I act like I don’t remember, The Artist acts like she doesn’t notice. Sometimes we struggle to hide the reality that we both just don’t care for each other any more. For example, not once this year has she asked me how I’m feeling whereas I make a point of it every morning, honestly more out of habit than anything else. Words are often lies but actions (and inactions) always speak the truth.
In the last month we have both had more job interviews than the rest of the year combined. The result has been the same each time, just like it has been for years on end for both of us: rejection. I still take it on the chin, while she caves in emotionally, retreating to pretend to sleep in bed. We’re a matter of months away from running out of money.
To add to my list of emotional challenges, my mother’s bladder cancer returned. Various attempts at operating had to be postponed because she wasn’t well enough. She is about to turn 91. Besides the cancer, a few months ago I got panicked phonecalls from cousins who occasionally see her. Long story short, it appears she is developing Alzheimer’s. Delusions people carry with them throughout life, but the hallmark of Alzheimer’s is the hallucinations. There is nothing I can do for her, what with me sitting penniless on the other side of the planet. All I can do is muster up the strength to make a phonecall and then recover from what is becoming increasingly bizarre conversations. Her plight plays on my mind daily.
The Artist and I dote on our daughter because that way we don’t have to face each other. A couple of months ago she blurted out, “All we do at night is watch television because we have nothing left to say to each other.” Since she said that I have no interest in watching television. That was an uncharacteristically blatant assertion by her; normally she’s passive-aggressive. Now I prolong cleaning the kitchen and loading the dishwasher every night. I take my time sorting and doing the laundry. I look for DIY jobs to do around the home. We’re just co-parents.
In the last two months she has said three things that collectively paint an unpalatable picture. First, at my asking, she said she was unsure if she wants to spend the rest of her life with me. Secondly, she doesn’t want to be married (I asked her to marry me shortly after our daughter was born). Lastly, she said she doesn’t want to have sex with me.
None of this surprised me, only the honesty that finally confirmed what I have figured out for myself. I keep hearing her words, over and over, like a toxic mantra. Today I feel the same about her on those three scores, which disappoints me. How can a love so good turn so sour? There’s a space between us that I have repeatedly tried to bridge, but to no avail. Now I know why for sure. I won’t try any more.
I also have the issue of Brexit to overcome. I’m in an EU country that allows British passport holders to remain resident, but only as long as I meet certain requirements. As it stands my case is tenuous, but have only until the end of the year to secure this visa. I can only count on a couple of bureaucrats deciding that the Covid epidemic has precluded me from meeting their exacting demands. I think it is 50/50 as to whether I’ll be allowed to remain here. I apply in the next few days. My being told to leave the country will certainly clarify matters.
I’d be emotionally shredded to be removed from my daughter. I don’t know how I can cope with that. She is the only positive thing in my disappointing existence. Just imagining her round little face with her piercing blue eyes smiling at me makes me smile for a moment.
I dread this coming Winter. I can’t see anything good coming about during it. My regular winter blues will need to be endured as usual and I’ll smile through my teeth over the holidays. It might be our last Christmas together.
I have never felt as lonely as I have the last six years. Things can’t carry on like this. It’s not financially and emotionally sustainable.
I don’t know what else to do with this emotionally desolate relationship. Maybe nothing can be done. Maybe it’s time to move on.
Trevor is a likeable guy, always with a cheeky smile, willing to listen and the most easy going boss I ever had. I sat next to him and several times a day, day after day, his wife would phone him. Often I’d see him glaring at his phone as it bounced around on his desk. The conversation was always a series of him saying “yes, dear”, pause then “yes, dear” then ending a minute or two later.
He was the typical hard-working family man, always the first at work and the last to leave. He had a daughter with his wife, while she also had two sons from her first marriage. He was providing for all of them. Him and I used to go for lunch together and we became quite close to such an extent that we even began swapping sexual histories. Like I said, a great boss. More of a friend really; we even considered starting a business together.
I never ever saw her but he said his wife was a stunner. I wasn’t surprised to hear that; women would like the way about him. Then one Monday lunchtime he told me what they had got up to on the weekend. They had been to an outrageous house-party where they had indulged in the free cocaine on offer. He became paralytic and slumped into a chair. His wife became the centre of the party. In her semi-conscious state she was stripped naked and splayed on a table. Most of the men at the party fucked her, queuing up even, as Trevor watched.
I was shocked by him telling me this and wasn’t sure how to react. I don’t like that kind of behaviour. He then told me that they had a testy relationship because he had once cheated on her. The annoying checking-up phonecalls now made sense.
Shortly after telling me that story Trevor resigned to go work elsewhere for more money. It was also closer to home and his insecure wife liked that. We lost touch but had a mutual friend that we had both worked with. A few years later this friend told me about Trevor’s news.
His wife’s badgering became worse and she was always accusing him of having an affair. To him it felt like he was constantly being punished for something he hadn’t done. One night he was far away from home for work. In the lobby bar he met a random guy who told him about a wonderful escort he knew of and handed Trevor her details. Years of suspicion and blame had mounted up and taken their toll in him. Trevor succumbed to the temptation and summoned her
The guy in the bar was a private detective hired by Trevor’s wife. He’d rigged everything and even managed to get photographs of Trevor having sex with the prostitute. His wife took him to the proverbial cleaners. Her lawyers were better than his and she got everything: the big house in the country, the cars, the alimony and the kids.
The last I heard of him Trevor was shacked up with a woman twenty years his junior in a shady part of London.
My take: People, when the trust is gone, it’s never coming back. Don’t kid yourself: there will always something to trigger an outbreak of doubt. That’s no way to live, for either of you. Cut your losses and move on. My experience with my Ex-gf taught me that.
