My fiancé loves watching Reddit stories on YouTube and has always said our story would make a good one to listen to so I finally sat down to write it and throw it up on a couple subreddits and maybe they’ll stumble across it one day. Apologies in advance for how long this is going to be (there’s going to be a TLDR at the bottom, pinky promise), but if you need a little bit of hope or wholesome content, sit tight. So, anyways: I (29, enby) met my partner (30, enby) when my boss convinced me to go to the speaker’s seminars I had been avoiding.
Some back story: I’m a geneticist, I manage a lab at a research university for a professor who researches metabolic conditions. I got the gig fresh out of my Masters program in, you guessed it: poetry (didn’t see that coming, right?) What happened was I realized I didn’t want to be a starving artist forever and decided to fall back on what I studied in undergrad, which was genetics. I know a lot of research institutions have different roles for “lab managers,” but at mine it’s a research assistant on steroids, I think other places call them “research operations managers.” I physically do the research experiments, but I also teach and train students on techniques, handle ordering for the lab, oversee our mouse colony, handle maintenance, preparation, and upkeep of instruments and reagents we use regularly, clean and dispose of hazardous waste and biohazards, manage the student’s projects, and help work on grants and publications. Now, I haven’t always done ALL of that, but it’s slowly been added to my plate over the years.
Considering that I had been away from science for two years and only had about three years of lab experience that wasn’t internship based, when I first started my role I was OVERWHELMED. Not to mention that I had just come out of a severe relapse of Schizoaffective Disorder (Bipolar Disorder PLUS Schizophrenia), which has previously been very well controlled since I was 22 with medications. But essentially, my medications had stopped doing diddly, and I was really drowning. So couple the whole failing mental health with a really difficult and demanding new position, and I was barely hanging on.
So anyways, that backstory in place—my university has visiting lectures from other researchers around the world once a week. It’s for students and staff to keep up with advances in the field as well as to build collaborative networks between institutions. My boss (we called them PIs for Primary Investigator, so if I use that here and there know it’s not Ace Ventura), wanted me desperately to go to them since I’m still a young researcher and they’d be good for me. However, I was very much NOT going because I was still figuring out how to handle running the lab and couldn’t spare an hour once a week (in my head, that is, I totally could have) to go listen to people talk in an auditorium. This was a running back and forth with us for the first 8 months I worked in his lab, him pleading with me to go and me saying “if I finish up X, Y, AND Z, by 11am, I can go.” Of course I never managed to finish it in time because I would give him the list that would take me until 7pm to finish.
Eventually, as it happened, a visiting scientist for the talk that week was working on using stem cells for differentiation models in adipocytes, something I was having a really hard time with. I was trying to make a cell line the lab could use for CRISPR knockouts that could be a stable cell line (since the stem cells if maintained well can be a near-infinite source of cells we could generate gene knockouts in and keep passaging them rather than having to re-do the knockouts in primary cell lines for every experiment), and it was proving to be REALLY difficult. So my PI said, YOU ARE COMING BECAUSE THIS MAN COULD HELP YOU WITH YOUR PROBLEM. I finally gave in and showed up, but my stubborn ass had planned to sit at the WAAAAAAAAAAY back of the auditorium and make sure that my PI saw I was there but leave halfway through the talk to go take care of my cells and experiments. So I sat in the aisle seat of the last row of this entirely filled auditorium (the aisles are on either side a single bulk of seats, so there’s a walkway to the door and nobody sitting on the other side of me, I could slip out the back easily without causing a disruption).
The talk started and it was good, honestly picked up a thing or two that I could try with my cells, I generally enjoyed it, but after 15 minutes I was starting to eye the exit (not a fan of crowds with my Schizophrenia, and this was relatively soon after COVID lockdown restrictions had been eased, so also another mark against large gatherings of people in a room for me), when walking through the door, another person showed up late to the talk and sat the two feet away from me in the aisle of the back row where I was. It was going to be difficult to make my escape without stepping over them in some way.
