I guess I'm a real woman now?

On feeling safe enough to be vulnerable

I recently ended a brief but fiery connection with a man named Derek*.

*Derek is, I think, his actual real name.

We never met in person, as there is a mountain range, and a border between us, but according to my call logs, I spent close to 27 hours over the span of 8 days talking to him on the telephone. We talked as I went for my daily walks, we talked as I did dishes and he streamed his power-washing simulation, we talked as he took his sweet little muppet-angel-dog for strolls. We talked in bed—a euphemism for co-masturbation—and yes it was hot. I fantasized about him. I’m pretty sure he did the same.

I ended things in a way that felt authentic and congruent to me. I thanked him from the heart, and I fucking meant it—every word. Our connection was real, genuine, heartfelt, incredibly kind, vulnerable and open. Derek is stuck in the mud of his own limitations, and I ended it because I felt—viscerally—that, had I continued our connection, I’d get dragged down with him. He turned into who he really was in the end; a person who was there all along, hurt and angry and waiting for someone to lash out at because it’s easier to look outward than in.

I don’t blame, shame, or hate Derek for this, because the experience was eye-opening. When I read his triggered, pedantic and self-pitying response to the breakup, I saw myself reflected back to me in a way that, until now, I have not been able to fully appreciate or digest.

I have been Derek many times in my intimate partnerships; angry and whiny, emotionally hurt and unable to soften into someone else’s care or genuine well-wishes for me. I’ve been too busy rolling in the mud to see the olive branch extended, the ladder laid out that is a partner’s compassion, a lover’s offer to hold me, a friend’s insistent yappy texts that under it all say: I love you, I want you around, I see the way out and I wish you did but you don’t, you’re doing okay, this will pass, you’re important to me, I’m doing my best.

The final exchanges with Derek were utterly exhausting and demoralizing, and I owe at least four of my ex-partners and lovers deep apologies and likely, fruit-baskets also.

I think Derek will be okay. I want Derek to be well, happy, and getting his brains fucked out by some nice lady who likes him a lot. I want a good job for him, a permanent home, a flood of subscribers and fans, a feeling of space and grace in his chest. I want Derek to have autonomy and choice—especially the choice to stay in the mud, if he wants to, for however long he wants to. I just don’t want to be his girlfriend.

The collision of Ada and Derek was rich in other ways too.

I—a person who calls the men in her life things like ‘the electrician’ ‘favourite restaurant’ and ‘formula 1’; who is guarded, avoidant, and writes people horrifically mean emails when triggered; who shares nothing of her real fears and pain, but only the parts that I think others find palatable; who chose not to tell her friends that her grandmother (the woman who ostensibly raised her) died and then was really genuinely ENRAGED that no one made her a tuna casserole, like, for a really long time afterward—was vulnerable with a man.

Derek made me feel safe enough to tell the real truth. And it felt terrifyingly good.

I told Derek about how I struggle to open up and be authentic in romantic connections. I told him about my dysfunctional family and how the consistent and horrific disappointment I felt in the men in my early life essentially resulted in my lesbianism. I told him about my grandma, about the tuna casserole, about the terror of being seen by men, about my fear of being a mom who is like my mom, about how I actually want kids, about how conflicted I am about this desire, and about what I actually need to feel safe. Derek listened. Something about him made me feel safe-enough to tell the whole truth, and he was kind to me. He didn’t hang up, or crack a dumb joke to avoid the discomfort, or reject me. In fact, he’d call me back the next evening.

I gushed to a friend. I called him by his name. I started making wedding jokes to him, and if you know me in real life, you’ll understand just how hilarious and unhinged that is.

Derek is and was a gift to me. He gave me another few beads on the abacus of hope. Another bit of proof that I don’t need to translate myself, or hide, or pretend that I don’t feel. I don’t need to be a stick-bug woman for a man to want me, biblically. I don’t need to be perfect. I can cry and feel deeply, as I am wont to do, and someone will call me again tomorrow and ask how it’s going. I can be the real, sort-of-still-quite-dykey woman that I am, and someone will really appreciate that I don’t read from the straight-lady script. I can drive stick and horrifically speed, and cuss, and crack sex jokes, and someone will be touched that I am being me. I can be honest that emotional closeness is hard for me and someone will tell me to just yell ‘Oklahoma’ when it gets too much.

Thanks Derek.

It’s been beautiful, and it’s been real.