In my time I’ve witnessed things that call into question the nature of humans as a species. I find myself thinking of these stories and the characters involved, trying to make sense of their compelling desires and dubious behaviour. As I progress through this crazy, unpredictable experience called Life, these episodes and their meaning changes for me as I garner new insights into us.
First, I’ll start with Bev The Bitch. She was a comely blonde with sparkling blue eyes, the colour of the sky on a Summer’s day. As attractive as she was physically I found her personality repulsive. Her obnoxious, arrogant, aggressive demeanour led to my moniker for her. Everything was extreme and intense with her. She was also my ex-wife’s best friend. They were friends before pre-school as their mother’s were best friends.
Over the years we would get together for meals or occasional outings, Bev The Bitch with her docile, dopey husband Brian. They were high school sweethearts and he did as he was told and only spoke when spoken to. He was over six foot tall, built like a ninja with chiselled looks. Despite the look of a thoroughbred stallion, he had the heart and brain of a donkey. I felt sorry for this guy.
Bev The Bitch would talk down to him, berate him in public if she could and was generally bossing him around. He would take it, sometimes rolling his eyes, usually saying, “Yes, Bev”. Once I saw them arrive at our place, parking outside and seeming to be arguing about something with her waving her finger at him. Then they came inside and behaved as if nothing had happened.
I felt exhausted after every encounter with her. I never could figure out why he would so lamely eat up her shit. I told myself that he must love her; you never really know what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe this was their foreplay and back home angry sex would ensue?
Then her behaviour became slightly more bearable for me once my ex-wife confided in me. Bev The Bitch’s father had regularly forced her two older sisters to have sex with him. To make matters worse the older brother (like the father a camera buff) would photograph proceedings. Bev as the youngest was excused from this. Did the mother know? On Sundays they would all troop off to church, occupy an entire bench and sing songs together, putting on a happy, smiley front for all the world to see. I remember being at Bev and Brian’s wedding and seeing the clan together at the main table, all smiling for the attendees as if they hadn’t a care.
She had only found out about this once she had left the family home to go travelling with Brian. One of the sisters had told her about what had been going on, but the mother didn’t want to talk about it. Apparently Bev’s biggest issue with her monstrous father was that he didn’t try anything with her. More than anything she wanted to know why not. Not knowing why played on her mind.
After years of this endless drama Brian finally snapped. On their wedding anniversary he didn’t come home. Instead he went out for post-work drinks with a secretary from his office and ended up going home with her. The wheels of their marriage flew off after that. In a heady maelstrom it wasn’t long before they were divorced. In a bizarre development they still lived together. You have to know the insane British property market to understand that this happens. Neither of them could afford to live alone. Brian then took to bringing his Kiwi lover home on weekends. Bev The Bitch had to listen to her ex-husband having sex with another woman through the tissue-thin partition wall that separated their beds. Did she cry her eyes out or rub one out?
Eventually they were able to sell their home at a break-even price and move on with their lives. He moved in with his lover from New Zealand while she took a small apartment far from anything. From the time he didn’t come home until my ex-wife and I divorced Bev The Bitch was coming around to us seeking consolation from my ex-wife. Every day she was texting or phoning my wife, constantly in her ear. Bev The Bitch went through a distinct “All men are scum” phase. I kept my distance but came to realize that Bev’s effect was detrimental to my own marriage.
Naturally Bev The Bitch became broody. One obsession was replaced by another. Men now seemed less scummy. She joined dating sites and went on a rampage of having sex with strangers in London. Now she was Bed The Bitch She was making up for lost time; I can identify with that. Apparently Bev and Brian were having problems in the bedroom, but apart they seemed to have no problems. Like my own marriage their union had run its course.
Bev The Bitch then got an idea in her head. Whatever happened to Whatsisname from high school? She looked him up on Facebook, got chatting on Skype, then got on a plane and went to visit him in…New Zealand.
Wait, it gets scarier.
Guess how long it took from first approaching him on Facebook until Bev The Bitch married Whatsisname?
Ninety days.
My take: Such women exist. Gentlemen, proceed with caution. I think there’s a lot of truth to the saying that if she’s hot and on a dating site then she’s crazy. My experience in my dating days with Krazy Girl and a few others proved that to me.
The cupboards are almost as empty as our relationship. Time and fortune has not been kind to either of us and its effect has been to tear us apart. The Artist and I can go can a whole weekend without making eye contact. We have become that cliché of, “Oh, we’re just together for the sake of the child”. We’re co-parents and not much more than that.
I hate this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but it is what it is and I don’t know how to make things better. Even if I did, we’ll never be as good as we briefly once were. Underneath a thin veneer of civility lives a seething resentment that she feels towards me. I’m not stupid nor blind, I know it’s there and I know it’s growing.
I’ve now not had a steady job in seven years. The toll of this long-term unemployment is that my self-confidence is almost non-existent. Every day is an emotional struggle for me. I can only take it one day at a time. It feels impossible to make any plans for even a week ahead.
I guess you need some updating…
After years of us both failing to get work we were at a decisive crossroads. All my money was gone; my bank account was empty. I was broke. She was unemployed too and paying for everything out of her inheritance from her mother. The UK is an expensive place to live; money was a problem. Then Brexit came along and public xenophobia became acceptable. I was subjected to verbal abuse that still plays on my mind today. I did not want my child growing up in such a hate-filled society. It took The Artist a while to accept that returning to her homeland was our best option.
So at the end of Summer 2018 we moved to central Europe, to live in her picturesque hometown. For me it was a breath of fresh air, this new pristine, serene surrounding. For her it felt like failure. Her narcissistic, judgemental father weighs heavily on her psyche. His remarks cut deeper than any knife can. She knew that he was going to be her biggest emotional challenge and she has failed to deal well with it.
