Can I ever have a healthy relationship with a man given my experiences? Will there ever come a day I won’t risk a nervous breakdown, literally, by wondering about his motives? I know him. I know he’s a good guy. I know that he would never–intentionally or otherwise–hurt me physically, psychologically, or emotionally. He’s been in therapy longer than I have. He’s constantly suspicious of our dynamic, searching for codependency in seemingly insignificant patterns we’ve developed in our time together. He grew up with domestic violence, and he hates his father for every nuance of damage that echoes from his youth. He’s barely ever even mean to me. He feels guilty when he can’t give me what I want. There couldn’t be a sweeter guy.

Yet the other day, as our friends are hanging out in my living room, I remembered being mad at him for something he had said the day prior. I was so mad, I told him right then in front of everyone. I was half-joking—I was laughing during my pronouncement of anger—but when our friends laughed and asked for the story, my telling was skewed.

Yes, I’m admitting I didn’t tell the story straight. I forgot some parts, Brw quickly reminded me. And he was right. I told them that he had unabashedly told me during the prior day’s argument, “You friggin have panic attacks in front of our friends, and I’m supposed to be okay with that, but when it comes to me being mentally ill, it’s still Luz time.” That last bit recalls my therapist’s recent words to me; they remark on the difficulty I feel making my life less about other people. You know, now that I think of it, that’s goddamn ironic of him! He completely deconstructed his own argument in that reference: I have difficulty leaving time for myself, and he’s accusing me of making the relationship all about me!

Oh, wait. That’s what I was telling you. It didn’t happen that way. I mean, he said those words, but it was surrounded by all these other conversations we had and, honestly, events in our relationship that prove his point. I figured out I’m tough on him with his mental illness, always pointing out possible flaws. He has a panic attack in front of the kitchen sink, and I criticize the way he washes the plates. He has a depressive episode, and two days later, I accuse him of being lazy. In short, I’m thoughtless–often, or at least when he needs me the most.

In sad defense of myself, I don’t mean to be. I mean, he’s a great guy. Yet I present him as a jerk to our friends. Why? What is this need I have to convince the world my boyfriend’s an asshole? He isn’t the first boyfriend to say it, so I’m forced to consider the possibility that I hate men.

So now there’s two problems—I criticize him in front of other people and I can be bitchy when he’s sick, probably because he’s sick. But both those things come down to me criticizing him. The last part, however, suggests my meanness has something to do with his mental illness.

So that must mean I don’t hate men. Actually, that doesn’t, but, without needing evidence, I know I don’t hate men. I love men. I don’t find any of them particularly attractive, believing women have much more pleasing forms, but I do cherish their perspective and approach to the world. I just don’t appreciate the propensity some of them have for violence, nor the dangerous match that makes with their overwhelming strength. Is that so wrong?! Am I to live without their comfort for the rest of my life because I can’t convince myself that a human being with that much power isn’t going to use it on me, if it’s so easy and so pleasurable for them to do so?!

My sentences are growing frantic and lengthy, I’m so irate about this! Short of sounding like a Southern belle, let me take a breath and get back to the point: why I feel the need to vilify men I date.

So, let’s think about this…. [A day elapses while I ponder this.]

I think I want to make sure. That he’s not a bad man, I mean. I think I suggest to people that he’s in some way abusive toward me because I’m afraid I’m not seeing him clearly. I want them to confirm for me that he’s a good guy. Because I don’t trust my own judgment. Oh, my god, I can’t believe things always come back to that: I didn’t see Andy Humanstein for what he was until it was too late, so I feel as dumb as the magician whose head was bitten by the tiger. I think, “clearly, my judgment isn’t something to be trusted.”

Is it? To be trusted? I mean, I don’t think he’s a bad guy; I just want to make sure he’s not. So I skew the story to check my facts. I like to be reassured he’s a good guy.

It’s gross behavior. I treat him badly to tempt him to hurt me, because that would be more familiar to me. That would be something I know how to deal with, unlike the kindness and respect he gives to me now. And I know the best time to hit him.

Shame on me, I think. But then I know better. I’ve sworn off shame. So I remember, I’m not unusual. We all know so many damaged little girls in their twenties and thirties who commit cruel acts against the men they love, presumably, though not consciously, to make sure he won’t hurt her in whatever way some man has hurt her in the past. We’re all so hurt—there’s no cure for this—so we continue to make it through the day any way we must. We make sure our wounds aren’t prodded.

Can I ever have a healthy relationship with a guy? I don’t know. But if it truly is about my inability to trust my judgment, my continued efforts to maintain healthy relationships with men is also my continued efforts to trust I can make clear judgments about men. So I can’t give up on this. He and I make such wonderful choices together. I can’t give up on that, and I can’t give up on building my self-image.

Ha! This feels great. I might never be whole and well, but I’m damn sure not going to let myself live a life of self-deprecation. Nor shame. I’m saying, no, loud and clear this time! I used to get angry when I was called a rape survivor. I haven’t survived anything, I’d tell them aggressively. But I get it now. I have survived. I’m not there anymore. I got out, and I’m here, and I’m now, and I’m okay. And that’s more than I can say for most people I know, those who live in self-denial and those who commit themselves to their failings, never rising so to never fall.

No more shame, I always say. Well, I’m adding self-doubt to the list. I’m getting up, and I’m going to fall, and that’s okay, because that’s inevitable. It doesn’t mean I’m too damaged or too weak or too stupid. It merely means I’m human. Okay? Okay.

You should be with me.