As Long As He Needs Me

 This was part of a personality disorders dating series I was writing.
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You're tall. You have a mustache or maybe not. You shave your head. You're in your forties, or maybe in your early fifties. You go to a gym regularly, working the free-weights and the tattoos on your arms expand and contract as you pump iron. Your hands are rough and calloused--paw-like--but the fingernails are clean.

We meet for coffee and I feel that zing and know I'm in trouble. I ignore the coldness lurking behind the smile in your clear blue eyes, ignore both the overt charm and the impatience with which you treat the waitress, because I'm already smitten.

We meet again, this time for dinner. You admit to being out of work—the boss was an asshole and the other employees lazy and you got tired of doing all the work--and assure me it's temporary, so I pay for the meal and the movie afterward. It's worth it, though, because your hand gropes for mine in the dark theater and you lean into me, stretching your legs to the side and I smell your man-ness. You keep my hand in yours and kiss me; I melt. As we leave the theater some teenage boys--all enthusiastic, talking loudly about the some martial arts moves in the movie they've just seen—jostle you as they pass, unwitting and animated, and I ignore the sudden tug of your body as you move toward them and the dampened fury on your face.

“Assholes!” You mutter under your breath.

“They're just kids.” I respond, and you start talking about respect and today's youth. I smile with understanding; you've told me about your childhood, about your father and his beatings, your mother and her drinking and screwing around. I know you had to learn to fend for yourself at a very young age and that the carefree life these boys live is alien to you.

I know you've got a chip on your shoulder, that you see the world with suspicion and have an underlying well of anger in your soul. But it's alright, because I also know that all you need is a little love and understanding.

Two nights later you call me drunk, asking me to pick you up from the bar. I have to work in the morning, but I roll out of bed, pull on my jeans and come to the rescue, bringing me to my place so I can take care of you. You fall into my bed dragging me with you and we make love....sort of. You're a bit rough and I'm left physically unsatisfied, but I know it's the alcohol and happily curl around your sleeping form, running my hands up and down your muscled back. You wake me in the morning before the alarm, taking me again. I'm again unsatisfied, but am singing inside because you find me attractive. I shower, make you breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note.

I rush home from work and am overjoyed to find you on the couch in front of the TV. I see you've made yourself at home, as evidenced by the sandwich meat and mayonnaise jar on the counter, and I make a mental note to pick up more bread and sliced cheese. You give me a kiss and tell me you have to take care of business, asking for money and the keys to the car. I give you both, knowing this means you'll be back.

You're out all night and I have to get a friend to pick me up and take me to work. I'm distracted all day, worrying about you and again rush home, hoping you'll be there. You are. You're passed out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Black and a bag of pot on the coffee table. Relieved that you're safe I try to get you to come into the bed with me and I finally get a spare blanket and—kissing you tenderly on the forehead—take off your boots and tuck you in.

You're still sleeping when I wake up and I again make breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note. This time I put a little heart by my name so you know I'm not angry at you. You're not there when I get home from work and I search uselessly for a note from you. I keep my cell phone with me at all times in case you call and finally I go to bed alone. You stumble in sometime after two and I smell the alcohol on your breath. You want the car keys again—you need to run an errand—and I protest, saying it's late, you're drunk and I need the car for work in the morning. You ignore me and reach for my purse, taking the keys and walking out of the house. I cry myself to sleep. But at least I know you'll be back.

In the morning you're again passed out on the couch and I pick up the beer cans and wipe the spills from the coffee table before tucking you in and kissing your forehead. On my way home that afternoon I stop at the store, getting all your favorite food and a 12-pack beer. You're upset when I arrive, grocery bags in hand, wondering where I was and who I was with. At first you don't seem to believe that I was just shopping and ask me about that guy I share an office with. I'm flattered that you care so much about me and make us hamburgers.

After wolfing down your food you again ask me for money. I say I don't have any cash and you shove the rest of your food into your mouth then pull me into your arms, kissing the top of my head. You explain that you've got a “thing” going, that you know I've been patient and good and ask me to just hold on a little while longer until you get stuff straight. You promise you'll take care of me and even offer to mow the lawn the next day. I snuggle into your chest, smelling you, feeling your arms around me and suggest we go to the ATM machine. You stroke my back, my shoulders and tilt my chin up, kissing me tenderly, then with more passion. You pull me to the bedroom. After, as I'm dozing off, you suggest it would be easier if I just gave you my debit card and pin number so I don't have to get up and get dressed again, besides, you say, I do have to get up early and it's important that I get my sleep. I snuggle contentedly into my pillow, tired and--delighted at your show of concern for me—I mumble the four digits, allowing you access to my bank account.

The next morning you are again passed out on the couch and the beer I bought is gone. There is a mirror on the table with the residue of some white stuff smudged on it and a rolled-up $20 bill. I tuck you in and kiss your forehead, then make breakfast, leaving it on the table with a note and a little heart by my name because I know all you need is a little love and understanding....

Willing 2 b emotionally unstable 4 U

I hear complaints from men saying that women pass over perfectly nice, decent men for “bad boys.”

There is a flip side to this; you guys appear to fall for beautiful but emotionally unstable women, pouring tons of time into them, becoming their White Knight, thinking you can save them.

