Friday, July 7, 2017

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

I know a psychiatrist isn't supposed to function as a therapist, but mine does. Well, he has so far. Up until this last dramatic explosion in my otherwise dramatically nondramatic life (yes, that actually means something, although it might only make sense to me). Either way, that's what he called me. Or, rather, I should say, that's what he said I was in danger of becoming- the manic pixie dream girl. I look back on a few relationships and times in my life and I can see his point. Yes, I was someone's manic pixie dream girl. Yes, that makes me angry. It makes me angry that I allowed it, that I was being used as someone's elixir of life. I don't want to be anyone's stock girl who is never expected to step outside of her box, that can be taken off the shelf when someone's ego needs to be stroked or when he needs to be reminded of his masculinity or virility or desirability or because he wants to feel like there is a perfect, unchangeable, damaged but intoxicatingly so, female version of himself out there in the aether just waiting for him to fall into her arms. 

I can't be that manic pixie dream girl. I am damaged, and it's not intoxicating. I am so damaged it will take your breath away. I am so damaged that unless you've known me my whole life long, there is no living thing that could dream of being with me in love or friendship or even in the same line at the grocery store. 

To those who were led to believe I am something I am not, I am sorry. I'm seeing an actual therapist- not a psychiatrist- for the first time since I was 5 years old on Tuesday. Maybe, eventually, I can sort some things out and be unboxed and alive again. 

Love, 
Your manic pixie dream girl
 ________________________________________________________________________________

No comments:

Post a Comment