Before This I Was Crazy, So What Am I Now?
I’ve had my ups and downs. The ups taking me through high school to be third in my class (without studying might I add), allowing my mind to grasp difficult concepts without so much as a single flashcard, the downs leading me to self-medicate with alcohol, impulse purchases and eventually an arrest. Being bitch slapped awake by the universe with this last one, I began a solemn four years of sobriety, which I intend to maintain. Don’t think I am crazy? I also cycle through every emotion known to man on a bi-weekly, if not daily, basis. This rollercoaster is faster and more dangerous than the rides that have beheaded people at Six Flags. The only way to slow it down is to flatline your emotions through whatever medications a doctor, a man of so-called science, hits on a spinning dartboard. There. That’s a tiny glimpse of what has a hold of me. I won’t say that it is who I am; that would be like saying I have a bum leg, so I am a bum leg. No. I have a chemical imbalance in my brain. I AM NOT the chemical imbalance in my brain.
I recently met a young woman, we can call her Quinn (I just love that name) through Tinder. Oh, did I mention that on top of said chemical imbalance that I am gay? I love women. We can get into that later. Quinn has recently moved from the fly-over state of Missouri, St. Louis specifically, after a six-year stint as a police officer in one of the most dangerous cities in the US of A, to become a Highway Patrol Officer for the great State of Texas. Impressive, huh? I thought so. Not only that, she sings like an angel, fights like a devil, and has everything she needs to back up her stories. Every person she has ever met has loved her, even the people she arrests. She is kind, funny, intelligent… married.
Quinn’s wife, a young woman originally from my birth city of San Antonio, had seen fit to ask for a divorce earlier this year. The dates on the events seem to change the more I ask about it, leading me to believe that Quinn understands time like a dog does, or is straight up lying. Red flag? Yes. Do I care? Probably not. The story is that they had met, became engaged after six months, eloped to Hawaii, did something where they weren’t really living together for a few months… That’s where this gets confusing. Quinn had purchased a house for them to live happily ever after in, but Jessica never made it. Jessica became more and more sketchy with her feelings and thoughts. Either Quinn decided to move to Texas because she “likes warm weather” or, more likely, her wife returned to San Antonio and Quinn moved in a shoddy attempt to win her back. Quinn tells herself that Jessica cheated on her during their marriage with a man. Maybe she likes feeling a little like a victim. Who doesn’t every once in a while? I don’t know what Jessica was thinking, I just know that she initiated the divorce proceedings, the timeline is f***ed, and somehow, I am in Quinn’s arms, believing every little thing she says.
Our dear State Trooper said I love you. On our first date. In her defense, the date lasted several days and I am a great lay. I immediately regretted my response to this. I probably should have said “WTF, don’t say that. Those are really meaningful words and you can’t just utter them to me because you feel like it.” Instead, I mumbled “I love you, too.” Scariest part? I bloody meant it. There goes that chemical imbalance again, reinforcing my dependency issues.
The second date lasted five days. Filled with all the romantic things a non-romantic girl with extremely low self-esteem can think of. Quinn was constantly telling me how beautiful I am, not able to keep her hands off of me for more than a few seconds, her brown eyes searching mine with a look of concentration and love so believable I think it would have made a less medicated woman swoon. I knew that she loved me, wanted me, and that I could help her broken heart repair itself. I knew it. She inspired me to be a better version of myself, helped me believe that I was attractive and intelligent and capable of just about anything. She gave me a key to her place, I did that lesbian thing where I set up all of her mail-order furniture, knowing her ADHD wouldn’t allow her to sit and do it for the hours that it required. We went to hardware stores, grocery shopping, even adopted a cat (I didn’t, she did), fixing her house in the way she “had never had the chance to do with her wife.” I know, I know, the red flag is now wrapped tightly around my body, blocking all my senses so that I can’t see the angry bull about to charge.
Due to familial issues, Quinn greatly resented/feared her birthday. Knowing this, I took it upon myself, one and a half months into a relationship with a woman who refused to call me her girlfriend but told me she loved me, to make this one day of the year at least bearable. I woke up with her, and as she began putting on her tan uniform, started to make waffles. Her partner for the day had been invited to breakfast, and Quinn was in her element, telling impressive stories about arrests, shootings, how experienced and amazingly talented she is in her job, flavoring the rants with the comedy she had practiced professionally in St. Louis. I just kept on working, convinced that her constant boasting was cute, even charming.
“Yeah, I don’t plan on staying in <insert small Texas town name here> for very long. As a gay woman I don’t feel it’s conducive to my lifestyle. The dating pool is terrible and leaves much to be desired.”
She said. To someone who had ears to hear her and eyes to see me in my pajamas, preparing waffles for someone I had clearly slept with the night before. What. The. Actual. F***. Am I out of line thinking this is kind of an insult? I know I had made it clear that I was willing to wait until she was emotionally ready, but I had been getting some mixed signals for a month and a half now from this braggart of a woman on her intentions. Read that again if you don’t see my problem.
I, of course, as an adult woman, saw fit to address this in private before she left for work. Politely asking her not to complain about the dating pool in front of someone who drives two and a half hours almost every week to see her. Please. To which Quinn says that she feels like an asshole, simultaneously admonishing me for adding stress to her morning routine. Well f***. Now I feel like a dick. Still somewhat enraged by her comment, I tuck myself back into bed for a five hour stretch, hoping that the anger would dissipate and that things would be ok when I woke up.
They weren’t. I was told that my jealousy added a huge feeling of pressure to her life, causing her undue amounts of stress. My possessiveness made her uncomfortable. “I would love to keep monopolizing your time, but I know you want something I don’t think I can ever give you.” Where did this come from? I didn’t see it coming. Completely blindsided. I attempted to keep a lid on the fit I wanted to have. I eventually informed her that I would remain at her house for a few days and support her in any way she may need. I also asked that she deliberate over the decision to be just “friends” as it was a big thing to do on impulse.
Want to know what my crazy said? It did the math. Quinn had inspired me to be better, I recognized my need to be of service to someone, anyone. My crazy said “Join the Army.”
So begins the chronicle of my new life. I will be better, I will be stronger, and I will join the military. Think I can’t? Try me.