I have been romantically involved on and off for almost five years with a guy I’ll call Chris because that’s his real name. It has been the most challenging of my life; he has a schizoid-avoidant personality, which has almost nothing to do with schizophrenia, and I am blessedly cursed with hypersensitivity and far less than a saint’s all-accepting disposition. He says he also has some form of OCD — a crack in the street will stall him for an hour when he only has to walk two blocks to Whole Foods. As attracted as we are to each other, as intellectually and artistically compatible, we are a fatally incompatible combo. Just as well that he lives in New York, I in Los Angeles.
I can have no expectations of Chris. I can rely on him for nothing.