But... it hurts so good!

I was going to start writing about my relationship history, and somehow I started thinking about the concept of pain. That should be some kind of an indicator, me thinks.

The first psychiatric evaluation I underwent was about two years ago. It was all right - a nice understanding man, who had just enough quirks to come off as endearing. He took off his shoes upon arrival (something I have done as a counsellor - along with sitting cross legged) and he dimmed the lights because, well, he just found them to be too abrasive. I liked him immediately. He ended up diagnosing me as bipolar, which was quite incorrect, actually - and I knew that from the get go. Luckily, since then the diagnosis has been changed to: major depressive disorder, panic disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. Or as I like to call them - The Holy Trinity of mental illness. Anyhoo - not bipolar. Why? Not manic.

Where was I going with this. Ahh yes - included in my psych evaluation was a request for me to explain my body modifications - my piercings and tattoos. I, naively, answered immediately, wondering what kind of stupid question was that... I did it because I love the way it looks. Why else would I have pictures inked permanently onto my body? Turns out he was trying to steer me in another direction. I'm a girl who loves the PAIN.

For the record? Not true. No judgement to those who do. Pain is what I put up with to get to the pretty ending. With both piercings and tattoos. It got me thinking. Well, first it got me thinking about the stigma attached to body modification, and the generalization that a) I like pain and b) I'm actually good with pain. I think I'm good with pain now, but only after a lot of practice.

Interesting side note - since starting meds, I have begun fainting or getting-close-to in some of the most basic situations that I've always been able to handle. The last time I had my blood tested, I passed out and had a HUGE anxiety attack in the lab. They eventually had to carry me downstairs to the clinic, where I lay shaking and crying on a table. I had no one with me, because - when have I ever had a problem getting blood taken?? Soon after, I had my arm worked on and when the artist moved to my elbow, I had to get him to stop because I knew I was going to faint. For the record, I felt like such a poser.

Then I began to cut. I know, a girl who begins fainting while having her blood taken should probably not cut. But to me it was different - surface only, none of the veins involved. I tried it and I was hooked - best way to get my mind off my anxiety, my sadness. It wasn't about the pain, it was more about the control over a body. Perhaps much like someone who is anorexic may feel - no longer about the weight, but about being able to say "hey! I have no control over my depression or anxiety, but this I can do to my body because it's MINE." So I became the cliched depressed cutter - something which I have never admitted to anyone beyond my sex partners, and them only because I had to explain the scars. I felt ashamed - cutting felt like such a "teenage" thing to do. Glorified by emo kids who slash up and down their wrists with a sawed off safety razor. Perhaps I am trying to justify it, but to me - people who cut for their pain don't show it off to the world around them. They avoid the arms.

I truly believe that from these tales, it's been well-established that I'm not a massochist. I don't get off on pain, and I put up with it only as a means to an end - some form of reward.

Then... there is emotional massochism.

This is where the blog post was going to begin, but I got all caught up in the physical side of pain and went off on a tangent. So much so, that I can't even remember where I was going with this.

I have a crush, on a man, who is good. He's kind, funny, respectful. He challenges me - he is completely unavailable. Which in my mind is pretty much common sense, because he IS so kind, funny, respectful, and so on. The reason this is coming up is because I look at people like him, and automatically presume that he would not go for the likes of me. Around him is one of the few times in my life that I feel a little too, oh, I don't know, freaky deeky. Not because he makes me feel that way, but because I put that upon myself. I put myself down, presuming I'm too fucked up for the relatively well-adjusted likes of him.

This was a big realization for me! Where did this come from, and how has it affected my dating past? First of all, there are obviously exceptions to all rules. I have dated a few kind, respectful men in my past. And they have cared for me despite my occassional... oddness. Perhaps more so because of it. That, however, has sometimes made me wary, because I feel like they're looking at this picture of coolness (based on my appearance, facade, what have you) and then they kinda realize that the girl isn't as pretty and fun as the picture. That has happened in the past, and it has resulted in them cheating. The shine wears off eventually. Then there's the men who I feel I deserve to date, who treat me like shit. They're edgy, fucked up, totally non-committal. What more could a girl ask for? Needless to say, those relationships have ended in utter and true heartbreak - always on my end, and always lasting. To the point where I feel like they actually left with a piece of me that I will never, ever, be able to regain. Yeah. Fuck them for that.

After a lot of work on myself, I've begun to open my eyes to the possibilities. The idea that I deserve someone who is not only kind, respectful, loving, but also funny, a little bit edgy, and a little bit crazy. It's the happy medium, and at this point, I still only see it as a faint possibility. I can only hope that one day I will have a huge crush on a man and NOT think to myself... "There's no way he would want to be with me."

Dreaming of change, cuddling the pug,

xo-PS