Our daughter we placed in the local kindergarten and she is thoroughly happy going there for the mornings. Her development has been astounding and she is a delight to be with. A life without her in it I would not want. She is the only reason that I have not ended the relationship with The Artist. I can’t give my child the things that money can buy, but I can give all the other things that perhaps matter more. The Artist struggles with practical things and is truly a bookworm; she is not physically capable of raising a child by herself. She can barely look after herself; I sometimes feel like I’m her nurse.
Despite many well-intentioned people promising to help us if we were to settle near them, all these promises have proven empty. More than a year after a arriving one contact did finally pay off and The Artist got a contract position. However, it was in the capital city, more than 2 hour’s drive away. So she has come home for weekends, largely spending the time with her daughter. At night she slumps on the sofa, usually falling asleep. I’ve been daddy-daycare for twenty hours a day, five days in a row. The Corona lockdown earlier this year meant that she worked from home for three months. We live in a small, cheap apartment that the remaining inheritance money paid for and that I renovated. This was a difficult time for all of us, being housebound all day, week after week.
Promises by her bosses that she’ll move on to a permanent position have proven to be more empty words. Her contract finishes in a month’s time and she is devastated. She liked where she was working and what she was doing, but the disappointment of the surprising abrupt ending has floored her. When she phones at night to talk to our daughter we exchange the usual perfunctory pleasantries afterward. I can tell that she is on the verge of tears the last few nights. What pithy words I offer are instinctively rejected, pretty much like everything else I have said in recent years.
The state will give her a handout that will pay for food, but only for 20 weeks. After that, we have nothing. The cupboards are empty. In the last year I have applied for over 200 jobs. My grasp of the local language is basic but I’m learning every day. I had two interviews and finally landed a position in February. It was supposed to start in April, but a week beforehand they contacted me telling that because of Corona the position is no longer available. Looking online it seems that they have gone out of business altogether.
Heading into this Corona Winter we feel like there will be no job opportunities for either of us. Even if one of us had a secure job that pays the bills I don’t think it would make things better between us. I’m no angel and in moments of frustration I have said things that can’t be forgotten; so has she.
If you know my earlier writing you might remember my saying that I believe ‘respect’ to be essential for love. My being unable to provide for myself, my partner and my child has led to her losing all respect for me. Losing respect for someone is like water dripping down a stalactite, it’s slow, steady and given enough time then the puddle below hardens. Her feelings towards me have hardened.
It won’t surprise you then to learn that we’ve only been physically intimate thrice in the last five years. I’ve not pestered her for sex, I have understanding for her emotional state. When it did happen it was mediocre; the passion is gone. I do still find her attractive, but our tactile beginning is distant history. I think she’s now frigid and I don’t blame her.
I’m toying with the idea of getting my story to the mass-market of readers who don’t follow blogs. My first choice outlet is conventional book format, but failing that I’m prepared to pursue the ebook format, self-publishing if I can’t find someone who shares my vision and can help make it happen. I’m looking for that one person who might be a literary agent or perhaps even a publisher who might be interested in what I have written.
Do you know such a person?
Apart from that I’d welcome any ideas, tips or criticism of what I have written that you care to share with me. The more brutally honest the better.
I think my story archetypical of the modern dating scene and others might benefit from my experience. Many of you have written to me privately voicing your thoughts about finding love via online dating and how my blog has helped them. I’d like to keep this positive momentum going and maybe even get back some of the money I’ve spent on bad dates.
Feel free to drop me a message on: greyknight [at] meanddating [dot] com
Thank you, I’ve appreciated every single comment I’ve ever received. Yours will be no different.
This Grey Knight has a weakness in his suit of armour. It’s difficult to spot and few assailants have ever got close enough to exploit it, but those that have managed to have done great damage to me. You see, just beneath the surface of this imposing frame, not far from what seems like a normal, well-adjusted person is a crinkle in my psyche, an imperfection in my emotional make-up.
Like anyone else, I guess, all my life I’ve thought that I’m normal and that most people are just like me, except for a few oddballs and nasty people. All along I’ve lived with what I thought was just one of the negatives of human existence.
It was when I was watching a YouTube video with The Cockaholic that I learned of ‘Cluster B personalities’. My enquiring mind demanded that I know more. There are four types of these: Narcissist, Histrionic, Borderline and Anti-Social. I saw that in my dating experiences I had encountered several Narcissists and a couple of Histrionics. A friend in the know has suggested that Krazy Girl was of the Borderline Personality Disorder variety. All good to know.
What my reading on the internet then led to is ‘Cluster C personalities’ of which there are the ‘Dependent’, the ‘Obsessive Compulsive’ and the ‘Avoidant’. I am the latter.
My blood ran cold as I read a description of myself that I could never extol or describe any better.
I’ll quote Wikipedia:
Avoidant personality disorder (AvPD), also known as anxious personality disorder, is a Cluster C personality disorder recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders handbook as afflicting persons who display a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy and inferiority, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation, and avoidance of social interaction despite a strong desire to be close to others. Individuals with the disorder tend to describe themselves as uneasy, anxious, lonely, unwanted and isolated from others.
People with avoidant personality disorder often consider themselves to be socially inept or personally unappealing and avoid social interaction for fear of being ridiculed, humiliated, rejected, or disliked. As the name suggests, the main coping mechanism of those with avoidant personality disorder is avoidance of feared stimuli. Avoidant personality disorder is usually first noticed in early adulthood, with both childhood emotional neglect and peer group rejection being associated with an increased risk for its development.
People with avoidant personality disorder are preoccupied with their own shortcomings and form relationships with others only if they believe they will not be rejected. Childhood emotional neglect—in particular, the rejection of a child by one or both parents—has been associated with an increased risk for the development of avoidant personality disorder, as well as rejection by peers.
It goes on to list a variety of issues that afflict most people at some time, but with AvPD most of these feelings are permanent.
