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.

The reluctant housewife of Orange County

In scripted TV, the beautiful driven woman always leaves the manipulative, controlling man. In Reality TV, she stays. The woman in scripted TV may struggle for awhile. She may sob to her girlfriends only to return to the one who made her cry, sure that her tears are her fault. But by the end of the script she is free of him and possesses a new sense of self-importance and the ability to realize her own worth. Reality TV tells another story -- and one sadly one that is much more frequently close to the truth.

Last night I finished Season One of The Real Housewives of Orange County. I'm hardly new to reality TV. I've watched Laguna Beach, The Hills, and Keeping up with the Kardashians religiously, while well aware that aspects of the shows are scripted. What I know is never scripted though is the actual relationships between the men and women. The producers may decide when and where they meet, but what they say is all them.

Laguna Beach was my first initiation into relational Reality TV (as opposed to competitive, like Survivor). At the time I was trying to get over T, who to this day is the man I still feel was closest to "the one." While he said I was his favorite contemporary author, put my novel behind a glass case, spent hours talking with me, taking dance lessons, and my holding hand while ice skating in the park (among other acts of intimacy that I won't get into), he was so elusive that I would go weeks without hearing from him, breaking plans just by not showing up to them. During this time, I was flipping through channels one night and got hooked on Laguna. When Jason got tired of his girlfriend Jessica and started retreating, Jessica latched on even tighter, going so far as to text him while snowboarding with her girlfriends, sitting in the snow in the middle of a slope with snowboarders rushing down the hill all around her. Suddenly I became completely mortified by the drunk, crying messages I’d left on T’s phone and the time I saw his truck leaving a parking space and tried to chase him down the street with hands full of groceries. He was in no way manipulative and controlling like the other men I'll describe here, but I was still doing myself a disservice by letting a man make me miserable.


In The Hills, Audrina was always eager to reunite with "Justin Bobby" even though their coupling had to be on his terms and with no claim at exclusivity on his part. She was supposed to remain otherwise unattached. Then Kourtney Kardashian kept taking Scott back even though he was a violent alcoholic. And yesterday I started mutely yelling at the TV when 24-year-old Jo took back 40-year-old Slade, crying that she had failed him even though he was the one who made her stay home with his kids (who only came to visit twice a week) instead of getting a fulfilling job to go with her corporate degree. She "failed" by going back to work against his orders.


While Jason and Scott knew they were jerks, Slade had no idea. He is the kind of man who is convinced that he is the quintessential nice guy, but in reality is down right abusive with the way he separates his fiance from everything that would interest her, speaks to her in a condescending voice with phrases like "That's unacceptable behavior," and insists that any unhappiness is her fault. She could have had anyone she wanted, and instead she stayed with one of the most "charming" abusive men I have ever seen.

I worry about the next generation and the messages that young women are being sent by the actions of those they watch on TV. And part of my worry is because I do see this sort of relationship being played out in real life, with me -- and with many others. I wonder though if Reality TV makes us put up with abusive men less because we do see it on the screen. One can always assert that scripted TV isn't real life, and while Reality TV isn't real life either, seeing a woman put up with crap from the man who is supposed to love her makes us cringe in a way that putting up with the abuse ourselves might not. Things are always more clear without emotional attachments, and maybe seeing these men take advantage of these beautiful, confident women and make them into subservient crying messes will help real live women to avoid the same fate. Maybe if Reality TV had existed in the mid-90s, it wouldn't have taken me so long to break up with my "charmingly" manipulative and controlling boyfriend D.

I won't admit that Reality TV is the best way to be spending my time, but there are positives to everything, and every time I yell at the screen over a messed up relationship I feel it makes me that much stronger regards to not putting up with any abuse myself. And while some of these girls never seem to free themselves of their controlling partners, the producers of the show are well aware that female viewers will be disgusted by the subservience and present the relationship in such a way that we know they are disgusted as well (though they also sadly know it makes for good TV -- just think of Spencer and Heidi). It also makes me cringe at bleached blond hair, yellow skin, and fake boobs -- all of which Jo has thus far avoided, at least in Season One. I want to take her natural drive and beauty, see it in myself, and not be her, by not letting any man -- or reality show -- stand in my way.

