends and my unexpected desire to maintain his privacy, but I will say that it was the best date I've had in a long time, and perhaps the most traditional date ever. The sparks were there, serious conversation was there, joking around was there, and mutual respect was definitely there.

I've been hooked on this season of The Bachelor, and just like with the self-help books I study and analyze who gets roses and who doesn't. On the surface it seems like the most unemotional yet emotionally available girls win the guy's heart. In romantic comedies it's the girl who runs away from love as it chases her down the street. But in real life, it's probably more akin to the episode of How I Met Your Mother where Lily falls apart at the sight of Marshall with another woman -- where she's not only emotionally available, but downright emotional. Sure, the episode may just be placating us girls who fear our wants and needs will drive men away, but as I sat on the proverbial (and actual) couch today, I was prodded to see emotions as healthy and normal. Now, this doesn't mean freaking out like I often do in an episode of PMDD, but it means recognizing that it's okay -- and even better -- to just be myself. Maybe it's the Not Feeling Worthy of Love that keeps me from getting it, not unworthiness itself.

And in fact, myself is just what I presented to D on our hang out / date / whatever it was. Sure, there was some strategy to winning D's affections. I spent time on my wardrobe, hair and accessories. But other than that I was just me. No game play, no falsity, and no thinking about what I should and should not say. I slipped by essentially apologizing for something after our date that didn't need an apology -- which is a defense mechanism I definitely need to work on. But as I wait expectantly for our next encounter, my therapist's words calm my over-analytical brain: You are worthy of love, just the way you are. No apologies, no exceptions.

Here is a link to a great article on the subject of needs:

Are You Too Needy? (Hint: The answer is not what you'd think!)

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(Oh, and the third guy I mentioned in my previous post? He got the boot after asking me if my "hanging out with a friend" on Friday night was actually a hot date. Well, it ended up being just that, but after only two emails and one text it definitely wasn't an appropriate question, and was, instead, a definite red flag. Maybe there are rules after all.)

They always come in threes

Things are going well with Captain SmartyPants, as a friend of mine approvingly calls him. Email led to a phone conversation which led to a date request which has led to texting until the date arrives. Captain SmartyPants is, from what I can tell, one of the best guys I have met in awhile. He's extremely smart, extremely cute, and extremely respectful and caring. A very hard combination to come by. I breathe a sigh of relief and my lips curl up in a perpetual smile when I think of him, especially after 2011's initial letdown with the dental student with a tooth fetish who wouldn't meet me until I sent him pictures of the inside of my mouth (I didn't), the Latin Lover who wanted to chat via webcam to compliment me on parts of my body and who said he wanted to sleep with me (not a way to get me to like you), the dreadlocked landlord who called me a prude for not being comfortable with his texts about my kissable lips, and the guy on IM who didn't tell me he is in the country for two weeks and MARRIED until half an hour into the conversation.

While I have strong feelings for Captain SmartyPants, I'm following the dating rules by not putting all my eggs in one basket, especially before meeting the basket in person. Therefore I spend tomorrow with "is he a friend or something more D", and I'm corresponding with someone else who contacted me on Match who I haven't thought of an appropriate nickname for yet.

The only problem with dating three men at once is that while it goes along with 21st century conventions, it goes against my sick body's need for long periods of doing nothing and seeing no one. And if I push myself too hard, my body will crash and all three prospects will come crashing down as well. Right now I could really use those relaxation techniques that my counselor wants to show me, and I could really use not having had three doctors' appointments and one therapist appointment in the past week. Tomorrow will mark my 5th day in a row in Seattle, an hour away from where I live, and while I am excited about marching with D in protest of police brutality, I'm hoping my legs will keep up with my desires. He, caring guy that he is, hopes the same.

This week, while busy, has been a breakthrough week in many ways. I spent another night at the sleep clinic and got fitted for my sleep apnea mask, and my sleep doctor was almost astounded to see how well my levels were with the apparatus. The next day (today) I saw my neurologist who filled out the work incapacity forms for state disability without blinking an eye, and his diagnosis of ataxia, along with the sleep apnea, is the first time he has used that word in front me, having claimed before that I did not have ataxia but somatization.