The ones that I’ve never felt are: – Avoids physical contact because it has been associated with an unpleasant or painful stimulus
– Severe low self-esteem
– Emotional distancing related to intimacy
– Feeling inferior to others
– In some extreme cases, agoraphobia
– Self-loathing
What I feel on a daily basis is the following: – Self-imposed social isolation
– Hypersensitivity to rejection/criticism
– Extreme shyness or anxiety in social situations, though the person feels a strong desire for close relationships
– Feelings of inadequacy
– Mistrust of others
– Highly self-conscious
– Self-critical about their problems relating to others
– Problems in occupational functioning
– Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful
– Uses fantasy as a form of escapism to interrupt painful thoughts
The World Health Organization’s ICD-10 lists avoidant personality disorder as anxious (avoidant) personality disorder. It is characterized by at least four of the following: 1. persistent and pervasive feelings of tension and apprehension;
2. belief that one is socially inept, personally unappealing, or inferior to others;
3. excessive preoccupation with being criticized or rejected in social situations;
4. unwillingness to become involved with people unless certain of being liked;
5. restrictions in lifestyle because of need to have physical security;
6. avoidance of social or occupational activities that involve significant interpersonal contact because of fear of criticism, disapproval, or rejection.
Every single one of the above applies to me. I’ll share how this all manifests itself in my existence.
I dread social settings. Being part of a group activity makes me go cold inside and my stomach tighten. I am at my best on a one-on-one basis. Even a third person being present makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. Anything more than three people and I’m instantly in defensive mode, even if I’ve known the people present for many years.
When I’m walking around my town’s high street all the time I feel that most people are looking at me. I try not to make eye contact, so when I do I always easily see several people looking at me. This just reinforces my beliefs and feelings that I’m not like other people. I don’t see other people staring at each other, but there are always people staring at me. As a teenager I put it down to my gangly awkwardness, as an adult I ascribe it to my height, build and dark hair. I know that many women like tall and dark men, but the attention makes me feel uncomfortable.
I don’t like being the centre of attention. At school, when it was time to present anything in front of a class, I’d make sure I wasn’t there. I’m never the life-and-soul of a party (not that I’ve been to many) but am more likely to found in the kitchen or doing something useful for the group. I prefer to be in the background, orchestrating events and suggesting ideas.
I’ve developed coping mechanisms to deal with my feelings towards other people. I always walk fast because I feel that makes me less visible so people can’t stare. I never maintain eye contact with anyone, am sometimes thumbing away at my phone, thus looking downward, but my favourite escape that calms me is to be listening to music via an earpiece. That makes it all feel okay because it’s like I’m moving through my own private movie scene being accompanied by a soundtrack of my choosing. Sometimes at work I pretend to be listening to music, but it’s just a ruse to get people to leave me alone, freeing me from idle, puerile office banter.
My working life has been the biggest challenge, pain and disappointment of my life. I’ve always found myself in an office environment, a most unnatural construct for most people, but for me it’s a particular hell because I feel so visible and thus vulnerable. My coping mechanism has been to put my head down and work like a Trojan. This has had the unintended consequence of me being perceived as a good worker by my bosses. I’ve been rewarded with preferential treatment from them which has perpetuated the negativity of the setting because people now look at me with jealousy or disapproval. Yes, I’ve been relatively successful in my jobs, but I’ve always been the outsider, the lone wolf. I am now so accustomed to it that I prefer things that way, not because I like it, but because I know how to deal with it.
Better the devil you know is not my preferred way of doing things, but whenever I can I orchestrate things so that I work alone, preferably physically so. I commandeer a free space somewhere, put up a physical barrier of some kind and then I can’t see anyone’s judgemental eyes. I find it much easier to do my own thing than ask permission or seek forgiveness. I am not afraid to be unpopular in a workplace, because that just makes it easier to move on when the opportunity presents itself. Permanent employment has felt like a prison sentence to me, working on a freelance basis has proved more emotionally acceptable because I know exactly when it will be over.
This lack of fearing unpopularity has been a mixed blessing. Because I feel it almost inevitable in certain settings with people I do not know, it has lead to me being ruthless at times. I’ll even confess that it has made me a horrible person, a heartless bastard especially when in an all-male environment. I have had no compunction in resorting to bloody violence to get my way. Men really are like dogs in that we adhere to a pack mentality…and there can only be one top dog: me. I don’t fear violence, in fact, I like it because I know I will always win. There’s a certain look men give off when they realize that they can’t defeat me because I’m always willing to go one depraved step further than them. I’ve never started a fight, I’ve only ever finished them. Sadly, the few times my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend saw my vicious streak when I was provoked led to them losing some respect for me and having it replaced by a little fear. On a positive note, I feel that my days of brutality are well behind me; I’m now too old for that shit.
As I have got older these feelings of social inadequacy have grown and become more prominent in my daily existence. As I did away with my young man’s White Knight Syndrome, this avoidant mindset and accompanying behaviour pattern has grown. I can see that it’s getting worse as I experience more negative things at the hands of people.
Why am I like this? All my life I have felt like the outsider in any group setting. It all started when I was little.
My parents were badly married. My father was a raging alcoholic and often out of work. My mother was always at work during the day. They fought every dinner-time and all weekend. I was an only child, so when the fighting started I used to run away and hide in my own little world. My mother was overly protective towards me; overbearing and controlling in fact. She had me when she was almost 41 and I was her way of dealing with her shit life. I was the one thing she cherished…and could control.
When both my parents had jobs when I was under six years old, a maid would come take care of me and the apartment. She was under strict instructions to never let me outdoors. For years I would sit at the window watching the other kids play. A couple of times I sneaked out to play with them, but the maid caught me and took me back inside, fearful of losing her job. I think that’s how I developed my observant, analytical, voyeuristic streak.
