Being human is so infinitely complicated, complex, confusing, confounding. Add bipolar to the mix, and I wonder: will I ever really know him, the essential him? But this begs the question: is there an essential him to begin with? Where does the medicated self end and the non-bipolar one begin? What would it mean for him to say, 'This is the real me'? Is this concept even coherent?
I ought to run for the hills. But I suppose I can't, don't want to, and won't, because the part of me that yearns for the seriousness of life that I read about in books is drawn to his wistful air of melancholy, attracted, as if magnetised, by his seductive solemnity, his seriousness. Oh, I have read too many novels; they have given me a distorted outlook on what makes a fruitful, meaningful, life-changing romance. This has all the potentiality in the world to crash and burn. This has little of the potentiality that I would latch on to for a long-term relationship. I am too old for this; but I want him. I think it is really as simple as that.
He'd recently read Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, which I studied for A Levels. I honestly do not know if there ever was a time when I picked up a man's book and was genuinely curious about his annotations.
He said he's going to read The Blind Assassin next. I hope he likes it as much as I love it.
In other news: I am on a four-match winning streak in terms of the mini league matches at the club. I played my third match of the current round yesterday evening and won 9-2. I felt quite bad for winning by such a wide margin, but I didn't feel bad enough to not win by a wide margin. My opponent was a PhD student; she was probably younger than me. She hadn't played in a while so I could tell she had no confidence in her shots. She did try to disrupt my rhythm by playing short balls though, probably because she figured out that I love ball-bashing from the baseline, so she deliberately (I can tell when someone drops a ball short on purpose and when it's by mistake) dropped some balls into the service box, forcing me to run forward. I lost a lot of points at the net. There was a particular point that I really ought to have put away; she kept hitting these paceless balls back to me, and in the end, I fubbed a forehand volley wide. I clearly need work on the netplay.
I am too much of a perfectionist, however. I can't take too much delight and pride in a victory where I know that I didn't hit the ball that well. It didn't feel good. I placed the ball well, but the hitting wasn't perfect. Still, it feels good to be on a winning streak. It gives me confidence going into the next match, and helps me enjoy tennis just that much more than I already do.
I have some thoughts about how I think I am an embodiment of various contradictory personality traits; for example, I think I'm split pretty evenly between a Type A and Type B personality (just using these loose categories as convenient shorthand for the personality traits they are meant to capture), in the sense that I have equal amounts of A and B personality traits. So my thoughts are about how these contradictions are the cause of my seeming inability to find someone whom I can be mostly satisfied with.
Alas, I am super busy today and I am already too late in showering and going to the faculty, so I'll leave this thought for another day.