Whoa to you, Mr. Lame Date

I really liked Mr. Lame Date. Of course, I did not know he was a lame date at the moment I became smitten with him. I won’t even call him a boyfriend because it was so short-lived. But it was passionate and, like many relationships in the early stage, full of promise. We had a lot in common, he made me laugh, and those boy-next-door looks of his did not hurt.

Inevitably, once you get past the fun pleasantries at the initial stages you have to start sharing the some of the real-life less than ideal crap that we have floating around in our lives. My floatie is my PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder. His is his ex-wife that has schizo-affective disorder.

After becoming close in a relatively short period of time he texted me today, yes, you read that right, he TEXTED me to say that he needs to “apply the brakes.” He finds me intelligent and “awfully interesting” (such an odd phrase), but he’s not ready to deal with someone who has similar issues to his ex-wife. Well, I didn’t know that PTSD and DID were similar to schizo-affective disorder!

It is sad to me that he’s made a broad generalization about my mental illness without knowing a whole lot about it. But, for me, the worst part is that I had him over to my apartment. I let very few people into my apartment, but I let him in because I really liked him.

So, Mr. Lame Date, to sum it up, you’re a first-class jerk. You knew I rarely let people into my apartment, but you persuaded me to have you over, and I allowed it. I allowed myself to get close to you, and incorrectly assessed you as one of the “good guys.” I was wrong. And perhaps most importantly, I regret giving you 4 of my freshly baked chocolate peanut butter cookies. You are so not worthy of such fine baking. Procurement of fine baked goods under false pretenses will inevitably backfire into bad karma.

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