š§ Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured.
I straighten my skirt and enter the cafĆ©. Mattās already there, waiting. He sits at the counter, a full cup of hot chocolate in front of him. The cafe isnāt crowded. He stands and hugs me, pressing his body against mine. Definitely not a friendly hug. I think people call this lust. How long has it beenāa decade?āsince anyone hugged me like this?
At the counter, I order a cappuccino, which the barista starts to make with glacial slowness.
This is the third mistake I make in my recovery from mental illness. The first: believing that I couldnāt continue in therapy because (supposedly, to my misguided brain) mentally healthy people arenāt in therapy. The second: thinking I needed to be off my meds. Neither, it turns out is true.
This time, my logic goes something like this: If I can be in a romantic relationship it will mean Iāve recovered from serious mental illness. Isnāt that the sign of mental wellnessābeing in a happy, stable romantic relationship? Donāt you need to be mentally healthy to cohabitate and compromise and commit? Certainly someone with a fragile mind, someone whoās been chronically suicidal and hasnāt been able to live independently and has instead been living with her mother would be considered too disabled to even think of partnering with another human.
I turn back to Matt, whoās looking at me with such longing, my face flushes and I turn away. We met on a dating app years ago. We wonāt talk for six months or a year and then get together, always with that underlying sexual tension. Nothingās ever happened.
The barista finishes frothing the milk for my coffee and expertly fluffs it into the cup. I pay and sit on the stool next to Matt. He tells me about the house heās building on his farm.
To say we have nothing in common is an understatement. He was once a trader who retired at forty-five and now farms soybeans in Michigan. He also sails on racing teams. His hobbies include being outdoors and hunting, which he says he does responsibly though Iāve never been able to understand how killing animals for sport is responsible.
Iāve spent the past twenty-five years reading, writing, and teaching others how to read and write while battling mental illness. Most of my energy has gone toward managing manic nights of pacing the streets of Brooklyn, the compulsive need to eat only one color of food, racing thoughts that tell me Iām dying, and depressions so thick Iāve had to duck into Chicago alleys and cry. Iāve tried to make sense of my thoughts and feelings, those ineffable parts of us, via diagnoses and initialisms (GAD, OCD, MDD, ADHD, BP, etc.).
āIām ready now,ā Matt says, smiling sheepishly, and I wonder what heās ready for. āIām ready to settle down.ā Heās almost fifty, balding but attractively so, and has never been in a long-term relationship. āWell, not marry, butā¦ā He gives me a look: I would have sex with you right now. After a beat: āIāve missed you.ā
This seems unlikely, given weāve collectively spent maybe fifteen hours together, but my stomach flutters. Itās a dull flutter because Iāve taken a healthy dose of Klonopin to be here. It has me feeling open, not so much at ease but easy. And it feels good to be wanted.
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