I missed it when it was first published, but this poignant Times essay about a man with polio who falls in love with and eventually marries one of his former attendants is worth reading. The author perfectly encapsulates the profound insecurities that plague people with disabilities when contemplating romance. Or at least, he encapsulates my insecurities:
And I was the keeper of an obscene little secret I had known perhaps since I had been stuck in the iron lung, and surely from some vague moment later, the point where I realized I would never walk again. It is a thing that will sit rancid in my gut until the day I die, a thing that until then had eaten away at any illusion that love and marriage for me would be like it was in books or movies. And it was this: I would be physically dependent upon those who might love me. I am a chore, an obligation, and I will ever be so. I could not rationalize how a woman might love me and not soon come to hate the millstone I believed myself to be.
I’m more than a little familiar with the horribly seductive ease of believing the worst about oneself. It can become a kind of mantra that takes less and less effort to recite. And on these dark, cold winter nights when loneliness pays more frequent visits, it can be mighty tempting to hold regular pity parties with a guest list of one. It can be mighty tempting to think things will always be this way. But articles like this remind me that I really need to get over myself and just let life happen.
you should’ve given us a kleenex warning. 🙂 that essay is perfect in pinpointing a number of the feelings that are both unique to his situation, and universal to the human experience.
I don’t mean to say that I understand what it’s like to be anyone but myself, but I know there are times I have gone through this myself: poring over my insecurities, thinking about the innumerable reasons I’m unsuited for a true partnership, wondering if I should be coupled off like it seems everyone else is in the world (which seemed both insanely tempting and slightly appalling). and I came to the same conclusion as you, in the end: I am myself, perfect while completely flawed; a night of companionship with myself is (999 times out of 1000) better than a shitty date with some ridiculous hoser; and, in the end, the loneliness can be temporary, but my belief in myself and my life is permanent.
but, you’re right. the loneliness can be incredibly hard to live with, no matter who you are. no words can really, properly articulate it. it seems trite to try.
I was out with my old roommate last night, and we were talking about my long-term relationship, and I made the comment that, had I known how hard marriage would be, the then-me probably wouldn’t have even gone on that first date. my roommate was sort of shocked, but I honestly think the me (at that point) was great by myself, pursuing the things that I wanted to pursue, and living the life I had chosen. now-me, naturally, would choose the life I have now, and I guess (as all of this rambling may or may not convey) we are who we are, we are shaped by the experiences in which we choose to engage, and as you say, life happens. and life will be good, if we try our best to make it so. I know our lives are vastly different, internally and externally, but know you’re not alone in questioning these sorts of things.
and now I’ve written a novel. sorry about that.
🙁 + 🙂 at the same time.
both at how rare things like that are, and how amazing they are when they happen.
this is pretty unrelated, but the story reminded me of something. about… well. some years ago i finally found a group of people to hang out with. we were all geeks, and in the summer we’d sit in this garden in the weekends, at night, and talk. in Israel weather it’s the only time when it’s not too hot to be outside.
one day they brought a bunch of newspapers. there was a very similar story, about a guy with i think muscle atrophy, that got married to his nurse, a girl from sweden. i read it earlier that morning. anyway.
they started to laugh about it. just how she’s lucky, that even though it must be horrible, at least the guy will die after only a few years, and she’ll be free and won’t suffer too long and all that. they found it SO very funny. i don’t remember all they said. anyway. i just left. they were the first people in my life i actually think of as friends. i never talked to them again. i have no idea what kind of life would make a person be that cynical, but i can tell you, i pitied them, in the worst sense of the word.
eh. i guess i agree, people ARE allowed to dream, and i don’t think that there’s much chance that something will happen if you make sure you give up on it. being cynical, while does help to get through pain numbs you to the good parts of life as well, makes it so easy to miss the one good chance you have for something good.
i hope you won’t give in to that side. it IS too easy, even for people that don’t even have any kind of decent reasons for it like me :/
oh, and… i didn’t forget about the story. (if you even remember what i am talking about :/ i just keep being unsure that i can do it justice, so i keep looking up references and ideas, trying things, deciding that it’s not good enough, and then feeling really bad about it, and therefore disappearing for ages at a time :/ talk about stupid insecurities, and how easy it is to fall into that mindset :/ i should stop being such a damn perfectionist 🙁
ok dear… sorry for the long post, and the ramblings.
maybe we should have pity parties together lol, i’ll get black helium balloons, and black confetti ^__^
(hugs)
LOVE this.
What a touching story. Now, though, when I try to access it, I get the NYT registration page instead.
I can’t help feeling a little bitter and jealous. Although I don’t have polio, I’m 45 and have never been asked out on a date. I don’t know what there is to learn from this. Hire a nursing attendant?
But I’m happy for the writer.
We are all broken in some way, people with broken minds and broken spirits are much greater millstones around the neck than people with broken bodies.