in which I continue to explicate my dysfunction

On paper, we’re all a little different than we are in actuality. Most of us are prettier and more put together in theory than we are in practice. We busy ourselves assembling resumes of awesomeness to distract from the reality of just how fucked up we sometimes are. Much of the time, we can almost live up to the image we’ve created and convince others our put-down-on-paper selves translate directly to the truth. We shroud insecurities and shortcomings in a veil of control and contentment, pretend ourselves entirely impenetrable to inadequacy or doubt, and take comfort in the inauthentic identities we present. Then saunter home exhausted after a day of acting the part to finally confront the vulnerabilities we’ve worked so hard to keep contained.

We do this for others as well, fabricate facades of awesomeness we whole-heartedly wish were reality, subscribe to their on-paper selves for the sake of initiating—and, later, salvaging—otherwise ill-advised relationships. Even after truths are exposed, incompatibilities or irreconcilable inadequacies revealed, we cling desperately to the theoretical version of this person to whom we feel inexplicably drawn, making him into someone to love as justification for our already emerging attraction.

I do this often, in almost every instance of potential romance, assuring myself that the man in question is the man I want him to be, the man his figurative resume declares he undoubtedly is. And even after the actuality of his Self is exposed, the falsities uncovered and experienced, I find myself ignoring the truth, forgetting that on-paper perfections are incapable of real intimacy and emotion, that superficialities may seem intriguing at first but are always empty in the end.

This is why we work so hard to be with men who don’t deserve us, men with whom we have no real connection, men who are good but all wrong for us personally. We strive to maintain relationships in spite of incongruities or inconsiderate action or simple lack of interest because we want so badly to embody the fabrication we’ve created—the fantasy of who he is and of what we might be together. And when the façade inevitably collapses (because it will), we question our value and wonder why we weren’t good enough, condemning ourselves for imaginary and insignificant failures for which there is no actual context.

And sometimes, years later, we’ll still remember these men for the way we thought they were and feel a slight twinge of pain, a moment of inexplicable self-doubt, as we again contemplate our possible—and fictional—shortcomings. And frustratingly, we’ll find ourselves secretly desiring a do-over, another chance to prove ourselves worthy of a man we only ever imagined was real.