Sick me took a five hour long nap on the couch today, and I woke up in a panic at one point, dreaming I had received an email from Captain SmartyPants entitled "Regarding sickness and health," that I just knew was a rejection of my medical condition just like K had rejected it and me a year ago. But so far "sleep apnea" has not scared him off, and what he sees instead of a sick person is someone who is studying something fascinating, is a passionate English instructor, and has a "lovely voice." I always knew someone would be able to see the real me under all those medical appointments and slow days (and under my kissable lips and big butt and boobs), and I can't wait to be embraced by Captain SmartyPants' big physicist cape and meet the man behind the magnanimity.

Thinking of dating multiple people or already doing so? Here's a great article to help you along:

Dating Around Online

The science of self-worth

A few days ago I received a wink from someone on my inactive Match.com profile. I saw his picture, read his profile, and signed on for a month in order to write him back. Turns out this man is currently doing his post-doc in biochemistry and biophysics. He mentioned this in an email to me, afraid that it would make me run for the hills. For anyone who knows me, his scientific mind does just the opposite.

This may sound conceited but for the past few months I've felt destined to be with someone incredible. My best gay friend J laughs at me, saying, "Of course whoever you end up with will be incredible, or else you wouldn't be with him." While I understand how silly my statement may sound, to me it's self-affirming to a point that feels unreasonable. After all, I married my first husband with a sense of resignation and the feeling that "This is who God has for me." But on the other hand, feeling like the luckiest bride on the world seems completely within reason for a second, and hopefully final, marriage.

With every man I meet I feel there are two sides to my personhood struggling for dominance and ultimate definition: namely, the sick me and the well me. The sick me is on disability, has anxiety, makes no money, can't drive, and can't lead the life of a normal adult. The sick me also came from a dysfunctional background, had a dad in prison, had an abusive stepfather, went to a college that accepted anyone who met the minimum requirements, got an 880 on her SATs, and is a divorced virgin. The sick me does not feel like a worthy me. The well me, on the other hand, is someone who pulled herself up by her bootstraps, was said by an undergrad professor to be the best English department graduate in the past 10 years, is a published author, is wise beyond her years, thinks Moby Dick is the best novel ever, and has caring qualities that would make any man lucky to have her.

The well me is excited by this potential prospect, and the sick me is nervous, like I have something to hide. On the other hand, I feel confident that if anyone is able to understand the complexity of my personhood it is a biochemist/physicist, and sickness and wellness aside, his and my interests line up more than those of anyone else I've been in contact with in the past year. Also, while I assume he's not a divorced virgin, he is divorced. As my grandma advised me regarding my "hang out session" with D coming up in the next week (see my entry from March 1, 2010 for a refresher) I will go into this possible match-up taking it slow and easy. I beam, however, at the knowledge that he picked me. Maybe my intuition isn't so unreasonable after all.

TV's Toughest Trainer

A few months ago I was watching The Biggest Loser, and someone was able to do something they hadn't done in a long time because of the emotional support of the trainer, Jillian Michaels. I can't remember now who the contestant was or what they did, but right after it happened I paused the TV and stepped on the treadmill. As of a year ago I haven't been able to handle the motion of the conveyor under me, so my treadmill had stood unused, and every day not spent on it felt like a defeat. But on that particular day I stepped on, set it to the very slowest speed, and willed my legs to walk forward and my brain to allow my legs to do so. For the first minute my legs weren't sure, much like a toddler isn't sure of her first steps. My legs were stiff and I became dizzy, but I pressed on. After the first minute my legs suddenly had no problem keeping pace with the conveyor (well, while still on its lowest speed). My brain cleared and suddenly what had been so hard became easy. I stayed on the treadmill for an entire five minutes.

The day after this tremendous victory, my body and brain were so slow that I couldn't stand any noise including my own voice, couldn't follow moving objects on the TV screen, and had to use the walker because it took so much effort to lift my right leg. But because of The Biggest Loser, after my episode cleared the following day, I stepped back on the treadmill and did just one minute instead of five. The day after that I had absolutely no ill effects, and since that time I've been keeping steady at 5-minute increments about two or three times a week.

