Was I a ‘Manic Pixie Dream Girl’?
How many other women fall into the trap of serving a man’s female fantasy, only to be cast aside once she owns who she is?
My last relationship ended. Not because I had decided it, but because he ended things.
I wasn’t the person he thought I was, apparently. He wanted the ‘fun me’ back, the me who made stupid mugs of his face, who baked him cake on his birthday, who listened to his really boring work stories (don’t date an actuary) and told him that he was great and amazing and hardworking and oh so talented. But since the ‘new’ me was struggling with my mental health and that meant messaging him at 3 in the morning, asking to talk, he couldn’t cope. Or rather, it was my behaviour that was the problem and I needed to get over it.
Since reading articles on ‘The Manic Pixie Dream Girl’, though, it seems so many of my fears about this relationship were true. That I served his purpose. And then when I didn’t, he didn’t need me anymore. And while he still ‘loved’ me, my behaviours were too much for him.
For those unfamiliar with ‘The Manic Pixie Dream Girl’ (I was, up until recently), the fictional trope is a beautiful young woman who walks into a man’s life to open up his world and teach him that there is so much more to life than he imagines. She has no desires or hopes of her own, and serves only to further the protagonist’s interests. This ‘Dream Girl’ enables the male protagonist to finally cast off his shell and become the person he’s always been capable of being, whilst never really achieving anything for herself. Like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
I wonder if I was this ‘Manic Pixie Dream Girl’.
I let my ex talk endlessly about work to me, but he never read my articles, nor showed any interest in doing so. I tried to sing in front of him (I sing at weddings) to which he casually remarked that I had a nice voice and then continued trying to show off his guitar skills. He sat next to me strolling through photos and providing running commentary on his trip to Spain, but walked away when I flicked through an album of my own photos of my travels to Morocco and Montenegro. He lay on my Freudian couch lamenting his insecurities with work, but when I tried to share heartfelt messages that some students had sent me when I left a school, he decided that that was the time to get up to go to the pub.
He’d always give me advice, never ask me why I was suggesting a particular pathway, then grow antagonistic that his support wasn’t enough. His reasons for loving me always related to him: that I supported him like no one ever had, that he was proud of having such a pretty girlfriend, that he couldn’t believe he had a girlfriend who would cook for him and make meal plans.
None of the qualities he appreciated in me related to my writing talents, my curiosity, or my drive to stand up for what I believed in — nothing I admire in myself.
But then I wonder, had I played into this role?
Had I found an easy target in him, someone who would worship me because I was a quirky, exotic beauty (if I do say so myself)? He was insecure from the off and I knew it. He was unsure about relationships, never having been in one that had lasted longer than four months. He was awkward and nerdy and so middle class (he even expressed agreement using the word “quite”). I knew that I could flounce into his world and cause a stir and that he would be entirely receptive to it.
I taught him about feminism and he supported it (seemingly). I told him I was vegan and he was happy to go along, suggesting that he’d be vegan whenever we were together. But when all of this ended, he begrudged me for not being appreciative of the fact that he had decided not to eat meat around me.
He told me he wanted the ‘old me’ back, that I had been the center of his universe, but I wasn’t anymore because of my inability to pull myself together. He was happier because not having me around meant that he wasn’t so tired anymore.
The truth is, I’d seen it coming. It was obvious I wasn’t needed anymore.
He didn’t ask for my opinion on homewares (something he could never have done without my approval before), and felt that it would be best that we didn’t meet on our one year anniversary because I needed to deal with my mental health and he didn’t want to be around for that.
I’d ask him what was going on between us and he would reassure me, telling me that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he would be here always. And I believed him. I’d imagined that he was this wonderful, empathetic person. That he’d be there for me like I’d been there for him. That he’d understand that mental health is a long hard struggle and not an easy fix.
But now that I think about it, I wonder if my mental health struggles were related to this relationship. I wonder if I knew deep down that the person I was expected to be wasn’t sustainable and that was causing this crisis of self.