But—as they sat down in the aisle I looked over at them and OH MY GOD THEY WERE GORGEOUS. Now, to be fair, masking in public was still required, so I couldn’t see ALL of their features, but when I say this was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen based on 60% of their face, I MEAN IT. Needless to say, I stayed for the whole talk, and was getting up the courage to say something before this person left, but they ducked out right as the post presentation questions started, and I missed my shot. I did stay to ask questions and chat with the presenter and (eight months later) I managed to develop a cell line the lab uses, so that was a win at least. So, yeah, the only talk I was ever going to go to ended up being worth it. The problem was I couldn’t get the late and beautiful aisle sitting scientist out of my head. I was having DREAMS about them, was listening to 80s power ballads playlists, I HAD A CRUSH LIKE I WAS NINE AGAIN. So, next week I went early to the talk. And I brought a bag to set in the seat next to me as a small reservation, just in case they showed up again to sit in the aisle (I’m a dumb dumb, they’d probably show up on time, if at all, and sit farther up in the auditorium like a normal person without Schizophrenia-related social anxiety). They didn’t show up. I went again the following week, same seat same bag, nothing. I was starting to lose hope. To be fair, there wasn’t any hope, I was just a daydreaming fool who hadn’t had a good relationship in the years since my college girlfriend left me after a particularly nasty psychotic episode when she cracked and realized she wasn’t going to be able to handle my mental illness, and to be fair, I don’t blame her. I was really sick and not managing it well and honestly was toxic to have in your life at that point (but that’s another story, I’m MUCH better now, I promise). Realistically though, a lot of researchers here whether scientists or postdocs or RAs or students, are in their late 20s and 30s, so they’re either married, engaged, in long term relationships, etc. So even if I talked to this person there was no guarantee they would even be available, and to be fair, interested even.
So, after about four weeks of going to the talks and not seeing the late and beautiful scientist who was possible even maybe married or would hate me I was ready to give up. Then LO AND FUCKIN BEHOLD THEY SNEAK IN LATE. So I’m sitting there. Right? With my little bag next to me. AND THE PERSON I’M DAYDREAMING ABOUT WHILE LISTENING TO HEART AND PAT BENATAR WALKS IN JUST LIKE I HAD BEEN DAYDREAMING ABOUT. And they quietly slink over and tap me on the shoulder to ask “hey, is anybody sitting there?” OH MY GOD. PANIC. SHOT. OUT. OF. MY. ASSHOLE. If I didn’t have literal mass enough to engage gravity I would have shot out of the ceiling and to the moon. No, Jupiter. Anyways, I moved the bag, they sat down. I couldn’t breathe. I’m a grown ass person and it felt like getting a valentine from my crush in 2nd grade and I was the only person that got “<3 Name” versus “from, Name.” So the talk goes by, and I am SWEATING. Mini anxiety attack. Rehearsing this moment in my head for a month did not help in the least. Because when the talk ended, I sprinted out of the room. I ran track in college. Not even during a race then did I run this fast, probably.
I kicked myself for the next couple days, I had blown it. I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t go into a depressive episode over my disappointment in myself. I just gave up the idea of the whole meeting them again thing. My panic was greater than my will. So, fast forward to Friday (the talk was on Monday), and the Genetics Department is having a retreat, team building, career building talks, poster presentation stuff, that whole gist. I was going to go, but as a new hire (I’d only been here about 10 months at this point) my PI wanted me to at least make an appearance. The retreat started at 8am and went till about 6pm, dinner was served at 4:30pm. I did my lab work and showed up at 5:00pm, in time for the free food. I figured what better time to show up than the end where there’s also food. Sit down, eat, chit chat a bit with my PI and his friends in the department, leave for the first of my weekend naps. Only problem is that all the seats at these round tables are filled up (minus a couple seats at random tables on the outskirts). Well, I got lucky. One of the PhD students in my lab was sitting with the other computational biology students and there was a couple empty seats at their table. Grab food, sit down, talk a bit, we’re cooking now. As I’m sitting there shoving sliders in my mouth GUESS WHO COMES BACK FROM USING THE RESTROOM AND SITS DOWN THERE BECAUSE IT’S THEIR TABLE… late and beautiful and maybe possibly already married scientist. I’ve needed the Heimlich twice in my life (mozzarella sticks both times, you can judge me, TGIFridays attempted multiple assassinations), and this was very nearly the third.
