It wasn't the fact that he has been unemployed for nearly a year, that he drinks and smokes pot daily, or that he still has emotional baggage left over from a failed engagement. It wasn't the beard or sweatshirts. It wasn't his lack of a criminal record. The moment that I realized we were not going to progress to full relationship status, we weren't even together. I was at work.
My patient was dying. I had seen her a week before for bipolar disorder, and she was going downhill. I frantically adjusted her medications the best I could and did a referral to psychiatry, knowing full well that a psych referral for my patient population takes three months- an eternity for the acutely mentally ill. I was worried, and she was too. We made a safety contract, and she agreed to come back to see me in one week.
That day, with the little energy she had, she found a way to make it to her appointment on time. She had cut her wrists the day before but in survival mode, thinking of her children, she put on her nightgown and drove the hour it took to get to our clinic from her rural, medically underserved town. She was not wearing underwear, hadn't showered in several days, and whispered to me, "I'm so sick. I need help."
"Do you have any pills or weapons with you right now?"
"No."
The questions that I have to ask.
I called 911 and when the paramedics arrived she was sobbing in the fetal position, clenching my hand, apologizing for crying into my dress, and worrying out loud that this is how her children would forever remember her. She agreed to go to the hospital, and they took her away.
That, effectively, ended my hopes of a relationship with my neighbor. The man I fall in love with will need to understand, on a personal level, poverty and hopelessness in the community I am so passionate about working with. While this man is kind and liberal and an all-around good person, that connection wasn't there.
But one thing that was going great between us was the sex! MmmMmm. Physical chemistry was spot on, and the sweet, post-coital tenderness was there too. We had our best conversations in bed, and I felt an intimacy that fulfilled me emotionally. I was hesitant to let that go, but I also didn't want to lead him on.
It weighed on me, how to tell him that it wasn't going anywhere, that my feelings were stuck in "I like you a lot" and not progressing. Would I hurt him, or did he feel the same way?
I hadn't seen him for a few days, and when he came up to my apartment we started making out. I was hesitant, he could tell, and although I insisted I was fine he appropriately read my body language and knew otherwise.
"What's going on?", he asked.
I sighed. "It's not that I don't want to have sex. I WANT to have sex, that's not the problem. The problem is, that's all we do..."
He sighed back. "Alright, we need to talk about this. You're a great girl, but-"
I cut him off. I didn't want him to finish his sentence because it didn't need to be said. There was no reason for each of us to explain our lack of significant feelings for the other, to add insult to the injury of our dating defeat. It just didn't work out. We were on the same page.
"Okay, I'm just gonna come out and say it," he said. " Friends with benefits? The sex is really good."
Even more on the same page.
Seven weeks, the average length of time I can holding together a romance with a man I'm dating in Seattle. Par for the course.
My patient was dying. I had seen her a week before for bipolar disorder, and she was going downhill. I frantically adjusted her medications the best I could and did a referral to psychiatry, knowing full well that a psych referral for my patient population takes three months- an eternity for the acutely mentally ill. I was worried, and she was too. We made a safety contract, and she agreed to come back to see me in one week.
That day, with the little energy she had, she found a way to make it to her appointment on time. She had cut her wrists the day before but in survival mode, thinking of her children, she put on her nightgown and drove the hour it took to get to our clinic from her rural, medically underserved town. She was not wearing underwear, hadn't showered in several days, and whispered to me, "I'm so sick. I need help."
"Do you have any pills or weapons with you right now?"
"No."
The questions that I have to ask.
I called 911 and when the paramedics arrived she was sobbing in the fetal position, clenching my hand, apologizing for crying into my dress, and worrying out loud that this is how her children would forever remember her. She agreed to go to the hospital, and they took her away.
That, effectively, ended my hopes of a relationship with my neighbor. The man I fall in love with will need to understand, on a personal level, poverty and hopelessness in the community I am so passionate about working with. While this man is kind and liberal and an all-around good person, that connection wasn't there.
But one thing that was going great between us was the sex! MmmMmm. Physical chemistry was spot on, and the sweet, post-coital tenderness was there too. We had our best conversations in bed, and I felt an intimacy that fulfilled me emotionally. I was hesitant to let that go, but I also didn't want to lead him on.
It weighed on me, how to tell him that it wasn't going anywhere, that my feelings were stuck in "I like you a lot" and not progressing. Would I hurt him, or did he feel the same way?
I hadn't seen him for a few days, and when he came up to my apartment we started making out. I was hesitant, he could tell, and although I insisted I was fine he appropriately read my body language and knew otherwise.
"What's going on?", he asked.
I sighed. "It's not that I don't want to have sex. I WANT to have sex, that's not the problem. The problem is, that's all we do..."
He sighed back. "Alright, we need to talk about this. You're a great girl, but-"
I cut him off. I didn't want him to finish his sentence because it didn't need to be said. There was no reason for each of us to explain our lack of significant feelings for the other, to add insult to the injury of our dating defeat. It just didn't work out. We were on the same page.
"Okay, I'm just gonna come out and say it," he said. " Friends with benefits? The sex is really good."
Even more on the same page.
Seven weeks, the average length of time I can holding together a romance with a man I'm dating in Seattle. Par for the course.
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