Being Chosen by Difficult People

My high school boyfriend was… complicated. I was fifteen, quiet, and studious; he was seventeen, popular, and barely passing his classes. I was smitten from the moment I met him, but he barely noticed me.

I spent half a year trying to get him to come around, which at that age felt like forever. I figured if I could only showcase my determination, I could convince him we’d make a good couple. If I stuck around long enough, he’d know I was the most deserving of his attention. I had to stand out among all the other girls who wanted his attention. I had to convince him I was different.

I was invested.

My university boyfriend was also complicated. He started out as someone whom I worked with and whose attention I quickly coveted. He was well-liked and popular among coworkers, but he became mercurial with me behind closed doors.

This boy fostered a culture of competition with women, often getting involved with more than one at a time. Though he struggled to commit to one person, he couldn’t stay single for long. He lived with friends in a frat-style house, which became the central hub for after-work parties. Many people walked through those doors at night, and very few left sober — if they left at all.

I was determined to stand out, to convince him that I was worthwhile. I sold the notion that things would be different (and better) with me.

The common thread between these two relationships is that I desperately needed both men to choose me.

I wanted to feel special. I needed to stand out. Because being loved for me, without needing to earn it, was a narrative I wasn’t familiar with.

I operated under the assumption that if I just tried hard enough, I could compel someone to be with me. And that we ended up dating in both circumstances only served to validate the belief I had some sense of control over love.

Which brings me to the other day, when I was speaking to a friend about my dating history. It was clear that many of the men I’ve been involved with were grossly incompatible with me, and yet for whatever reason, our relationships dragged on.

“Maybe it’s about being chosen by a difficult person,” she replied, efficiently summing up most of my dating history in one swift blow.

Why was it so intoxicating to acquire the attention of someone unavailable? Why did I get a thrill convincing a stubborn person I’m worthy of being paid attention to?

And most importantly, why did I confuse being chosen with being loved?

…

On Being Chosen:

From an early age I had the feeling that I was different from other people. Like I didn’t quite fit in, which meant something must be wrong with me. That I was flawed somehow, and wasn’t good enough.

I can’t quite tell you where that feeling came from.

But I can tell you that I was raised to perform and achieve. My parents were always quizzing me and praising me for getting the answers right. Academic excellence wasn’t just aspired for but expected. And there was no room for mistakes.

Which means I grew up feeling like I had to earn recognition and love — that it wasn’t something innate. As I got older, I saw romantic love as something I had to work for and work hard at. Love wasn’t given without being earned.

I developed an acute sense of perfectionism and couldn’t tolerate failure, because that felt a lot like rejection. So instead of discovering what I needed from a partner, I focused on changing who I was to meet the needs of someone else.

I didn’t take the time to figure out what I actually wanted, because I didn’t think I would get what I wanted anyway.

On Being Difficult:

I remember I used to tell people: “I’m just destined for dating complicated.”

I didn’t know why, but it seemed like the only men I was attracted to had issues. I tried to like the nice guy, but the feelings just never came.

The men I sought were those who struggled with themselves, who struggled to commit to one woman, and whom you had to convince. They were philanderers and escape artists, substance abusers and egomaniacs. They were also the centers of attention, the popular jocks, the complicated artists.

They were men I wanted to fix, but also prizes I needed to win.

And as such, pursuing these men served to validate the notion that things didn’t come easily for me, and it reinforced my suspicion that there might be something wrong with me after all.

It also distracted me from working on myself.

By trying to save someone else, I was refusing to heal. In needing to convince someone to love me, I wasn’t actively loving myself. By choosing to settle for unsatisfying love, I was setting the stage for a life of struggle.

I was dating complicated men because I was complicated, too.

…

Sohow did things change? How did I break the pattern? Well, it wasn’t an overnight affair. It took a lot of time, energy, learning and support. And mistakes — I made a lot of mistakes along the way.

The first step, really, was admitting to myself that I wanted more. And while this may sound easy, it’s actually quite hard. We often tell ourselves we’re satisfied with our current situation because change is terrifying, and the status quo is familiar.

Next, I tried to envision what a healthy relationship would look like for me. What were my needs? What were my non-negotiables? What kind of person would I want to wake up next to each day?

And then I worked on my self-esteem. I took inventory of all the times I wasn’t kind to myself and others. I apologized for treating people poorly. I learned how to communicate, really communicate, with vulnerability. I stopped grasping at straws as though that were all that was available to me. I learned how to stay in my difficult feelings.

And I took my time.

Enacting sustainable change in my dating life wasn’t so much about the choices I was or wasn’t making with men, but rather about the choices I was making for myself. I had to believe I deserved better, and I had to approach my life and make decisions as someone who deserved better. And it had to start from within.

Slowly but surely, what I was attracted to and what I attracted were people and situations that were no longer difficult, broken, or painful. And finally, I discovered the immense value in a love that’s simple, uncomplicated, and unwavering.

Believe me when I say that after experiencing both types of love, only the easy, peaceful kind is worth committing a life to.