The rational part of me (the part that can ask questions better than my therapist) knows the reasons for it. We've started talking about what's coming next in our relationship, and none of it is the easy ohmygodyou'regoingtomeetmyparents stuff that seemed so daunting a few months ago. Now it's starting to talk about leases and shared season tickets to roller derby.
In conjunction I've discovered (much to my chagrin) that maybe my OCD isn't anywhere near as under control as I thought it was. For so long it was about locked doors and hot stoves that I didn't realize that my obsessions could be about my emotional safety as well. I assumed that once I conquered the obsessions/compulsions about my physical safety, I would be in the clear.
Holy hell, was I ever wrong.
It sorts out simply enough. Loving someone and its attendant vulnerability is really, really hard. It's hard, I think, for psycho-typical people. But for people with the kind of control and attachment issues that manifest as OCD, it feels impossible. Like I will never be perfect and consequently, don't deserve to be loved.
As a result, I've been rocketing back and forth between joy and terror, alternately being the greatest girlfriend in the history of the world and a stone cold bitch (my words).In conjunction I've discovered (much to my chagrin) that maybe my OCD isn't anywhere near as under control as I thought it was. For so long it was about locked doors and hot stoves that I didn't realize that my obsessions could be about my emotional safety as well. I assumed that once I conquered the obsessions/compulsions about my physical safety, I would be in the clear.
Holy hell, was I ever wrong.
It sorts out simply enough. Loving someone and its attendant vulnerability is really, really hard. It's hard, I think, for psycho-typical people. But for people with the kind of control and attachment issues that manifest as OCD, it feels impossible. Like I will never be perfect and consequently, don't deserve to be loved.
So I throw temper tantrums. Quiet ones, but temper tantrums regardless. The bitch of it is that even when I recognize that I'm acting badly, I can't do anything about it. I keep throwing crazy grenades at the boyfriend. Partially, I expect, to see how he'll react and partially because being alone was so much easier.
I mean easier in the most selfish way possible. I didn't have to worry about how anyone else felt, when I was upset I could wall myself up in my apartment and not talk to anyone for days on end. My actions, my bad moods, my mental health issues had zero consequences for anyone except for me. My life was perfectly calibrated so that nothing would trigger panic attacks or compulsive episodes.
Nothing fucks your shit up quite like being in love.
Suddenly there's this whole other person who is deeply impacted by your choices, your mental health issues, your rituals and therapy appointments and inability to self-soothe. And because you love them and are trying to do right by them there's so much pressure to be perfect and fixed and not to have any of the issues you maybe haven't worked through on your own yet.
Nothing fucks your shit up quite like being in love.
Suddenly there's this whole other person who is deeply impacted by your choices, your mental health issues, your rituals and therapy appointments and inability to self-soothe. And because you love them and are trying to do right by them there's so much pressure to be perfect and fixed and not to have any of the issues you maybe haven't worked through on your own yet.
A few weeks ago, in the midst of a conversation, the boyfriend remarked "I think we're out of the honeymoon period."
My instant Dr. Dinosaur reaction was incredible, overwhelming sadness. It was the kind of remark that was casual and devastating and more than anything else I wanted to run away and hide in a room and cry for awhile.
But in one of those rare moments, I didn't stay with the Dr. Dinosaur reaction. Rather, I realized what a gift it was to be outside of that stage of the relationship. First of all, it's the stage that I've never gotten to with any of my other exes. I have a bad habit of dumping people after my first fight with them (friendships and romantic relationships alike), so to have arrived at the point beyond my normal breakup point is amazing in and of itself.
Second, it's a bit of a relief to see the boyfriend as a human being rather than an ideal. He has his flaws like anyone else, and it's comforting to be able to see those and have him see mine and know that we're both planning to stick around. I lob a crazy grenade, he covers it with his helmet. We move on.
Falling in love with this man, at this moment, has been the most grace-filled experience of my life. One of the myths people with mental health disorders tell ourselves is that we are unlovable. Because of the things that are wrong with us, we don't deserve love, affection, or happiness. I felt that way for a long time, and it's something I continue to feel as our relationship deepens. He reminds me (almost daily) that this isn't true, that I am totally, eminently lovable.
More than that, though, he has made me see the way my untreated mental illness has a profound impact on my relationships (ours and others). While being single and holing up in my apartment when I get upset or freezing people out of my life were the easy solutions, they had consequences, even if it didn't feel like it.
He's made me want to get better.
Not in the unhealthy ohmygodIdonotdeserveyouandhavetoearnyourlove kind of a way, but in the "you help me to understand how my actions impact other people in my life, and that I've spent a long time as a pretty selfish person" way.
I wish I could say that after coming to these realizations, I hit the "self-actualized" button (that exists, right?) and have instantly achieved Enlightenment. Or that I've at least managed to become a bitch^2 as opposed to a bitch^100. Who knows? On my good days, maybe I have. But there are still enough off days that I know I should be can be better. And I find that I'm now, at least, willing to try.