On this past Monday's episode, Jillian confronted a contestant who acted out of fear in order to keep himself in the game. From what I've seen of the Biggest Loser, hard work is the one sure factor in being able to complete your weight-loss journey. Anyone who participates in calorie-consuming game play most often sabotages himself, doesn't lose weight, and goes home. It can be easy to judge the contestants from the couch, but I can't imagine being there in that moment, fearing that you are going to lose your trainers and have to continue your weight loss journey at home with no professional staff to keep you from caloric temptations. While I don't have a problem with eating too much, I do live in fear and act in a way that ultimately does just damage I was trying to avoid. Jillian, knowing the root of this particular contestant's insecurities, wrapped her tiny frame around this huge man and stated, "Don't create the very outcome you fear."

This message really rings true to me right now because I'm wrestling with some information that I've recently learned about my past. Regardless of whether what has happened in the past is affecting my current health, it has contributed to my tendency to create outcomes I fear. I worry about my money disappearing so I spend it all while I have it, which makes it, of course, disappear. I worry about my cold so I take Sudafed which just makes my cold worse because of the medication's side effects. I worry that men I'm interested in are about to leave, so I try to convince them to stay which of course then makes them leave. This circle of destruction isn't that different from the food addict's who scarfs down a jelly donut because he's down on himself for being fat. (For critics of the show, from what I can tell it has grown from being exploitative in its first seasons to medically sound and emotionally therapeutic in its more recent ones.)

I can't erase what happened in my past, and I can't hop on a treadmill right now and start running, or drive the car down the road, or move my body quickly enough to be able to throw fast punches. But every time I conclude that I can't do something, I need to test and retest that theory to make sure it's true. There is no one to save me from what happened. But I got through it. And I'll get through this as well.

Sleepless in Seattle

In the fourth episode of the first season of How I Met Your Mother, Ted Mosby reviews his past relationships in search of a lost gem. Just like I love this shirt I used to overlook, he says, perhaps I've overlooked the right woman just because she came to me at the wrong time. I won't tell you how that story ends, except to say that no, she was not in fact Ted's lost gem. All the things he didn't like about her came back to the surface, probably even stronger than they had before. She was not a bad girl, just not a girl he wanted to commit to.

That's the way I felt about the Space Needle, and the way the Space Needle felt about me. Our first relationship was great, and we both got what we wanted. I got a paycheck, and they got a dedicated employee. The Space Needle came to me at just the right time -- in between a marriage and my admission to a 4-year university, and when we parted ways it was with both confidence in the future and thankfulness of what we had been able to give each other. One of my close friends came out of that job, as did an architectural reminder of the beginning of my life in that city.

So when I went through my period of remission, the Space Needle is unsurprisingly what came to my mind. Just like Ted's ex-girlfriend, I wanted to rekindle my relationship with it with the expectation that it would give me what it did before. And at first, it did. My supervisor was still there, seven years later (and had been for 34 years), and she welcomed me with open arms. She spoke of coworkers we had both known -- women who had passed through the system on their way to achieving higher education. I'm so proud of my girls, she said, You guys are all so smart.

I was happy to be back until I stepped back into the uniform room. Sure, the job had been great back then, when I was young and getting on my feet. But the smell of the room brought back memories both good and bad, and I felt like I had stepped back in time. Current uniform employees proudly introduced me to our clients -- current Space Needle employees -- and while it felt good to be so appreciated, I couldn't also help but feel a little bit like a failure that I had returned to this entry-level job after seven years of schooling. Not all of it was bad though, and most of it was good. It felt good to get up in the morning, take a shower, and take the bus to work. It felt good to leave work and traipse about the city as a wage earner. It felt good to have a reason for an ipod, a backpack, and a coin purse for bus fare. But unfortunately the Space Needle wanted what I couldn't give it. It wanted double shifts and frequent early mornings, and the ability to walk an hour each way to and from the bus. The double shifts and early mornings weren't part of the job description, and despite my best effort my body shut down and I lost the job. But, just like Ted realized that his ex wasn't right for him the second time around, I realized that the Space Needle was not right for me. I have frequently set my bar too low in the jobs I'll take -- jobs that don't coincide with my education and experience. I looked to the Space Needle at my lowest and most lonely point, but the universe knows there is something better for me out there.

