My aunt gave me advice about marriage once from the conservative, Chinese perspective: marry rich and get them while their young. I was not sure what I wanted. I wasn’t a player. I honestly just didn’t know what I wanted. I did picture myself with a group of friends and a henpecked husband. I knew too I’d be divorced by 35 without having had kids. I also knew my career would be more important than family, period. I wasn’t the mothering type. I’ve seen my gifted cousins throw away their artistic potential for a husband or wife. And kids. All for the sake of the companionship that is found in a marriage arrangement. Not happening here.
Now I’m 48. The problem? I have hardly been the swinging single that was possible had I had the guts. Didn’t want to get pregnant. Also, I feared God’s wrath. Hell is real. But, boy have I had my frustrations.
Here’s the deal. When you have a mental illness, the good ones run a mile away, as they should. Many of us want to date out of our league. ie. the nice, healthy ones. The problem is that the nice, healthy ones want to be around other nice, healthy ones, and there are not enough nice, healthy ones to go around. I might as well admit that relationships with nice, healthy people don’t exist for me, beyond sex that is. Messed up chicks are hot to fuck, eh? Admit it. They’re vulnerable, suggestible, and never believed in any court-of-law, never mind by the police–most of whom happen to be male. They just exchange a wink, a nod, and a few jokes with the perps, the female officers being complicit (probably giving their male work partners bjs between calls,) and…all’s good. It’s not fair, but it’s true, as my Aussie bestie says. The psycho-girlfriend can go now.
Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. That’s the first lesson you learn in music theory. The other is just: FACE. Oh, why..? You’d think that many a 4-year old would be scarred or be piqued for life after every Wednesday afternoon until they were 13, as they became more and more savvy. Music isn’t all about descants and semi-quavers. Underlying music, as with any endeavour on Earth, is the drive for sexual intercourse. It’s just that opera and ballet with champagne are a more elaborate form of courtship than, say, Netflix-and-chill or Tinder hookups. Ultimately, it’s the same fucking thing. Everybody ends up in bed. Everybody leaves in the morning for that walk of shame, be they deluded or disgusted.
So back to mental illness and dating. You simply can’t have a normaloid as a mate if you are going to tell him or her you are a paranoid schizophrenic. You can be a hot fuck, or a sugarmama, but never an equal. Even on dating websites, some of the guys on there demand letters attesting to your sanity, or simply have “No_’psychos’_allowed” as their handle. You can’t blame them, you can’t fight them. It’s not fair, but it’s reality. So screw ‘em. (Not literally, of course, unless you get something out of it.)
Frankly, I’m sick of not being loved. But fuck, I’m not going to be used AND not loved. I’ll stick to my music and my writing as with everything pseudo-Freudian, thanks. I may not be a very good feminist, but I’ve concluded that dating is not for me. Bye-bye cupids of jagged and burred arrows, and broken hearts. OK? Hello, bubble world of pseudo-sexuality and everything that longs and hurts–but not that much. ~V
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