Then one day my mother said to me that one of the kids had invited me to their birthday party. I was so excited. On the day of the party, I woke up early, relishing the chance to finally get to play with the other kids. My mother had bought a navy-blue trousers with harlequin waistcoat, white shirt and sky-blue bow-tie. (Yep, my mother dressed me funny.) By lunchtime I was tired and asked my mother if it was okay for me to nap for a little while and that she must wake me for the party.
She didn’t wake me and I slept the entire afternoon. I missed the party and I was upset. I convinced myself that now, for sure, the other kids would never want to play with me ever again. I resumed watching them from a distance, in my prison, overseen by the maid.
The city where we lived was a compromise choice for my parents because they had married across the cultural divide. In Apartheid-era South Africa, although both were white, my father was an Afrikaner and my mother of English descent, this was a socially inappropriate union. Their families shunned them and they moved to a city where nobody knew them, thus neither had friends or family in this neutral city. I have no recollection of us ever having visitors in the first 10 years of my life. Sadly I also have no recollection of ever being hugged or shown any kind of affection by either of my parents; they were too busy with their private war.
I can count on my one hand (and have fingers left over) the number of times I interacted with other children before I had to go to school at the age of six. On the very first day of school, my mother said to me, “I want you to be the cleverest kid in the class. I want you to get the highest marks for every subject.” I said, “Yes, mom” and I did exactly that for the next eight years.
All the other kids in my class were different to me. They also all knew each other. They went to pre-school crèche together, which my mother didn’t want me to. From day one I felt like the outsider, but it was in effect, just a continuation of what was the norm for me. I couldn’t figure out how to fit in, but I figured out how to excel and I became the class “brain”. Not the typical geek, because I was bigger than the other kids, so nobody picked on me. I just felt that collectively I was being shunned. Inadvertently I had made things worse for myself by becoming the “brain”, but I only figured that out in later years.
Because of my intellect, physique and forceful nature (courtesy of being a badly-socialised only child) I was the captain of every team in my school career. I was unknowingly a so-called “alpha male”, but largely because all the other kids were intimidated by me. It was easier to lead and browbeat kids into line, than to learn how to compromise and fit in.
My mother then decided that I should go to a different high-school than what my few primary school chums went to. So I arrived at a new school, at the age of thirteen, knowing nobody. Again they all knew each other, having been to the same primary school for the previous eight years. Again I was the outsider trying to break in. Teenagers can be nasty and very cliquey. My first year of high school was awful; nobody wanted to be friends with me. I remember a couple of break times taking myself off to the toilets and sitting in a cubicle, sometimes crying. Eventually a couple of boys warmed to me.
Then tragedy struck. My father dropped dead from a heart attack a week before my fourteenth birthday. That was 1st September 1985; it was a Sunday. On the Monday morning my mother went to the bank to tell them that my father had died. The bank manager instantly froze all the bank accounts and my mother had no cash. There were no friends or family to borrow money off of. There was no food in the house, as bad luck would have it. By the Wednesday night my dinner was a cereal with hot water. That’s how the next 10 years of hardship with my mother began.
We were literally left penniless. I stayed off school for a few weeks and when I returned all the kids ignored me. Nobody wanted to speak to me, they were all so uncomfortable around me, not knowing what to say. I became a social outcast and, as usual, it wasn’t of my making. The last few months of my first year of high school passed in splendid isolation.
My mother decided to move to another city, where her family was, who had promised to help out. So at the age of fourteen I went off to another high-school. And guess what? Yep, as usual, I was the outsider looking in. However, money was a massive problem for me and my mother. Her nephew (my cousin) owned a scrap metal yard and he gave my mother a full-time job as his book-keeper. I worked for him on weekends (occasional Sundays too) and all my school holidays. I skipped being a teenager and got thrown into the adult world. This made it harder to relate to kids my own age, teachers even; they were all so immature.
I had very few friends in high-school. My best friend was the class “brain”, but he was puny, so us two outcasts hung out together. I had very little to do with girls because I didn’t have time and I didn’t have money. I couldn’t take a girl back to my place, it was a dump and my mother was always there. I felt like no girl would be interested in me because I was so poor.
My stand-out moment in high school was the prom. I didn’t have the money to buy an outfit and one day in class several of the kids, all of whose parents were wealthy, belittled me publicly for claiming to not have the money for everything that was involved. This public grilling went on for ages. They just couldn’t understand that my mother and I didn’t have money. I didn’t go to the prom; the only kid not to go.
I would say that my teenage years were characterized by a feeling of never fitting in anywhere. I sometimes think I haven’t really outgrown that. Whenever I tried to join a group I was rejected, so I learned to reject groups. As a teenager I aspired to normality, decency and respectability. Respect is something important to me. I didn’t get much of it growing up, so I value it. It’s why I can’t love a woman that I don’t respect.
Because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to university. The law of the land said that I therefore had to do national service. I am a mixture of Afrikaner and English, so I was fluent in both languages and mindsets. When the other conscripts found out that I was not “pure”, I was shunned. I only had one friend during national service. I was a target for everyone else after that because nobody would side with me. I learned to really fight, physically and otherwise, then.
After that was over I had to get a job and in 1992, the world was in recession. My best friend’s father got me a job in the local municipality. At the time, Apartheid was collapsing and as a white man I was, once again, a target. Local government implemented affirmative action policies and I was told that no matter how hard I studied or what I did, I would not be promoted. My then girlfriend (now ex-wife) was facing the same limited options in her working life, although she was a qualified accountant. We decided to leave South Africa, the only environment we’ve ever known.
We arrived in England at the age of 25, never having been abroad and knowing nobody. Life was tough in the beginning. We both endured a lot of discrimination because we were immigrants. Once again, I was an outsider. We went through a lot together and it pains me that today we are not on speaking terms. I have reached out to her a couple of times asking if we could be friends, but she rejected the idea.