Four days after losing my job at the Needle, which I worked for a total of two days, my sleep study revealed that I do in fact have sleep apnea. I wake myself up 10 times an hour due to shallow breathing, and the test showed that I got 70 minutes of deep sleep in the 8 hours I slept at the center. This knowledge should help me get to where I need to go, which is a) a state of normal functioning with a CPAP machine, or b) a diagnosis enabling me to receive social security if the CPAP machine doesn't help enough. Just how bad my particular case of sleep apnea turns out to be and just how much it is contributing to my symptoms remains to be seen, but I go forward with the hope that I will once again wake up on an early (or late) morning and make the commute to a job in the city that I love. The Space Needle and I may have broken up, but the right working relationship is out there somewhere.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

For the past week or two I've been hooked on Teen Mom. After watching a few of the episodes during random channel surfing, I watched Season 2 in its entirety on Comcast. Then I had to watch Season 1 of 16 and Pregnant, which is essentially Season 1 of Teen Mom, and now I am watching the real Season 1. Now when I yell at my roommate's cat Pixie I now feel like I sound like Amber, and when I state "No one helps me," I feel just like Farrah. But, let's back up a bit.

In a way I was a Teen Mom. My sister was born when I was thirteen, and I was mostly responsible for raising her during her first four years. Just like some of the girls on the show I had a non-traditional home life where I had to take care of myself. I wasn't encouraged or able to go off to 4-year college but instead find my own way in the world with bits of help from my family. When I left my sister at seventeen, I was filled with guilt at what felt like abandonment. I was her safe haven and I had no safe haven of my own, but instead greatly took what my extended family could give me and charged forward to make my own life. So when Farrah cries, "No one helps me" with her baby on her lap, and when Amber cries because her cheap car breaks down leaving her no way to get to GED classes, I completely sympathize. When they make breakthroughs against all odds, I cheer with understanding. (Though, to be honest, I don't have much understanding for Amber. See why here.)

Lately I've been going through a period of remission. Two years ago I had one that lasted six months, and I have no idea how long this one will last. Last week as I took out the trash, it suddenly occurred to me that I am probably well enough to work as a uniform attendant at the Space Needle -- a job I did seven years ago before going off to college (at the non-traditional age of 26). Before, the thought of work overwhelmed me, but with my bout of wellness it seems completely manageable, confirming my roommate's suspicion that my strong work ethic would return as soon as I had a strong body. With the trash taken out, I sat down at my computer, opened the Space Needle webpage, and saw to my surprise that there was indeed an opening for 10 hours a week. I sent in my resume and cover letter and got a call the next morning. Friday I had an interview, and today I got a call that I got the job.

I'd checked with my disability lawyers before applying, but I didn't check with the Department of Social and Health Services. Incidentally, because of that little bit of work, my cash and medical benefits will terminate at the end of this month. No matter that "uniform attendant" is the only job my body can handle and that it can't do more than the 10 hours a week. Instead I am being punished for not sitting home all day even though I can't be out full time. When I discovered this, and when I was also told that I'd be losing benefits anyway because of some sort mid-review failing, I got off the phone, chocked in my tears, and channeled Farrah by calling my lawyers. I then called my aunt and my public health counselor. A lawyer skilled in working the DSHS system will be calling me today, and my counselor, who has ever and increasingly been my rock, will send a letter stating that I need my medical benefits to last at least another six months.

Living as a single woman in these economic times is not easy, and living as a disabled one is even worse. Worse still is living as a single disabled woman without a correct diagnosis. Aside from the results of my sleep study which I'll get next week, all avenues geared toward finding out what's wrong with me have been exhausted. Either my remission will turn out to be a complete healing, or my counselor and lawyer will have to stress my need for benefits based on "psychological incompetency" and anxiety, even though the counselor -- and I -- are convinced that the anxiety is secondary to a real medical condition that hasn't been discovered yet. I'm fine with this, especially because I walk through the Seattle city streets and ride the city bus with a smile on my face, knowing that I am once again a productive member of society.

Next up on "Dating with a Disability" is a dentist with a fetish and Valentine's Day speed dating. Stay tuned!

