He Cared About Me, So I Broke Up With Him

When you’re used to the roller-coaster emotions of bad relationships, it can be hard to believe in anything else.

David said that he knew I was interested because of my body language. I had turned to face him on the small wooden bench, tucking my feet under me and resting my arm on the backrest. He was carrying a backpack and talked about Studs Terkel and asked if I wanted to borrow Joan Didion’s “Slouching Towards Bethlehem.”

He had misread my body language, however. I wasn’t trying to show I was interested. The truth is, benches hurt my body, and turning to the side was the only way to make sitting there tolerable. Because of my illnesses — Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a painful genetic connective tissue disorder, and dysautonomia, which affects my ability to sit, stand, digest and regulate temperature — many positions are either painful or impossible to sustain for more than a minute or two.

Leaning straight back against the wooden slats with David that day had nudged my ribs out of place, and they ached. My bruised pelvis throbbed on the firm surface. Turning to the side allowed me to adjust my weight onto the meatier part of my bottom and to use my arm to prop myself away from the wood.