Of all the aspects of this Avoidant Personality Disorder I’ve been blind to, that what has sabotaged me the most, I would say emphatically is the mistrust of others. I can see that I have found comfort of being with woman such as my ex-wife, Sweet Thing, Busty Blonde and Busty Czech because I felt that I could trust them. (All of them are Cluster C – Dependent). As soon as another woman or date gave me any reason to not trust them then my Trust Demon took over and events followed an almost predictable, speedy downward spiral as I emotionally withdrew. At least I’m aware of this now.
The second greatest effect has been that of judgementalism. On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator I’m an INTJ – Introversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judgement – one of the rarest personality types. It’s the last letter that has become exaggerated in my being. Because I fear being judged, I thus am highly judgemental of other people as a pre-emptive defence mechanism. I’ll reject them before they reject me.
When it comes to romantic relationships I need to feel I’m in control of the relationship, that makes me feel safe. Any hint of vulnerability and I fear being taken advantage of. This started at age six when the girl next to me would hold hands with me, then ask me to help her with her maths. I eventually realised that she was using me, so I stopped helping her. My only girlfriend I had in high-school cheated on me when I had to go away to do National Service. My ex-wife didn’t love me for the last five years of our relationship. My ex-girlfriend lied to me from day one and all the way through our relationship.
People have always been a source of anguish in my life, never a source of pleasure. However, aside from this and Avoidant Personality Disorder, my greatest positive emotion is that of wanting to give love. I think that my disorder has influenced this because not having received much love, there is an innate need within me to express it.
A case can be made that I’m now scared of women, but I don’t think that’s true. I just haven’t met the right one…The One. I realize now that I need to be with a submissive woman. I’ve been oblivious to this. This might have played a role in some of the experiences that I’ve had dating. Non-submissive women will have detected my wanting to be the senior partner in the relationship and that made me wrong for them. Some of the stronger-willed women and I clashed and would have continued to do so if a relationship were to have been mutually pursued. I think this is especially true of my ex-girlfriend and I who clashed daily. The Saffa (Histrionic) and Musician Gal (Narcissist) would have been a replay of that.
In the workplace I express, vent even, but in my private life I bottle my feelings up because that’s what a man’s supposed to do, don’t you know? Sup it up. Don’t show any weakness in front of the womenfolk because it rattles them. Be a man.
When my last job came to an end in August last year, I was leading a team of people who didn’t like me and ganged-up against me. It got ugly and became my worst nightmare. I felt humiliated and I walked out. I got a settlement payment from the company. I haven’t worked since then.
The thought of going back into an office environment nauseates me. I was never happy in my working life, always prostituting myself for the money. I have absolutely no interest in IT, an industry populated by ego-maniacal geeks fussing over petty things, always missing the big picture. (Ever wondered why software is like it is? Now you know.)
Since August last year my ‘working days’ have been me sitting at home by myself, happiest when writing my heart out, only going out to get food (listening to music) and the gym at lunchtimes (again with headphones on). There have been times when weeks have gone by without my talking to anyone. I can not remember another time in my life when I have been so happy. I have felt so calm and tranquil. I’ve loved it.
Don’t worry, I’m not some anti-social, rude, obnoxious, control-freak retard who wants to be a hermit. On the surface I must seem perfectly normal. I’m polite, considerate, humorous, easy-going and a whole host of other good things. I can walk into a job interview, make a positive impression, get interviewers laughing and talk myself into a job. I feel my fears and I ignore them, because my desire to succeed is greater.
It’s just that I am at my best when alone with only one person. If it’s a group setting then it is preferable to be with people whom I have known for a long time. In typical introvert fashion I feel exhausted after a lengthy social engagement, even if it is with people I’ve known for years. An extrovert feels energized by socialising, but I don’t, I need to recover and I seek out solitude and silence.
All I want is silence. That can’t hurt me, that I am comfortable with. I am at my absolute best when alone, with my thoughts. When given time, space and the tranquillity to express myself, to be creative because, like manic-depressants before lithium, it all feels bearable then.
I don’t think I’m disturbed, I just need silence and solitude more than most. My scars need time to heal.
Oh, how I crave silence, for it is then that I feel I am on the comforting edge of heaven.
My best friend and I were living together. I had finally left my long-term girlfriend at the beginning of the month. The novelty of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself wears off quickly. He had been internet dating for a few months, but without much luck. Just one oddball that he found interesting and entertaining, but distinctly not relationship material.
His preferred dating site was offering a night out to members that was a cross between a comedy night, a speed dating event and a pub quiz. Ladies would be assigned to tables where they would remain for the evening. The men would move between the tables after a few questions in a pub quiz that involved topics such as love, romance and relationships. It was a manner of getting everybody at the table talking, a la speed dating, but on a group basis. After a couple of rounds when men had changed tables a few times, proceedings would be interrupted by a stand-up comedian. After that the quiz and table swapping would resume. Nice idea right? It’s all in the execution.
My friend and I would go together, but truth be told I wasn’t that interested, I was far more interested in changing my belly-button fluff. He needed a wingman and I felt compelled to oblige given that I was staying with him and had done so at short notice. This was a big step in his world, walking in to a room full of single women. I found the thought of it slightly daunting myself. It didn’t seem too far off from walking past the cosmetics counters in a department store, staffed by those overly made-up women who glare at you if you’re a man, as if you had just groped their backsides.
I arrived early and scouted around the venue, walking through the roads and sidestreets of London that surrounded it. True to form, my mate messaged me that he was going to be late. He’s always late. I reckon he’ll be late for his own funeral. So I had little choice but to enter the venue a few minutes before the stipulated time. It was in a pub that had turned it’s main floor in to a seating area with collections of tables and chairs. There were about a dozen people present, mostly women, scattered about. The hostess at the door took my name and gave a me a table number to start off at.