Full Dis-clothes-ure

My online dating experience took on a new look recently when I made use of the webcam built into my computer. Using the webcam wasn't my idea. Rather it was the idea of two men who had each contacted me through Plenty of Fish. Shortly after signing on with Plenty of Fish I learned of its reputation for being a sexual hookup site, but I stayed on for awhile hoping to find a diamond in the rough, with a disclaimer in my profile saying that I was not looking for sexual encounters. This disclaimer was even more important because men seemed to latch onto my (covered) breasts in my profile photo more than on anything I had to say.

A few days ago a guy popped up to chat. Normally I ignore these requests, but he was good looking, spoke proper English, and didn't make a comment about my breasts. After some pleasant conversation he asked if he could see me via webcam, and I assented. He praised my smile and my overall look, but then began to turn raunchy, asking to see my breasts. I declined, and he quickly lost interest. Yesterday I closed my account at Plenty of Fish, but today decided to answer someone I had met through that site who I had added to my yahoo messenger site. (I use yahoo for people I meet online because of its anonymity.) He asked if I'd had success at Plenty of Fish, and I said no, citing the previous encounter of "Bobby" asking to see my breasts, and the countless other men who had contacted me with a hint of vileness. We turned on our webcams, at his suggestion, and he immediately turned raunchy as well, commenting, as many men do, that my lips look very kissable. He then asked for a picture of my legs. Disgusted, I declined, and he disappeared. My third experience with the webcam came a couple days ago when another guy I had previously texted with asked to webcam as well, and he popped on without a shirt on, looked like a serial killer, and started off the conversation saying how good looking I am. I quickly said I had to go and took him off my messenger list.

This whole webcam thing has left me feeling slightly "meat-ified," and not in a good way. We know that men always check women out, and most of us, including myself, do the same when we scope dating profiles, bars, guys behind us in line at the grocery store, etc. But what happened to wanting to know what someone's hopes and dreams are? Do we not really care about those things but just pretend we do? Are these men just being honest about their intentions while others are more skilled at playing the game? If either of these men (aside from serial killer) had asked about my job, my pets, my favorite movies, etc., I would have been more willing to take my clothes off eventually. Well, after a few in-person dates. But not only did these men not care to know about the inner me, they also didn't care to share about themselves. Now, there may be women out there who get turned on by a guy who sends them a picture of their gigantic penis, but most women I know would be more turned on by a guy who sent them a picture of their gigantic dog who they shower love upon. Most of us care more about the girth of a man's heart, not the girth of his loins. Why do so many men have such a hard time realizing this?

The emergence of webcams brings dating to a whole new level no matter how one uses it and what one's intentions are. If speed dating was once the wave of the future, it has been replaced by "dating" that can take five seconds instead of five minutes. I knew within five seconds that I did not like shirtless guy. However, much of my dislike might have been the fact that he was shirtless. Can you imagine going on a first date with someone and having them take their clothes off at the restaurant? It seems to speak of a certain desperation and a childlike mentality of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." It also takes away all chivalry, all adherence to the natural process of dating, and all sense of communing with fellow human beings. It places us as Hottentots in the midst of carnal lust and judgment. I recently lowered my standards a bit because of my disability, thinking maybe I've been too reserved in regards to the mental image of my future mate. But today all that reservation returned. Whoever I spend my life with will be someone amazing, smart, mature, family-oriented, and who doesn't ask to see my breasts but rather expresses physical intimacy as an outward expression of the love he feels for me. He also won't be the "infamous O" who has turned to crazy house parties and nightly sexual rituals that shake the walls. My faith in the male species has been shaken as of late, but male maturity is out there... Somewhere.