I made my psychologist teary yesterday. It’s only the second time that’s happened in three or so years and perhaps, some would say, it shouldn’t happen at all. But I think it makes her human.
What baffled me – and her – about yesterday’s tearful moment was what we were discussing. She asked me to describe AJ, to tell her what he’s like. There was a long pause before I said “he’s just so positive, all the time. Nothing, ever, gets him down – a bunch of really terrible things have happened in the short time we’ve known each other but it just doesn’t faze him. He’s just so … happy” to which she welled up.
It was a strange moment where I think we both realised how infrequently (if ever) I am talking to, let alone dating, someone who brings so much positivity into my life. It had us both shaking our heads and not at him, but at our surprise.
We discussed that I and, in our sessions, we, had become so accustomed to talking about men with egos, men with alcoholism, men who lacked emotional maturity, narcissists, liars, cheats, abusers that we had forgotten, within the confines of our sessions, that there could be another type of man. A kind, considerate man. A man who didn’t give only because he wanted to take. A man who made time, who made an effort, whose intentions were driven by feelings not pussy.
Like what the? How incredibly, awfully, fucked up are we that the “nice guy” is the exception, and the arsehole is the rule? That we look for red flags and throw up walls, frantically carving out space for ourselves to provide some distance in a relationship only to turn around and discover … he’s still there. Waiting patiently for me to pack my crazy away, pour me a tea and cuddle on the lounge.
That is not to say it’s perfect. Of course, it’s not. But when I compare where AJ and I are right now to where I was a few months into past relationships, the difference gives me serious pause.
It’s crazy what I once settled for. It’s crazy what I once accepted as gestures of love. It’s crazy what I overlooked, covered up, disguised, and explained away.
I still have my reservations. That kind of indoctrination into the world of arseholes is not easy to let go of. I know I’m still holding back and my psych says that’s normal, appropriate behaviour. I still get weird when he helps me around the house, or I come home and he’s mown my lawn while I was out.
I joke about the amount of sex I’ll have to have with him to “repay” him which he finds offensive. He reminded me that I had done things to help him, things I hadn’t considered in that way at all. He told me that’s what people who care about each other do – they help each other.
Sadly, oh so fucking sadly, that floored me. When did my expectations get so bloody low? But I’m pretty terrified of lifting them. I told my psych there’s a lot of fear in me about it all going wrong. My track record for making things last is deep in the depths of the bog of eternal stench.
My divorce was finalised five years ago on Monday, not that I recalled it. Facebook reminded me. Maybe, just maybe, I won’t fuck it up this time.
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