Stinkin' thinkin'

This typepad gizmo is loads of fun, but boy, is it a giant oozing time-sucker! I think I've finally got everything where and how I want it, at least for now!
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In response to some of my recent writings about vision loss, a friend made an important observation (and one I've tried unsuccessfully to ignore myself). She framed it in her own words, but what it boils down to is that I'm terribly afraid that my disabilities jeopardize my chances for love and marriage. This fear has nothing to do with Steve (or any actual relationship in my admittedly checkered past). If anything, Steve has offered me a safety zone in which I can let down the Ms. Overachiever facade and admit that I'm sad, scared, and insecure about losing my vision.

Still, this fear lives deep inside me, where it gnaws at my gut and taunts me in a wheezy voice, intoning such niceties as "why would anyone want to marry a blind girl?" "who would possibly want to put your genes in his babies?" and "you're damaged goods, kiddo." No matter that my rational self sees through its huge and hoary exterior to the sniveling and pathetic core, the fear still chews up my confidence and goads me to inflict all sorts of tests on my poor unsuspecting boyfriend.

There are the obvious ones: As we walk through the dark restaurant, does he take my hand to prevent me from crashing into tables, chairs, and tray-toting waiters? In the crowded party, is he willing to repeat his own and others' conversations patiently until I understand, and to run interference to spare me embarrasment? Does he willingly navigate the logistics of dating a non-driver and accept unflinchingly the burden of schlepping me from place to place? And can he laugh with me -- never at me -- at the often amusing results of my failures to see or hear?

But I also engage in more subtle (and often subconscious) tests. While the outward form of these interrogations varies, they invariably ask: Can he handle the uncertainty of whether and when and to what extent my vision will continue to vanish? Will he stand by me as I reconcile my grief and fear at losing what's left of it? Does he have the ingenuity and desire to help me pursue my passions and develop new coping mechanisms? And above all, why in the world is he with me, when there are zillions of eligible, clear-eyed, sharp-eared women out there?

As I said, the rational part of me knows this is a load of hooey, and that I'm actually a totally kick-ass girlfriend (after all, I love sports and action movies, I can make the jeans-to-little-black-dress transition in fifteen minutes flat, and I'm relatively unfazed by farts, burps, and questionable housekeeping skills). Nevertheless, when I'm struggling with my own feelings about the slow fade going on behind my eyes, having the added worry of "will my boyfriend leave me if he knows I'm really just a scared little wuss and can't handle this blindness thing for sh*t" rear its nasty little head doesn't help.

Comments

[Kenna]

Glad to see you made the migration. Maybe I'll give it a try some time.