By the age of 10 she knows time, and location.
By 17 she’s already chosen a gown, 2 bridesmaids and a maid of honor.
By 23 she’s waiting for a man who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment”, someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely, someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed, someone who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen.
To be honest, I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing, I have no clue what my wedding will look like.
But I imagine the women who pins my last to hers will butterfly down the aisle like a 5 foot promise.
I imagine her smile will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps, and know exactly where our wedding is being held.
The woman that I plan to marry will have champagne in her walk, and I will get drunk on her footsteps.
When the pastor asks if I take this woman to be my wife, I will say yes before he finishes the sentence. I’ll apologize later for being impolite but I will also explain him that our first kiss happened 6 years ago and I’ve been practicing my “Yes” for past 2, 165 days.
When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say, but when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long. I say she thinks too much, misses her father, loves to laugh, and she’s terrible at lying because her face never figured out how to do it correctly.
I tell them if my alarm clock sounded like her voice, my snooze button would collect dust. I tell them if she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys. If she was a book, I would memorize her table of contents. I would read her cover-to-cover, hoping to find typos, just so we can both have a few things to work on.
Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense? She don’t always make sense, but her imperfections are the things I love about her the most.
I don’t know when I will be married. I don’t know where I will be married but I do know this, whenever I’m asked about my future wife— I always say: …She’s a lot like you. ❞
I am 29 years old and I believe my life works in reverse. After spending 6 years living in survival mode, I am now coming into my own light and finding it musty and dim at beat. I am not only confused and unfocused but overwhelmed and making incredibley bad decisions (if I’m making any at all) and my judgment is cloudy. I’m emotionally raw and functioning the way I am isn’t something I want to keep doing.
I’m trying this new thing where I live each day completely and try not to dwell on yesterday or tomorrow. I’m also trying to give up control and my warped sense of self and that leaves me incredibley uncomfortable and naked.
I leave in 8 weeks and I feel like I have no idea where I’m going to be and how I’m going to live. I feel like a baby giraffe trying to find my legs but keep falling. I leave a world I know, people that I love and step into a place where everything is foreign and I have to maintain a fucking life? What the fuck am I thinking? How could this go anyway but badly?
Breathe. Step back. Breathe. I’m leaving myself behind, shedding skin and all crutches and lifelines to create a new life. Whatever that is.
“My name is Molly. I’m 36, single, live in Brooklyn, and work in publishing. I love gloomy Victorian novels, obscure Korean horror films, Premier League soccer, and knitting. I’m 5-foot-5, slim, with brown hair and brown eyes. I am looking for a serious relationship. I suffer from mental illness.”
That dating profile is going to get me nowhere.
I am not ashamed of my condition. Or not exactly. I think there is still a lot more stigma than we admit, and every joke someone cracks about being “so OCD” makes it harder to explain that while you all think you’re totally cool with me being obsessive-compulsive, it’s a lot more than lining up pencils and touching the light switch… I have no qualms about someone seeing my cellulite, but I am afraid of him seeing my self-inflicted scars.❞
Molly Pohlig's brave, moving essay on dating with mental illness.
(via The Dish)