Monday, 18 July 2011

• When Does Compromise Become Compromising?

  

  My dating history is littered with different types of men. I dated a jock, a couple brainiacs, a wanna-be gangster and even someone who identified himself as a cowboy/hick/redneck.

  Looking back, I can tell that half those relationships will be forgotten in five years. Their faces will get fuzzy, their names will escape me, I might even pass them on the street one day and not remember that we once tried to make out in front of the band room before we got caught by a passing teacher. But I learned a little from each of them, most importantly I learned about compromise.

  I'd heard the term "compromising position" before, I had even used it correctly in a sentence, but I didn't know there could be more to such a seemingly innocent noun. I learned though, because each boyfriend brought the word to our relationship table and I was expected to digest it without any qualms. I've always heard stories about women trying to change men, but stereotypes seems to skate over when the opposite happens.

  Like when each new beau asks you to be this person, even though you thought you went into the relationship being that person. My first experience was when I dated a brainiac, how I couldn't show him my stupid side. If I wrote him a letter, he'd point out every grammatical error it contained. We'd have debates and I'd have to pick my subjects carefully because if I made a single mistake, he'd call it a win and then boast that he'd beaten me down with his intellect. I couldn't be silly and childish because he was "beyond" that.

  Fun was a good literary discussion or finding symbolism in a movie I didn't want to see in the first place. There was no going to see Saw III when we could stay at his place and watch The Green Mile and talk about how it differed from Stephen King's masterpiece.

  Being with the country boy wasn't easy either. While he would constantly tell me he was immature at times, he would criticize me for the mature choices I made. My first job was at a library and he just chuckled when I told him I'd probably see less of him now that I had joined the ranks of the employed.

  He chucked me on the chin and said, "You're shelving books, not changing the world." We stayed together for a while despite that crack and I learned what true compromise was. If you've ever read Shakespeare's Taming Of The Shrew, then you could pretty much sum up my relationship with that man. Weekly he would talk about me "opening up" with him. He would always ask what I was thinking and if I said nothing, he'd berate me for keeping secrets.

  Our relationship turned into him telling me that I should be more friendly to his family, who hated me; that I should have big dreams for the future, even though he didn't; that I should express my love for him more openly, because he always showed his love for me.

  I had entered that relationship with a fiery personality--I was a "cut off my nose to spite my face" kind of girl. The longer we stayed together, the more I watched that woman disappear. I became more of a recluse, became a shadow of the woman I once was.

  I thought that love meant compromising who you were to be with someone, when in reality it was probably the opposite. When we finally parted from one another I had to build up my confidence and myself. It was painful and heartbreaking, especially when I wasn't sure where to start. He made me believe that no one would love me if I was who I was, that I would always have to conform to some man's standard.

  Looking back it makes me wonder: when does compromise become compromising? My husband never asked me to be anyone but myself, but could I have avoided a lot of heartbreak and soul searching if I'd have known where to draw the line? Could there be one less ex in my past if I had learned how to say no to being someone other than me?

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