Posted on 02/27/2017 10:54:59 PM PST by nickcarraway
Dating is a tricky business at the best of times, but even more so if you have a history of mental illness. Here are some dos and don’ts …
Dating is hard. It’s paved with heartache and unrequited crushes and the blurting out of gabbled nonsense in front of the unimpressed person you like. When I finally found myself in a conversation with someone I liked at work, whose head I had resolutely stared at the back of for a full three months, I answered an innocuous, “So, how’s your day going?” with, “I am awash with existential despair.” She stared, confused and unblinking, back into my face. I then followed it up with a tiny, pathetic, “Woo!” She sat down again. I continued to stare at the back of her head from my desk, in the full knowledge that she would never speak to me again. This isn’t just me, right? This is how it is for everyone. This is what it’s like to date. It’s awkward.
But what is it like when, in addition to your inability to say anything remotely funny or interesting to the person you are into, you have a mental health problem as well? How does that affect the way you interact with them? How does it affect a relationship once you are actually in one? And, more pressingly: how do you even tell someone you are, or have been, ill? At what point during the dating process is it appropriate to bring up mental health?
The pressure of not knowing when or how to reveal your mental health status can be an additional and very valid source of anxiety. If you tell them too soon it can feel like you are setting the stakes too high; but if you leave it too long you
(Excerpt) Read more at theguardian.com ...
And then it isn’t their fault, in their perception, if they blew a ton of money or damaged something.
I’ve found that the Trump-haters aren’t worth trying to deal with, no matter how physically attractive they may be. (and there are a few that fit into this category, sadly)
What’s her number?
There are SO MANY things wrong in that conversation... most so being the “Don’t worry” comment when told there is a child involved.
The correct reply is “How wonderful- tell me about your son?” and if there is not a good answer in glowing, loving terms, move on... fast.
Ya, well, the two of you are gettin’ all my females, because I couldn’t get a date in a crackhouse with a pocket full of rock. Women find me uniquely repulsive and are horrified if I even try to talk to them. I know where I stand now, so I no longer even try.
Morley Dotes
Glen Cook - "The Garrett Files"
My introduction to manic-depression was courtesy a college roommate. A high school friend and I had gone to the same university and signed up to share a dorm room. He couldn’t handle being five hours from home, went home every weekend, terribly homesick and then dropped out to return home and attend a school nearby. That left me for the rest of the semester with the room to myself.
That changed upon returning from Christmas break. No letter, no introduction, he was just there when I got back. Very peculiar guy, sort of entertaining at first. Coddled child of a well-off family, had a fixation upon Smokey and The Bandit, wore the hat all the time, dressed like him, even had a brand new black Trans Am with the screaming chicken on the hood.
When he was really manic he’d get even more grandiose, convinced he was quite the ladies’ man, occasionally would pop up on the hall in nothing but his tightie whities, cowboy boots and Bandit hat to beguile the ladies during weekend parties. Had a dance that he did to “Rock Lobster.” Wish we’d had some way to make a video then.
In the depressive stage he lined the windows with tinfoil, laid in bed, didn’t bathe, didn’t change underwear, for weeks on end. He’d order delivery and throw the trash under the bed, chicken bones, whatever, under the bed it went. The room stank, it was unbearable. I camped out on the floor of a friends’ room down the hall.
He eventually came out of it and went manic once again. Back to the Bandit “Rock Lobster” dance. But, he’d get infuriated if anybody laughed. Punched a cinderblock wall, broke several bones.
He just disappeared one day while I was in class. No info at all, just gone. Back to Florida I guess. I did get curious, his surname was pretty distinctive, so once on spring break down in FL I called a number in the phone book in the right town, pretty exclusive. Got a very proper, very chilly woman on the phone. “Your friend is not here.” Oh, sorry, I said, wrong number. “Young man, I didn’t say that. I said your friend is not here. Goodbye.”
That was that. Eventually got curious again several years back, ran his name through Google. Family still indulging him, directed a wacky sort of Deliverance-like B-movie. Still on the Burt Reynolds thing I guess. I was oddly relieved that he was still alive and at least somewhat functional. Not a bad guy when he was in his right mind. He had nightmares, talked in his sleep. I got the impression that he’d had a rough time of it from listening to that at night.
you can always try being rich, that works for any guy
I instinctively knew that information 40 years ago - after learning it the hard way. Wish the graph was available then, would of saved me a lot of time.
Don’t get your meat where you get your bread ...
Did you folks date long enough so she could see a full range of both behaviors and emotions?
I hope you have good care and are doing as well as possible
Took over a decade and a half of work but it's under control at last. I want to think God might still let me have something in the way of happiness. I'm thankful for Him bringing me this far at least. Just don't want it to have been in vain.
My late wife was bipolar. Truly bipolar individuals usually succeed in suicide.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I’m Schizophrenic,
and so am I.
I once wore a t-shirt with that on it to a pre-PCS psych eval. Air Force shrink didn’t even blink.
Oh it is never in vain. Sometimes our greatest weakness becomes our strongest assets. Enjoy your life make it as rich and full as possible.
Glad to hear it is finally under control. It can be a tough haul.
I have two sons, both now married.
Back in the day, my consistent advice was:
On a date, first or otherwise, but hopefully before you have disclosed the location of the man cave, when she mentions her meds:
1) Act interested.
2) Start 300 second countdown.
3) At 295 seconds, excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.
4) Exit via the window.
5) Go home directly, take your name off the mailbox.
6) Call the phone company and get your line blocked until the number can be changed.
7) Don’t go out in the same neighborhood for three, or better, six months.
This advice was put together before social media existed. Any updating from you younger Dads would be appreciated.
Not a haiku:
I’m a loon, but date me - what the heck?
It’s all fun and games
‘Til I stab you in the neck.
I am so (not) screwed.
Not a haiku:
She never mentioned her problems
Not a word, not a peep
I only found out
When she stabbed me in my sleep
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