There’s nothing really strange about finding an article that resonates–but have you ever read something from someone that actually feels like you wrote it? I ran into an article on Medium yesterday that made me start to think there might be a female version of me running around somewhere on planet earth and even though the piece wasn’t what one might call “a beacon of light and hope,” it did feel like the universe was bestowing upon me the Christmas gift I didn’t necessarily want, but needed in the worst way.
Why?
Because I needed to know that my issues weren’t “male” issues but human issues. And before I continue, let’s get this out of the way: most of you know that I am a heterosexual cisgender male. That being said, I have never related to other males. Ever. In my whole life. The whole locker room, Speed Stick, bikini calendar, circle jerk, bench press, sneaker wearing, ass staring gender turns me off in the worst way. Not only that, but there have only been a few times when I’ve been able to relate to anything “male-like.” I feel like I have related more to Cheryl Strayed, Joyce Carol Oates, Margaret Atwood, Rebecca Kuong, and Jen Sincero than James Patterson or David Baldacci.
Once, when I first got sober, I was strongly encouraged by the elders of the “program” to befriend someone of my own gender and push myself to engage in activities with the person. I gave it my best shot. One day, when we were going to the mall together, I noticed him ogling girls that were very young. As a matter of fact, we both had daughters that were around the same age as this particular contingency. And when I say “ogling,” I mean he was looking at them like a starving person would look at rotisserie chickens in a store window. It was right then that I decided that the “not using substances” part of AA was fine, but this thing about forcing myself to befriend this alien from planet douche was out of the question. I mean they always say “take what you need and leave the rest.” He definitely qualified as “the rest.”
This might lead you to believe that I must have identified strongly with many women through the years but that isn’t true. Those authors I mentioned in the previous paragraph—I was careful to say I “related” to them. Most of the time though, I just feel like I exist in another world and although that may possess the air of conceit about it, that’s not really what it is. If it does anything, it just makes me feel more and more alienated from the entire human race.
However, when I read this article on Medium called, “Meet My New Boyfriend, Wellbutrin,” it went beyond feeling like I found my long lost sister–I felt like I found the female Billy Manas. Paragraph after paragraph, it was as if I was reading something I wrote next week. I, too, am on Wellbutrin and have been for longer than I’d like to admit. But the Wellbutrin issue is only one small part of the equation. There are aspects of our kindred spirit-ness that are so uncanny that I simply had to send the article to my therapist, as I told the writer I was going to do in her comment section.
If you do read the article, pay particular attention to the anecdote she shares about the crappy dude that broke her heart and inspired a downfall that was bigger than the relationship itself.
A couple of years ago, you might remember reading that I “met” a beautiful woman from Portugal through a piece I published on Elephant Journal. When she came to the states to finish her PhD, we consummated our friendship in a very real way and if I’m not mistaken, it was the last physical interaction I have had. As short and as seemingly inconsequential as that “relationship” was, it spun me out in such a significant way, I finally followed through with the idea of finding a therapist and I have not stopped seeing her every week since. Obviously, we have a lot of work that needs to get done. My childhood was a f*cking disaster and to undo all the trauma might take another two years for all I know.
And while none of it has been easy or particularly pleasant, it has been the thing that has kept me grounded and away from the vomit inducing effects of Match.com and Facebook dating. That, by itself, is worth all the co-pays in the world. When I think about all of the crappy dinners and heartbreaking conversations I have avoided since me and Linda began our professional relationship, I almost want to buy her a winter house in Orlando or something. I truly believe that another half dozen of those kinds of dates could have very easily led me to suicidal ideation because I never drove myself home thinking “well, we just didn’t click.” I would drive home in nothing less than despair.
Not a glimmer of hope.
Even now, whenever I begin fantasizing about taking someone on a date or asking someone out, I usually talk myself out of it long before anything can materialize. I’ve taken to just believing that my days of ever cohabitating with a person is eternally off the table. From there, it’s generally a short trip to “I’m never going to be in love again.” Which, for me, is so different from the first fifty years on the planet.
Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. That’s not really the point, though. The point is that, for Christmas this year, the universe has sent me a message that might be nothing short of life saving: I am not untethered and alone. There is a woman somewhere in the United States who feels as sensitive as I do and, right now, I’ll take it.
It’s more than I got last year.
"I am not untethered and alone." My favorite line Billy. Merry Christmas. ❤️
Every week I read your substack in bed upon waking. These are a comfort and sense of safety because of the real rawness. Merry Christmas.