Category Archives: dating

The only holiday song I like

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English: The Carol of Lights at Texas Tech Uni...

Dear Ted,

I hate Christmas music, with one exception, “O Holy Night.” Driving home my finger accidentally hit the station number that has holiday music on 24/7 from now until Christmas. When that happens my body usually tenses up anytime I hear the first notes of holiday schmaltz take over the interior of my car. But as soon as I heard “O Holy Night” come through the speakers I just smiled and sighed because you will always be that song for me, always, for the rest of my days on this earth.

It was nearly 20 years ago that we celebrated the Carol of Lights at Texas Tech University. The air was chilly and cold, without snow, in that typical Panhandle Texas way that winter would give us cold without snow. The whole campus is lit up at once in holiday lights galore with the tradition of a soloist singing “O Holy Night.” You’re holding me against you, and you can’t help but whisper the words to the song in my ear as the soloist sings. I can still hear your slightly twangy, yet distinguished, smarty sounding voice. I loved the strange combination of the Texas twang with a certain je ne sais quoi that gave you that nerdy cache that had me from the start.

“The thrill of hope …” was everywhere. Your whispered song was hope set free, and for that moment in time all was well. I am glad that neither of us knew that I would break your heart, and leave you for someone who would turn out to be a not very good choice for me, someone with whom I would ultimately stay with for 10 years out of the belief that I deserved no better. I had no idea that we would wind up dating when I was frequently phoning you as assistant stage manager because you failed to make rehearsal yet again. You were frequently tardy or absent, and your sheer talent is the only thing that kept you in the cast, that and your sweet demeanor.

“… the soul felt it’s worth …” You were the first person to ever really show me the worth of my soul. I was not ready to truly learn that worth, but I’ve never forgotten that you certainly tried. Do you remember the time I tried telling you I was bisexual, and that I had feelings for someone else? You only picked up on the bisexual part of what I was telling you. I still recall what you told me as we ate in my favorite Vietnamese restaurant, “It doesn’t matter to me that you’re bisexual. I still love you.”

“… a new and glorious morn …” dawned for us separately. Much, much later I learned that I have DID, and I am now beginning to understand the system within me that caused me to make chaotic decisions in my life, specifically, the decision I made to cheat on you and leave you. I am so glad that you found happiness elsewhere with someone else. I wish I could have/would have treated you differently. But things happened as they happened, and the only peace I have is that you are happy. I finally have some answers, and that has to be enough.

But, yes, for that moment in time it was a divine night.

All my best,

Beatriz

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dear Mr. Last Date

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flowers

Dear Mr. Last Date,

The yellow and peach roses you gave me on our second date last Sunday are still blooming on my dining room table. I find it ironic that they’ve outlived our dating venture. Today the yellow one is in full beautiful bloom. It still makes me smile every time I see it.

Last night was our last date, and that’s okay. It truly is okay.

Thank you for being candid and straightforward about not wanting to pursue a dating relationship with me. It’s okay that the PTSD is a deal-breaker. I actually kind of knew it was coming. Somehow, I’m not sure exactly how, I assessed that once you learned about my PTSD that we would be done with dating. I figured that with the fact that you have young children, and your OCD that it would not be a fit.

You said you want to be friends, and I hope that does come to fruition, though you can understand my skepticism as I’ve been told this a few times before.

You didn’t get to learn that I also have DID, but that’s just as well. I’ve learned to be incremental in disclosing my issues. I’m glad I did it this way as I might have felt worse if I had told you I had DID, and you dropped me at that point. I’m not sure why, but the rejection with DID is the hardest for me to take. It makes no sense to me that it’s that difficult for me as I understand why that’s usually the deal breaker for most people.

Mostly, I just want to say “thank you” for being kind and honest with me. It seems that those two items are in short supply these days.

I’ve not yet eaten my leftovers from that last date. Tomorrow the flowers will be wilted, the leftovers will be eaten, and that will be that.

Beatriz

You are the weird one between the two of us

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Let’s get one thing straight: You are the weird one between the two of us.

I was encouraged by your “wink” on Match.com last month. You had a certain cute nerdiness that I like, such as the fact that you knew right away which David Foster Wallace essay I was describing to you. “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again” confirms my belief that a cruise vacation should never be in my future. Ever.

When your profile mentioned a liking for David Foster Wallace, how could I resist such a like for literary brilliance?

But then I noticed what you wrote under occupation: therapist.

Crap and fuck, as there would be no way to gloss over the details of my DID diagnosis. It gave me pause as I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of dating a therapist, but you liked David Foster Wallace!

We had a brilliant first date of nerdy talk for 5+ hours at the coffee shop.

I loved the fact that though you majored in film in undergrad you had never seen any of my favorite movies. Of the five I listed, you had only heard of two. I loved that I stumped you that way, though I didn’t do it on purpose. Those movies really are among my favorites: Happy Go Lucky, Pane e Tulipani (Bread and Tulips), Spanglish, Johnny Stecchino, and Vicky Christina Barcelona.

Sometimes it’s fun to be weird.

And then, other times, it’s far less fun.

For example, admitting to you that I have dissociative identity disorder was certainly less than fun. It was one of those moments when you feel all of the weirdness inside and outside of you like a Cloak of Weirdness you can’t shake off no matter how hard you try.

You said to me that you “didn’t know about that …” And it got all weird. You said something about waking up with a knife to your throat, or rather you “jokingly” asked if that would ever happen. You asked rhetorically when you really wanted an actual answer from me.

I let you sit with the discomfort of your stupid rhetorical question.

Get rid of your stupid hollywood images of DID.

For fuck’s sake, I’m a professional with a job with gobs of responsibility, and I am so non-violent I can’t even stomach many violent movies. So, no, you don’t have to worry about waking up with such a situation.

Why the hell did I let the words hang like that?

Why didn’t I say to you, “Hey! You’re a fucking THERAPIST. Don’t be all weird on me for something I never asked for, AND for something that I’m working on … AND get lost, lose my number!

That is what I should have said.

Instead I let it go. I understood the reluctance to believe because I had the same reluctance. I thought if you just see me as I am it will be fine.

But no, everything was colored with the DID, the remarks, the conversations, the non-verbals … it became the weird thing in the room between us.

Things were more fun before DID came into our conversations.

I fear that I will eventually lose my glass-half-full optimism.

And, then I learned just how weird YOU are.

For instance, there’s no plainer way to put this, but you’re a dick.

I said to you this week that I was disappointed because I lost my first case ever in my career. I wasn’t a mess about it, but I was disappointed, and surprised as I believed in my case.

You said to me if no one died then it was a good day.

That was a jerky thing to say. Professional disappointment is normal and okay. You just needed to be mildly supportive of me. Even a simple “I’m sorry to hear that” would have sufficed.

When I told you that we had a drug situation at work, and I laughed at telling you that I had no idea that the word “roach” was slang for marijuana you told me I should be embarrassed that I didn’t know what that word meant.

Really? I should be embarrassed? Hell no, I am fine with not knowing that. It’s not like I work in law enforcement or narcotics. I work in human resources, and I’m so legalistic I reel at the thought of doing anything remotely illegal. I would have been great for the military if I wasn’t such a pacifist and left-leaning feminist. They would have loved my propensity for rules and structure.

Nope, you are the one who should be embarrassed, mister. You should be embarrassed because you really aren’t very empathetic or kind or understanding. Maybe you use it all up at work, but from what I’ve seen, you’re all tapped out.

And, I’m out.