Here's a little secret: you can't save them. But damn, I'd sure like to have one of you eligible, handsome men putting all that time into trying to make me happy. So here's what I'm going to do.

First of all, I'll develop an eating disorder. Very slender women appear to bring out the protective side of you guys. I'm a bit plump, but if I puke frequently I should shed 20 pounds in about a month. 50 pounds would be ideal--since I'm only 5' 1” that type of weight loss would make me look bony, gawky, vulnerable and child-like, bringing out the daddy in you.

We'll meet and there will be sizzling energy. I'll declare my love to you and we'll have sex immediately! I'll tell you I've never had sex with a guy I've just met and that you're the best lover I've ever had and maybe break your heart just a little as I throw heavy hints of how men have mistreated me in the past. I'll fall asleep in your arms and, as you lie in the dark listening to my breathing, you'll wonder how you got so lucky and will vow to take care of me forever, to never let me down like the other men in my past.

Your heart will tear just a little more when you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms. For the first time you'll notice the silvery spiderweb of scars on the insides of my arms and will be horrified, asking what's wrong. I'll cry and tell you that I'm so scared that you'll leave me. You'll gather me up, holding and rocking me as I sob. You'll promise to always be there for me. You know I'm broken, but believe with enough love you can heal me.

Soon you're getting phone calls from me at work. I'm upset because social services is screwing with the visitation with my kids, or because I saw my mean-old ex-boyfriend on the street and am frightened, or my totally messed-up mother called, saying terrible things to me. You drop everything and run to my side, holding and soothing me.

I have some major financial problems, mostly because I trust people too much and have been taken advantage of. Also, the world conspires against me and for various, totally legitimate reasons--ranging from physical injuries from previous relationships to unfair treatment—I can't hold a job. You, of course, have a steady job and a bit of savings and you offer to pay the courts—who are threatening me with jail—that back child support. You also pay off those old drunk-driving fines so I can get my license back. You buy me a car so I can find a job.

You notice the Vicodin from last year's Frisbee golf injury is gone from the bathroom medicine cabinet, but don't think much of it.

We start having these weird misunderstandings leading to confusing and emotional fights. I yell and slam out of the house, you are worried about what I might do and follow me, begging me to get in the car and come home with you. I finally do and we have make up sex.

Sometimes I don't get in the car. Instead I take off across the cornfield where you can't follow and I stay out all night. You pace the floor, waiting and worrying about me. You're incredibly stressed and call in sick to work. I come home smelling of beer, sex and cigarette smoke. I break down, you hold me.

The box on the dresser where you've been emptying your change for the past two years is empty and money starts disappearing from your wallet. You confront me, we fight and I threaten to kill myself if you leave. We make up.

I start disappearing more and more often. When I come home I'm bedraggled and bleary-eyed. You're hurt and bewildered. I admit I have a little problem with drugs (a plus for both of us because it keeps me thin for you and I've stopped eating and don't have to puke anymore) and you're relieved because you think this is something you can fix. You check me into treatment.

Things are good for a while after I get out. You are proud of me, thinking we beat this, that we can now settle in to a stable relationship. One day you walk into the bathroom and you catch me with a razor-blade, making straight, slender cuts in my arms....

For Jonathan

(This is an email I sent in response to an ad on Craig's List. The person I sent it to was nameless and faceless. It was really written to Jonathan.)

I'm responding to your CL ad against my better judgement.  I'm smart, pretty, openminded, like working with my hands (blah,blah,blah). 

Here's the thing: I tend to fall for the tough, retiring introvert-guy.  You know, the guy who--at heart--really wants to just hike away and disappear forever into the wilderness.  He's typically a bit of a cynic, distrustful of society and prefers the company of his dog over most people.  The disparity between his ideal and the real world is painful for him.  He occasionally ventures out into the world because he misses the company of a woman.  He's had long spans of time in the wilderness to think about women--or, I should say a particular kind of woman.  A woman he's never really met, but dreams about.  He misses this woman's soft curves, the sound of her voice, her lively intelligence, her sweet vulnerability, her strong willfulness, her gentle touch and her ability to roll with grace into life's punches.  He wanders out of the wilderness and puts a tentative ad on CL hoping the Universe will place her in his path.

I, of course, feel like I can change his distrust and cynicism and that I can be the woman he dreams of.  All I have to do is show him the good in the world and the people who inhabit it.  Being the irrepressibly upbeat, optimist that I am, I believe that positive experiences can shift his paradigm.  I eventually realize that his pessimism and cynicism is an integral part of who he is and that there is nothing I can do to make him happy.  

But I've fallen for him.  I love the way he sits quietly, present in the wilderness. I love how he sees beauty in the natural world.  I love the feeling safety I have when I'm with him.  I love his quiet competence.  I love his adventurous soul.  I love the gentleness with which he treats his canine companion.  I love his intelligence.  I love that he's well-read.  I love the way he touches me.  But it just wasn't meant to be.  The difference between us is too great.  We part, I tearfully and he with great pain because he knows that I'm hurt. 

We do eventually reconnect--after I've had time to heal--and we write and talk.  The communication is tinged with regret, but we both know we did the right thing in severing the romantic bond.

If this is you, please don't write back.

He did not write back. But it was a good email and not to be wasted.