I stiffened my spine, took a deep breath and walked toward the bar. I got the distinct impression that eyes were following me. I ordered a cider and looked in to the mirror behind the counter that spanned the wall. I noticed two women at different tables looking in to the back of me. Drink in hand I turned to go find my seat at table 8. The table was against a window and two relatively attractive fair-haired ladies in their late twenties or early thirties were sitting there talking to each other.
I sat down and introduced myself to them. They reciprocated and easy conversation ensued. They were friends and one of them (the less attractive one) was actively looking for a new relationship. The more attractive one, ok the one I fancied more, wasn’t looking as she had just come out of a relationship. We chatted about anything obvious and it became apparent to me that the less attractive one was very chatty with me, very forthcoming in conversation and was leaning in towards me. The one I liked the look of was leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed.
When I told them that I was there just a wingman for my best friend and wasn’t on the prowl as I had also just come out of a relationship, the whole dynamic changed in seconds. The less attractive one sat back in her seat and didn’t say a word to me the rest of the night, while the one I fancied unfolded her arms and became very chatty.
The venue was filling up quickly and eventually another youngish lady joined our table. She was petite and so softly spoken that I couldn’t hear a word she said. Then two guys in their early thirties joined our table and the whole tone of the evening took a turn for the worse. These two were so noisy, boisterous and embarrassing that I could only but keep quiet for a few minutes. The less attractive gal starting chatting to them, encouraging them almost and the noise level became unpleasant. I suspect that they had some Dutch courage in them. It became impossible to hear anything that the softly spoken little pixie said, even though she was sitting at my shoulder. A few more men and women joined our table, but I couldn’t catch their names as the two jackasses were making so much noise.
Eventually the master of ceremonies took to the stage, welcomed everybody and explained the procedure for the evening. After 3 quiz questions, all the men were to move to another table in a clockwise fashion. Ladies “teams” would remain seated and claim the answers or points for their table, the men were just helping out. Each table had to have a name. One of the jackasses suggested “Quiz on my face” and for some reason, nobody suggested anything else and table 8 became known as that.
Inane questions about all things related to love then ensued. This resulted in pandemonium at all tables. Most of the men at all the tables went in to over-drive trying to show off and it became almost impossible to hear anything. Because it was so noisy, the only way to make yourself heard was to be as loud as possible – and everybody across the room was doing this. It was a horrible experience. Is this what happens when a room full of testosterone and oestrogen meet?
I sat back in my seat, slightly disgusted with proceedings and really not enjoying myself. The attractive gal to my right leaned forward and we started chatting as best we could, ignoring everyone else. She had an easy smile, twinkling eyes and pleasant demeanour. If I was on the prowl, I would go for her. Looking around the room I could see three more women that I liked the look of. Going to their tables was going to be interesting but hopefully we could hear each other.
The comedy act took to the stage and she was Romanian with a perfect grasp of the English language with only a slight hint of an accent. While she was doing her routine, I became aware of the fact that the attractive gal to my right was repeatedly knocking me with either her left leg or left arm. I thought nothing of it and dismissed it as just her being a fidget.
It was time to move to the next table and all the men stood up. It was only then that I noticed how short the two jackasses at my table were. I’m six foot one inch tall and these two twats barely came up to my shoulder. I wondered if there behaviour was driven by Short-Man’s Complex. I now thought of them as two little yapping dogs, mouthing off in an attempt to get attention – any attention. I bade the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to my new table.
There were five women in their late twenties or early thirties at this new table. The Twats and two other oddballs caught up to me. I deliberately moved as quickly as I could wanting to have a few moments alone at the new table. I introduced myself and shook hands with each of the ladies, repeating each of their names as we shook hands and made eye-contact. One of them I liked the look of, but before any clever conversation could commence The Twats started their loud boyish behaviour. I looked at the ladies and could see that they were a little taken aback, not knowing what to say.
Three of the ladies were work colleagues, while the other two were independent. “Quite brave of a woman to come to an event like this by herself” I thought to myself. Or really desperate…or really easy…or badly wanting a baby. One of them, Helen, who had come by herself, wasn’t the best looking gal at the table (only one was), but she had bags of confidence and was quite lively. For some reason I believed her the type to take one guy home on the night and have a good time in bed with him, then kick him out asap and never see him again. I could never be with a woman like that.
Three questions were fielded and raucous pandemonium reigned almost throughout. I didn’t get much chance to talk to any of the girls and the one I liked the look of was seated furtherest away from me. Then it was time to move to a new table. Once again I moved fast because at this new table there was a very pretty blonde that I wanted to talk to. Not because I was hoping anything would come of it, but largely because I find blondes irresistible. Sad but true. After the round of quick introductions I immediately started talking to my target. It turned out that she was Czech and her English was not good at all. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. What must it feel like to be in city like London, single and not being able to speak the language? Especially London where everything moves at lightning speed, people don’t have much time for each other and there are multitudes of accents and cultures to contend with.
The room quietened down as the master of ceremonies was speaking. Except for one of The Twats (the gobbiest one) and one of the oddballs who were engrossed in a heated debate over something. Everybody near to hand was staring at them, but they were oblivious to the world, intent on their little duel of egos. The Oddball was a lanky, geeky character with a bizarre name. When introducing himself he compounded his bad initial impression by spelling his name out, emphasizing that it has a “y” and not an “i” in the middle of it. Their high-spirited exchange wasn’t going to end soon and even the MC had stopped speaking and was also looking at them. I tapped the oddball, who was to my right, on the shoulder and told him that the MC was speaking. He stopped momentarily and then resumed his heated exchange with The Twat. Only they were speaking in the room and everyone present had now turned to look at them.
