Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

This is a day I have not been looking forward to, because this is one of those things I don’t talk about, but today, when it’s staring us in the face and becomes rather obvious, you have to deal with it whether you want to or not.

Maybe we’ve only known each other for about eight or so months at this point, Pretend Girlfriend. In that time, you’ve known me only as a plucky, positive-thinking, generally cheery sort that likes to laugh like a horse and snort like a pig. You’ve only ever seen me on the upswing, is the problem. And living together, as we now do, makes it difficult to hide.

I’m not saying I’m manic-depressive, and if I am, it is so slight I would never see a doctor for it. My aunts and cousins on both sides of my family have all been For Serious diagnosed, and I know I’m not as bad as all that. I never drink so much that I hurt someone; I never start throwing things at work; I haven’t tried to leap off any bridges. My hope is that I’m pretty normal, and that everyone has their ups and downs, their bursts of fanatic energy accompanied by periods of quiet.

But you’ve never seen my downswing. And it’s not like other people’s downswings.

It starts the same way, though: little things start to pile up, there’s an argument at work, money starts weighing heavily on my mind, my parents start giving me lip about moving back home and leaving the city, and when it all gets too much, this is what I do.

Complete system shut-down. No drinking (lest I hurt someone), no shouting (lest I start throwing things), no long walks after dinner (lest I end up on the bridge). A carefully designed program to survive this period. Nothing but quiet. I sit a lot and read, or pretend to read, and I don’t make much of an effort to respond to you when you try to ply me with conversation or food (I can’t eat lest I throw up).

Downswings usually don’t last more than a few days, a couple weeks tops. They’re annoying, this time of introspection, but I have always suffered through them because the following upswings, the highs, are so great, so productive, so filled with crackling energy that it’s worth it. But you have no way of knowing this, having never seen the cycle for yourself.

It’s not about being depressed. It’s not about being “oh, woe is me” for days at a time. It’s about being nothing, nada, zip, a complete wiped drive, a blank slate. Just for a little while. And I don’t think that’s entirely unhealthy.

“Do you want to pop in that disc from Netflix?” you ask carefully, sitting beside me on the sofa with your socked feet tucked underneath you. You’re staring at me, noticing that I haven’t turned a page in my book for over an hour.

“Sure, put it in if you’d like,” I mumble, flicking a page belatedly.

“Will you watch it?”

I hesitate, then go for broke. “No. I won’t be able to.” I look down at the hieroglyphic page of my book again. “Sorry.”

“Will you be able to eat dinner?”

A good question. “Not tonight. But maybe later.” This is how you know it’s a serious thing. I don’t ever, ever skip meals as far as you know, and I make fun of people who do, because they’re fucking missing out.

“What are you able to do?” you finally ask.

I close the book and put it aside. The effort involved in even keeping this tiny exchange going is too much. “I can sleep,” I say. “All I want to do is sleep.”

“It’s six.” You blink. “On a Friday.”

“I know, Buttercup,” which is what I call you when I need to be tender and sensitive toward you. “I know. I’m just exhausted. Will you lie down with me?”

Your presence is actually detrimental to me; I won’t be able to zone out the way I need to if you’re in bed too. When I get like this, my skin crawls when I’m near anyone, but I can’t let you know that’s what’s happening in my head. I don’t want you to get lumped into all the rest of the noisy, unwashed masses that set my teeth on edge when I’m like this. So I make this gesture, weak as it is.

You come with me to bed, even though it’s six-oh-four, and you let me surround myself with all the pillows and blankets before arranging yourself to fit in that little nest with me. I hold you like it’s not making my bones itch to do it, and I hope you don’t notice.

I’ll make it up to you on the upswing, when I’m twice the human I usually am.

Dear Pretend Readers:

A curious reader asks, “My boyfriend refuses to take ballroom dancing lessons with me. How do I convince him?”

Girl, I want you to get your boyfriend right now. Go. Grab his wrist and tug him towards the computer. I’ll wait.

He there? Heeeeeey, boyfriend! What’s up, man? Listen, I got something to share with you.

If you take your lady out ballroom dancing and she gets good at it, she will have to start wearing outfits that are roughly the size of a dishtowel, as seen below:

All you gotta do, as far as I can tell, is move your feet a little bit. Also, do you know what dancers can do with a little soap and some imagination?

When you find out, you can thank me.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

You knew this day was coming, so I don’t know why you act so surprised when it finally happens.

I’m not a prude, Pretend Girlfriend. I’m a Catholic and a southerner and a child of Teh Internets, all of which points to a fun-loving collector of filthy pornography. That’s just the way things are; I won’t apologize for it.

“But it’s disgusting,” you say as you continue flicking your way through the files on my Linux machine. (You have to admit that was as good a place as any to hide them.) “They’re just…gross!”

I can’t disagree with you there. All the video files, illegally downloaded and sorted by subject matter into carefully labeled folders, are absolutely revolting. One folder in particular seems to turn your stomach. You give a shriek of indignation at its little label.

“You have GOT to be joking.”

I shrug. There is no defending this.

You keep clicking. “This is just– How can you call yourself a feminist!?”

I scratch my head and sort of shuffle my shoes against the edge of the area rug.

“These women are just…this is sick!”

I wish I could say you brought this upon yourself, as the folder is clearly marked Pornography: Please Do Not Open, Pretty Please. I wish I could say you must feel attracted to this stuff on some level, as you are scanning the thumbnails at an alarming pace. I wish I could say that this is a healthy hobby in which plenty of people indulge, because this is America, and unless you want to invest in a bridle and a jackhammer (for example), you should be glad I’m indulging in it alone and not foisting it on you against your will and better, clearer judgment.

I raise a single finger in the air academically and open my mouth to say all those things I want to say. But you don’t even turn around in the kitchen chair to look at me; your hand snaps in the air, an instinctive SHUT IT gesture.

“I am going to look through all of these,” you declare. “And I am going to delete all the ones that are stupid.”

I make a proto-whine-noise. (Goodbye, sweet Helga of Austria! You of the ridiculous latex outfit and too-large coif!)

“BUT.” This is you, cutting me off. “But I will keep the ones that are okay.” You give me that funny little schoolmarm look over your shoulder. “And we can watch them together, I guess.”

I tamp down on the urge to punch the air in jubilation. “I’ll make popcorn,” I say instead, and skip to the cupboard while grinning like a loon.

“Seriously, though, a bridle?”

“Oh, darling, can’t we keep it?” I ask as I rip open the plastic wrap.

You sigh and, because I love you, you say, in a very put-upon voice, “Fine. Just the one.”