Love is Off Limits

For as long as I can remember, I have always had this deeply held belief that the world of love, real romantic love and caring, is off limits to me.  I am not sure if it pre-dates the onset of my mental illness at age 12 or coincides with it, but it’s clearly entangled with it.  It’s not per se that I’m unlovable because of my illness, though sometimes that’s how I feel sure, but it’s more that this realm of good, positive things, sought after and attained by most people, it’d be off limits to me.  I do not have access to this powerful positive and I won’t. 

I’m 38 and I still get flooded with reminders of the truth of that deeply held belief.  It’s not that I haven’t known things in that vein. After my adolescent depression made me feel ugly and have low self-esteem, I discovered the power of my sexuality and mastered the art of seduction.  I had so much fun, connecting with different people all around the world, through years of travels, and some of those people became/were/are genuinely my friends and care about me in a way, but not in that  way.  I mostly felt in power, rarely felt used, and never saw my behavior as self-destructive, well at least for the most part.  And my friends loved my stories, wanted all the details of the ridiculous tales.  

And just as I anticipated, most of my friends found love and got married and I was there to celebrate their love story.  I actually feel like my deeply held belief has saved me enormous heartaches, because my single friends at the weddings would be sad but I wouldn’t be.  See, since love has always been off limits, for the most part, it’s not something I’ve hoped for, chased after, or felt entitled to.   My perpetual single status was just the reality, and one I had come to terms with, made peace with.  For the most part.

Let’s be real, there is a part of me, that cannot ignore all the societal pressures, all of the messaging, and also acknowledges there is innately some desire to be cared for.  And unlike what it seems most people perceive, is that underneath that layer of “strong woman” veneer, I want to get married and have kids, that’s definitely not it.  It’s so incredibly basic.  I just want someone to make me a cup of tea. 

No one I have been involved with sexually or romantically has ever done anything nice for me.   Not once.  The one person who sort of did, was the only person who has ever physically harmed and scared me, so I try to erase that one out of my memory.  And while I’ve had plenty of positive sexual experiences with men, if it feels like dating to them in the slightest, moving towards any semblance of a relationship, they will disappear immediately.  Men, I haven’t even wanted to date, have run away because they perceive it, which sometimes has less to do with any vibe I’ve put out there, and more to do with patriarchal bullshit nonsense of what they assume all women want.   But it still serves as a hurtful reminder that love is off limits for me.

I’ve never been in anything resembling a serious long-term committed relationship.  And because, I view love as conditional, and not unconditional, if I do care about someone, I’ll bend over backwards to accommodate their needs and expect nothing back in return.  I’ve been in love, but I’ve never been loved by anyone.  And I never will be.  It’s off limits. 

I am constantly given evidence, of all the people with mental illness, of the people with deep addiction issues and destructive natures, who find love and marriage and relationships repeatedly.  But this does nothing to shake up my firm belief that’s love is off limits for me, and with all the heartache and pain I have in my life as it is, why would I throw in starting to hope  for something impossible and be persistently, consistently colossally disappointed?

It’s harder as I get older to just have fun with men and come back with stories to share.  The pools get smaller, people are less available, and the dynamics change, even though I still feel the same. The game always gave me some respite from feeling like a pariah, feeling a deep sense of shame that I cannot have what I’m supposed to, that everyone else finds.  At times, I had no desire to be out there at all, I wanted to give myself over to parts of my life where I felt concrete rewards, I was happy to be celibate.  That was not received well by my peers. 

Hollywood occasionally makes a movie about the fucked up chick, who is irresistible, and even though her issues make her push men away, a man so taken by her, refuses to give up and helps her confront her shit and accept love.   God I hate that.  I am not a doormat but if I let any one close, I’m usually an emotional punching bag of their issues.  I have never gotten even remotely close to confiding into someone about my illness, let alone someone who would want to be there for me when I’m really really a mess.  They don’t even want to be there for me when I’m fun, caring, and willing to do anything for them.

While I do believe in the value of all my years of talk therapy generally, on this topic, we never make any progress.  We’ve never chipped at my deeply held belief.  We’ve tried to get me on a direction of meeting better men, but it’s never struck me as if I get a lot of say in who enters my ether.  It’s not like I’ve got a wealth of choices and simply need to be re-trained to not choose the wrong people. 

Love is off limits.  It always has been, it will always will be, and thinking/hoping any differently, isn’t going to help me manifest love, it’s just going to cause me more pain, and I’ve got enough of that.