Fight or flight

About thirteen years ago I enrolled in an advanced photo class in college. I'd taken beginning photography in high school, but I soon realized that I'd forgotten almost everything in the four years since graduation. My male teacher was friendly with the other handful of women in his class, all of whom he knew from beginning photography. As a newcomer, I quickly became the one who received odd looks at my lack of knowledge and comprehension -- mainly from the teacher himself. Instead of talking to him about the situation and what I could do to pass the class, I dropped, after the add/drop period, and avoided him like the plague. When my grades came I had no answer for myself or anyone else as to why failing the class was worth not talking to the teacher.

This reaction of mine wasn't new. It's been a long established one after growing up in an abusive household and having an absent father. When things get hard, I often run away instead of facing the problem. For this reason, I wasn't too disappointed when my clinic said I had to return to see Dr. R because they only refer to him. This way I would be able to face the one who diagnosed me with somatization and prove to him that his assessment was wrong. The appointment I had with him in October was one of the worst I had ever had with any doctor, second only to the gynecological specialist who said my now-diagnosed vulvodynia was a psychosomatic condition and that I should just be glad I don't have cancer. (Being unable to have sex for the rest of my life understandably seemed just as bad.)

in my previous visit with Dr. R, when I told him about my neurological symptoms he gave me a look that I can't very well describe, but something akin to the look you would give someone if they told you they were born on the planet Mars. My aunt and I were so upset at his somatization diagnosis that the appointment ended with mild yelling followed by a breakdown in the waiting room. I was adamant that I did not to see him again, even though he wanted to see me to keep me from "doctor shopping." So when I did decide to return -- as this was my only option -- I took my uncle along and put on a brave face, knowing that facing this doctor would ultimately be good for me.

Thankfully the appointment went really well. None of us mentioned somatization, and when I described my symptoms once again, my doctor fought his doubts and listened. He agreed on a treatment plan consisting of getting a sleep study, which happens tomorrow, and going back on my anti-seizure med, at a lower dose this time. Even though my uncle didn't have to say anything I'm glad he went, and it looks like Dr. R will now be able to help me navigate my peculiar symptoms with medical professionalism.

I've never been easy around men aside from my best gay friend J, and I'm hoping that this experience will help me stand up for myself in the future. After years of verbal abuse I still can't look my stepdad in the face, and I was following in the same pattern with Dr. R, even as far as not being able to look at his portrait on his website page. Now I can face him with even less fear next time, and hopefully he and I can work together to heal my brain -- or at least give it a proper diagnosis that it deserves.

As Days Go By

So 2010 has come to a close, and with it my first year of dating after returning home from grad school. I casually dated more this year than I ever have before, rejecting men with much more alacrity than in previous years and taking my own rejections in better stride. After variations of time spent with O, J, K, and A -- and after random emails, IMs and texts with other men -- 2010 ends with about an equal number of rejectees and rejecters. New Years Eve found me on my couch with my roommate, sipping cheap wine and watching pigs synchronize dance in Nanny McPhee. I exited 2010 even more single than I entered it, and I was okay with that.

This past year has also been a busy one of progress and stagnation as I've gotten state disability and lost some of its benefits due to the bad economy, seen new doctors and had diagnoses presented and questioned by both them and myself, been denied social security and submitted an appeal, and put my name on the subsidized housing list with calls each month to keep it there. The year starts off with a bang as I see a sleep doctor to investigate the possibility of sleep apnea one day, and see my movement disorder specialist to challenge somatization the next, and lastly to see my general practitioner about the possibility of chronic fatigue syndrome one week after that.

I'm deciding to do things a bit differently in 2011. Aside from Okcupid I'm closing all my online dating profiles. Part of this is due to economics, but a larger part is due to the fact that I want to take a break this year and see what comes to me instead of searching for it. This blog will continue, if not with actual dates, at least with more insights and investigations into the dating world. I'll also most likely keep comparing real world experience to what I see on the TV screen, as I spend a lot of my time analyzing visual media no matter what my state of mental functioning. Before Nanny McPhee, my roommate and I sat down with Eat, Pray, Love, and until the end of the movie (which I won't spoil for those who haven't seen it yet) it seemed like the perfect way to end one year and start another. In 2011 I will Eat good food, Pray to the universe for wisdom, and Love myself unconditionally. In 2011, in whatever form, I will let love find me.