I was getting annoyed by these two, so I grabbed the Oddball by the shoulder and said “Mate, shut up! You guys are disrupting the show. Everybody is looking at you.” Undaunted, he shrugged my hand off his shoulder and turned to The Twat, intent on carrying on. The Twat meanwhile had heard what I said, looked around and realized what was happening and turned away from the Oddball. Thus their argument died and the MC recommenced with proceedings.
Many people kept their gaze on these two numpties for a few seconds afterwards. I reckon most were thinking what I was thinking, which was “And that’s why those two are single.” They used their personalities as a contraceptive. This evening was becoming a drag, perhaps not just for me.
My mate then arrived, late and last, as was his style. He always claims something about making a grand entrance. I always say a lot of negative things in response. He joined his table, acknowledged me with a smile and got in to the spirit of things. I wondered what he was going to make of all this.
Three more questions and much more noise. I didn’t bother making small-talk with any of the other ladies present at my table. I was now not in the mood. I looked over to my friend and saw that he was leaning forward, a stern face, battling to make himself heard at his table too and probably struggling to hear anybody, just like everybody else.
There was a pause in proceedings and another comedian took to the stage. His routine wasn’t that funny and I suspect I detected a collective sigh of relief when he left the stage. It was time to change tables again. I made a beeline for the next table because a little cutie that I had been eyeing all night had a seat open next to her. I was trying to make the best of the evening and seeing if I could strike up a conversation with her was an appealing idea. She was just over five foot, thus short, petite frame and had long, curly, light brown hair…and big fat juicy boobs.
I got my seat next to her and didn’t waste any time in getting chatting to her because I knew the window of opportunity was short. There was a lull in proceedings, so I got more time with her than I had anticipated, which was good. We chatted amiably about all sorts of things. She was Scottish, from the Highlands and had been in London for a few years. She was very friendly, bubbly and conversation flowed easily. She was asking questions and initiating topics of conversation which gave me the impression that she was enjoying my company. The conversation took a turn for the serious when she started asking about children. I answered quickly and honestly that I had decided against it. It was as if I had hit her through the face with a fresh, wet Scottish salmon. Her whole demeanour changed and she partially turned away from me, her face visibly unhappy. I was astounded by her sudden change in attitude. I tried to continue the conversation, but she wasn’t interested, only giving curt replies and little eye contact. The evening was getting worse with each change of table. Could it get any worse?
The usual three questions were fielded amidst the predictable torrent of verbal diarrhoea and cock-fighting between the guys. Surely women were not enjoying this spectacle? Perhaps they were inwardly laughing at these jackasses, especially The Twats? I tried making small talk again with the Scottish lass but it was obviously wasted breath on my part. I couldn’t make conversation with the other women at the table as they were mesmerised by the shenanigans of The Twats. A drinks break was called and the bar was flooded within seconds. Great, already bad behaviour was now going to be compounded with alcohol.
For the lack of anything else to do (I’m not a big drinker and the bar was crowded) I turned one more time to the Scottish lass and asked if she would like a drink. “No” was her curt reply. “Rude little bitch” I thought to myself.
I was starting to look forward to the next table change. In fact, I was starting to look forward to the evening ending. I looked over at my mate at another table and could see that now he was slouched back in his seat, his hands playing with his phone, not talking to anyone and looking around the room. It seemed he wasn’t enjoying himself either.
The table change was called, I bid the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to the next table which had been obscured behind a column. There were four Chinese ladies sitting there. Only one of them spoke English. I was spotting a trend here. I was dreading the next table change. What awaited me then? Medusa, Catwoman, Miss Haversham, Cruella Deville and Sharon Stone?
Even The Twats fell silent at this table. The Oddball starting texting people on his phone. I tried to get a look at the next table. This was where the last of the three cuties that I had spied out earlier in the evening was. The optimist in me said, “Things can only get better”. I made some small talk with the Chinese girl who spoke English, largely as a way of defusing the obvious tension and discomfort in the air at this table. What the hell were they doing here? What was their game or expectations? I was too polite to ask.
The last of the three questions were fielded and the answers were scribbled down by a lady at each table and then taken to the stage where the MC sat dealing with the administration of them. It was suddenly and unexpectedly announced that the evening was ending. People were surprised, as was I, but I was also slightly relieved. I was willing to forego meeting the last cutie. What was the point? I wasn’t looking for a relationship.
The scores were totalled and the winning table was…Quiz on My Face. Back where it all began, all those hours ago, two in fact. Back where there was time for a decent exchange of banter and even an involuntary touch or two. Back where someone not looking had met someone not looking. A wingman met a winglady.
The MC invited people to partake of the bar revisit someone you “found interesting” and almost immediately unnecessarily lour music started playing. I thought for a moment about going back to table eight, a.k.a. Quiz on My Face and chatting to the very first two gals I had met. I looked over at my mate, saw the pained expression on his face and knew instantly that he wanted to go. His tilting his head towards the door confirmed it. I bade my table’s ladies farewell and made my way over to the door where my mate and I met up. We agreed that we wanted to leave. As we turned for the exit I noticed the Scottish lass walking past. We made eye-contact, I said “Good night” with a smile. She just glared at me and walked out. I was stunned by her behaviour.
Outside my mate and I walked past a table where the four Chinese women were sitting smoking. They just looked at us as we walked past. I felt a little bit bad about not going to say a few words to the two girls at table eight, but I was happy to be leaving.
My friend and I sat on the train home discussing the night’s events. We were of a like mind – that it was an unpleasant experience. Neither of us were keen to repeat it.
Before I fell asleep I thought about the behaviour of the men that night. It bordered on disgusting. Women can not find that attractive, all that verbose, loutish behaviour, chest-thumping and cock-measuring. I was so very different to all those guys that I observed. How would I be received by women? What was my marketability on the dating scene? Who could I meet?
I was very curious. There was only one way to find out.
I decided to go internet dating.
And that is how it began…all so innocently and so well-intentioned…
MeAndDating - A Grey Knight's tale 