Chronic dreamgirl-ization isn’t limited to some strain of easily identifiable jerks, either—I’ve had it done to me by people I totally respect, admire, and am interested in. In these cases, I’d be all crushed out, we’d start dating, things would be really cool, and then I would be presented with this, like, model of myself as angel/savior/dreamgirl that I was supposed to live up to. I have dated guys and girls, and I have to say, in my experience, at least, guys are especially susceptible to turning living, breathing human beings into archetypes representing the Platonic ideal of GIRL. I never would have said this to any of the dudes I dated way back when (are you kidding—they would have thought it was so unchill!), but much of their reverence for me boiled down to “I thought girls were STUPID, but I’m not stupid, and you and I have so much in common!” Of course, their logic didn’t then go “All genders are equal!” but instead “I guess you’re”—wait for it, babybros, it’s coming—“NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS! IN FACT, YOU ARE NOT A ‘GIRL,’ BUT ACTUALLY SOME SORT OF EMBLEM OF DIVINITY PLACED ON THIS EARTH TO MAKE ME HAPPY.” For those keeping score at home: Words like these are never a compliment. They are, rather, a way for people to disguise misogyny as love. And that’s not a good foundation for romantic bliss, no matter how much you want it to be.

It seemed like even the coolest guys I dated wanted me to be MORE THAN A WOMAN. They seemed to think that a female human being with her own autonomous thoughts and life was ger-oss, so I didn’t protest too loudly if I liked the person enough. Instead, I was evasive in the way I learned to be when I was younger—and, very brilliantly, expected a different outcome.

By the numbers, here’s a truncated catalog of the fallout from my repeated escapes, having found myself trapped in yet another collaborative projection: two and a half broken engagements, four tattoos (I wasn’t kidding about this before) bearing my name, initials, and/or handwriting (or, less explicit but significantly more obnoxious, a Matryoshka of squares representing one ex’s devotion—it involved Latin and geometry; we don’t need to get into it), plus innumerable instances when I was the butt of that most abysmal of would-be compliments: “You’re different from anyone I’ve been with before—you’re the only girl I actually feel close to.” I tried to interpret these “compliments” the way I did as a teenager—as the highest commendation possible—even though I knew better. But seeing them for what they really were would strip me of the feeling that I wasn’t strange after all—I was SPECIAL. Even better, I was pretty certain that, despite an annoyingly persistent sense of churning sadness, I wasn’t alone.

Except I was, more than ever. I wanted to be close to most of these people, and I couldn’t grasp why I still felt totally lonely when I was with them, even though they claimed to love me so much. It’s almost funny to me now: I didn’t understand why, after sequestering my love life as far away as possible from the way I lived the rest of it, I still felt so isolated! HOW COME NO ONE COULD RELATE TO ME IN A MEANINGFUL WAY THROUGH THIS TENUOUS, UNREPRESENTATIVE SMOKESCREEN OF A LIE-PERSONA THAT I WAS CONSTANTLY RECALIBRATING TO PREVENT JUST THAT?!!! I mean, I had all but handed them the keys to this here furtive nightmare heart!

As you’ve probably surmised, all of this pretending, and being rewarded for pretending, has completely fucked with my head and made me feel like no one wants ME (the “real me,” whatever that may be at a given moment). They just want this mirage they’ve helped me create, and the minute I act differently, it’s like I’ve ruined everything for them, since they can’t continue to see me as their fantasy-hologram.

All of this finally came to a head after a particularly unhinged breakup a while back. I was dating (and eventually became engaged to) a guy not really named Brian. Like me, he was a writer, and he was pretty successful at it. I trusted and felt understood by him, even though he had the tendency to valorize me in that dreamgirl way. I don’t know why I didn’t find it alarming that I rarely felt the desire to bring him to shows with me or ask him to meet my friends or let him know if I was sad or angry about something or talk to him about my work. I kept our relationship closed off from the rest of my world and the rest of myself. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he started telling me I was the most immaculate bastion of womanhood who had ever lived, and didn’t he see how I had saved his life, and would I marry him?

I wholeheartedly loved this guy, and I think that feeling was so consumptive that I said yes despite every reservation I had. Then, as our relationship neared the one-year mark, I started relaxing a bit. I got less insecure. Bit by bit, I let him see more of me—which you would think would be an optimal plan of action if you are GOING TO BE WITH SOMEONE FOREVER, but it did not go well. One example: For the longest time, I pretended to want fast food every time he was in the mood for it. When I finally confessed that I was actually trying to eat less meat, he acted betrayed. He scolded me, saying he had “always appreciated” that I was “one of those girls who don’t have to be a vegetarian.” I hadn’t realized how important that had been for his Perfect Girlfriend ideal!