Not boyfriend material

I'm not boyfriend material.

Before you contest this, let me emphasize that I'm not boyfriend material now. Maybe, I will be in the future. Maybe I'll have the capacity and the interest to be an outstanding partner. It'd be too much a product of depressed thinking to assume my state is static and inevitable. It's not, and I know this-- at least on an analytical level, if not an emotional one.

But I really am not, not now, or for the near foreseeable future.

Here's why.

I don't have a job. This is used as a screen by most middle-class women in America. While on paper many might think that there are many out of work due to the general economic malaise, and not because of some specific fault of character or intelligence of the person, in practice many women have confided in me that it is an automatic deal-breaker. In practice, it's probably a deal-breaker for someone of my attractiveness level, but not necessarily automatic in general. And those who know me reasonably well would probably conclude that my unemployment is due to more structural concerns, and therefore an accurate red flag.

I'm still depressed. I imagine it is difficult to be in a relationship with a depressed individual, even if the individual seems, or is, less depressed with company. Most people I engage in conversation don't comment on an aura of general sadness that follows me around, probably because it dissipates momentarily with good conversation, or because I'm reasonably good at hiding it, or because people are less perceptive than they think. But being in a reasonably close relationship with someone will probably reveal the nature and scope of depression eventually, making it difficult on the partner. And while it is difficult to continue a relationship with a depressed individual, it's generally crazy to even consider starting one with someone openly depressed. Why bother starting with someone operating at half capacity, even if, arguably, being half there is to still be superior to many other men they've dated?

I've never been boyfriend material. I still remember, to my shame, a girl in high school explaining, matter-of-factly, that I'm the kind of guy they like to marry, not date. Harsh, but accurate, especially because I was way more of a doormat/counselor in high school than I am now. I think I also valued words more than I should have -- I remember giving my backwards dance date (Sadie Hawkins, for older folks) a poem. Why? Because I wrote poems back then. It wasn't good, but it was original and specific to the person. Anyway, at this point, words have continued to desert me, so I don't think I could even muster sophisticated, elegant compliments or whisper eternal truths into a beloved's ear, even if I had the motivation.

Most importantly, I don't think I crave companionship. I desire it abstractly. But, perhaps as part of the depression, I don't seek some sort of completion of myself. It makes sense -- a person who, at some level, believes he is broken and unfixable won't seek repair through someone else. (However, I know plenty of people with non-depression neuroses that do precisely that -- try, and largely fail, to complete their lives and fix problems in their own psyche through relationships.)

Now, you might be asking, why would I even consider dating now? Well, a counselor once pointed out that certain things can only be worked on within a relationship. Fixing oneself to prepare for better and more relationships of all natures looks good on paper, but there is a limit to which a person can do this independently, or even with the structure provided by counseling.

But what has held me back, at some level, for ages, is the chronic fear of mental illness, and the desire to protect a partner from that. It kept me from long-term relationships when it was a neurotic fear. It sure as hell will keep me from them now that, arguably, the fear itself paradoxically led to a distinctly sourced, but still difficult, chronic depression. The same belief -- now intellectually registered as faulty, though emotionally still present -- caused me at an early age to decide not to have children. To make it crystal clear, I didn't want to be the kind of father to kids that my father was to me.

I'm not good boyfriend material, but not for the reasons I believed when I was a teenager, though partly due to actions and beliefs born from that time.

This is both depressing and liberating. It is depressing because, despite the philosophical arguments I have with myself, I remain emotionally hidebound to a crippling belief -- that I am somehow damaged beyond repair, destined to be mentally ill forever. It is a belief that has crippled me socially, professionally, and intellectually. And the persistence of the belief may be reason enough to, again, spare anyone from having to share this hell.

It is liberating in that, by not caring about it, even on an abstract level, I feel a bit more free to be imperfect. While my family and friends still have to deal with whatever the hell is keeping me from realizing some vague and poorly characterized potential, I will at least rest easy that I won't subject a close person to this hell for the duration of a relationship or marriage. (Even that sounds depressing, but if you can wrap your head around it, it is finding freedom from a fear by embracing the reality of its existence and materialization. Often, the fear of something is worse than the thing itself.)

Hopefully, this will free up energy to become a better friend. We do need better friends in our lives, especially friends that aren't trying to get into our pants. I suppose some of us need that, too, though there are plenty of other people willing and able to do that job. I'll defer to their expertise and enthusiasm.