I have stated several times that I am better than I ever was. My medical crisis was the best thing to happen to me, and, yet, that doesn’t mean I’m magically without flaws. I still talk too much and get mean when I’m tired or short of energy. I’m lazy and a slob, and I tend to procrastinate when I don’t want to do something. It makes it a bigger deal than it needs to be. I know I’m doing this, but cannot stop myself from doing it.
It’s been eye-opening to see my brother working the dating apps. He does it while he’s here so I jump into it as well. I’m on Bumble and OkCupid, but I haven’t really done anything with either. I don’t like that you can only be a man or a woman on Bumble, though I do like that I don’t have to put up with dick pics before even getting a ‘hello’. So. Many. Dick. Pics on Craigslist.
I like that OkCupid allows for a wide variety of genders as well as sexual orientations and relationship choices. You can be polyamorous in different ways, or you could just be looking for sex. But it’s overwhelming in other ways, which makes me just not want to use it at all.
For example. You cannot save a profile for later. You have to swipe right or left immediately. I understand why they made this choice, but I don’t like it. I want to be able to think and ponder before making a decision. Yes, I know if you swipe right on Bumble, you have 24 hours before you have to message, but that’s still pressure.
My brother is quick to swipe left or right. He sends a brief message and if he gets a reply, suggests they chat on the app or meet up in person. When I used to use Craigslist, I would message with someone several times before feeling comfortable enough to meet them in person. That could be because of gender dynamics, which was certainly part of the issue. But, it’s also that I’m a ditherer, and I rarely make decisions in an appropriate timeframe.
I wish I could be more like my brother. I’ve been thinking about dating for ages. My last relationship was a decade ago, and it was spectacularly bad. I was love-bombed from the start and fell for it completely. He was a sexist, narcissistic, touchy, alcoholic lout who should not in any way have been in a relationship. I’m no angel by any means, but I did not deserve to feel like I constantly had to tiptoe around his fragile male ego.
One example. He asked me which actors I found attractive. When I told him, he got mad because none of them were stereotypical hunky men like Hugh Jackman. Alan Rickman was and is my epitome of maleness, for example. He said if I found them attractive (the unconventional men), then what did it say about him? Also, he hated that I had bigger biceps than he did. Did he work out or lift? No, but he was a man, so therefore he should inherently have bigger muscles!
There was one time we were having an argument and he raised his voice. He’s 6’2″ and huge. “He could pulverize me” flashed through my mind and I shut up. Not only could he, I was afraid he actually would hit me. I tried to get through the conversation as quickly as possible with no damage.
It wasn’t until I was out of it that I saw how it was a classic abuse situation. Fortunately, it was only four months and he dumped me, but I would like to think I would have dumped him quite soon after. With the clarity of being single again, I realized that I had wanted to be in a relationship way too much. It’s one reason I’m chary of dating. I don’t want to be my mother. I don’t want to pour my whole life into a partner to the point where I have no personality of my own. If you talk to my mother, the first twenty minutes would be about my father. Then, she might complain about my brother getting divorced and how worried she is about him.
Here’s the thing, though. She never matches her actions to her words. She said that she wished she were here so she could take care of my brother. She wouldn’t. She would be too busy taking care of my father as she always is. She didn’t do much of anything for me while she was here, not that I needed much help. But she talked a big game about how she wanted to help me. And yet, she made ME help my father the second day I was home from the hospital by teaching him a Taiji stretch. No matter that I protested and said that I was exhausted (and I was), she persisted. Because his hurt back was more important than ME COMING BACK TO LIFE. TWICE.
That really was the moment when I fully realized the pecking order and how little I as a person mattered to my mother. What she thinks in her mind is not what she actually shows. Or rather, what she thinks she thinks is not what she actually thinks. Her vision of herself is not at all how she actually is in reality. She likes to think she’s a caring mother who would do anything for her children. In reality, she will do what she thinks is appropriate and only when she’s not doing something for my father.
I realized some time ago that whether or not she loves me as her child (I argue she loves me, her child, but not me, the person), she doesn’t like me at all. She doesn’t like anything I do or who I am. She hates that I’m not married and that I don’t have children. She hates my tattoos and that I’m fat. Oh wait! She likes my big boobs, but that’s more because she wishes she had them. She hates that I’m areligious, queer, and would hate me being genderqueer if she knew. She disapproves of me doing Taiji, dismisses my love of Taiji weapons, and does not approve of my writing. In fact, I’m hard-pressed to think of a single thing I am, do, or think that she thinks is a positive.
At this point in my life, I don’t care. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt at all because it does, but I’m resigned to the fact that she will never, ever, ever like anything about me. That she will never be the mother I want her to be. Just as I will never be the child she wants me to be.
This has made it difficult sometimes to separate what is actually wrong with me from what she thinks is wrong with me. And, because of my contrarian nature, if she thinks something is wrong with me, I’m more apt to cling to it. That’s not a good way to be, regardless of the reason. It’s better to evaluate myself and decide if something is a flaw, regardless of whether my mother thinks it is or not. Not wearing makeup? Perfectly valid. Being a lazy slob? Not perfectly valid. Being able to choose what is a good trait and what isn’t, independent of what my mother thinks, now that’s truly being free.