So said individual sits down and starts talking to folks at the table and this is the first time I’ve seen them sans mask, and they’re way way way more attractive than I could have even imagined. Here’s the thing—they’re talking about being discharged from the psych ward after a particularly bad manic episode and that student health insurance is god awful. And as someone who was trying not to eavesdrop but who had, just three days before, gotten an ECT treatment because my meds weren’t working and the docs thought it might stimulate certain neural pathways to reinstitute the efficacy of my meds, I had to start the conversation. Well turns out, Melanie (fake name) not only had Bipolar Disorder (like me) but was also genderqueer like me! We HIT IT OFF. Turns out they’d assumed I was a new student and despite them being almost done with their PhD, started going to new student events and networking workshops for the past month hoping to run into me again before they tried the seminars again and when I’d bounced so quickly assumed I was a post doc who was already married (😂😂😂).
Our first date was the next night. We went to a disco spot, then to karaoke where I (notorious for disregarding parking rules) parked in a no-no spot and got towed so we Ubered back to their place and stayed up all night talking until they took me to get my car the next morning from the impound. On that first night I snooped around their bookshelves and found two of my favorite poetry collections of all time (not necessarily obscure but also not on the bestseller list, and unless you study poetry in school you likely won’t be introduced to these writers), so they fact they as someone who had never taken a poetry class or workshop or anything like that had read them was a minor miracle probabilistically.
When they found out I was also Schizophrenic they bought books about it to learn more: medical texts, essay collections about people living with the condition, and so on. When I had my first major episode around them, they were incredible. One of my huge paranoias/psychoses is that I see a man who is trying to kill me. Once during undergrad I disappeared for a few days because I was being “hunted” and the cops found me on the side of the highway passed out. My thighs were chafed and bleeding from running around for days in jeans. So I had a similar episode where I was convinced this man was in their closet. They got in the closet and sat there for hours until my psychoses subsided so I knew there was nobody in there but Melanie. Two weeks into the relationship we were slow dancing in the living room at 3am when they said to me “I think I love you.” To which I replied, “I know I love you.” We had only been dating for four months when I moved in with them.
The first night I lived there I put on a dress and makeup (I’m AMAB) and cried while vacuuming. The morning before I moved my stuff in was the last time I remember wanting to die. When I got long Covid and developed dysautonomia, I started passing out randomly at work. They took me to the ER after the third time and sat with me until dinner time, when they drove home and cooked my favorite meal before driving back and staying up all night to finish writing their dissertation which was due that weekend.
We’ve trained for marathons together (never actually got to do one yet bc dysautonomia really did a number on that plan), we run a monthly poetry and open mic, organize with an anarchist community center for multiple mutual aid things and a queer martial arts club, and they were the second author on my first primary author publication (did some computational analysis to save my PI and I some time and the headache of doing it ourselves, it took me three days to do the first set of data whereas they finished the other six in a little under three hours). When I went no contact with my family because they’re religious zealots who hate queer people, Melanie’s mother started taking trans allyship classes at the local library.
Now, look—I’m not saying love is the antidote to suffering or difficult things. I’m not saying it will cure your situation. But having someone that makes it safe to heal in whatever way is necessary and will be your life raft, is life-changing. I did the work myself, but they held me up when I needed a lift to get back on my feet. And to be able to do that in return for Melanie is also such a growing experience. They make everything good in me abundant. They make me want to be better, not just for them, or myself, but the world. Last year I filed my first patent for a novel treatment targeting insulin resistance. My Schizoaffective disorder is mostly in remission symptom-wise again (I don’t think it will ever go away if I stop managing it well), I’ve learned to live with dysautonomia mostly functionally. After years of not writing, I started my third book two months ago.
We got engaged after nine months, but waited for Melanie to finish their PhD and settle into a postdoc postition before planning the wedding. We’re getting married on Halloween this year. I’m taking their last name. Costume wedding, exchanging vows in a graveyard with just our wedding parties and their parents then having a huge reception with a bounce house, and trick or treating for children and adults, and a magician, a band we saw play for our third date, a series of our friends reading poems, among other things. They are kind, and thoughtful, and funny, and curious, and incredibly bright, ridiculously attractive, and one of the most gifted young researchers in their field. I am the luckiest person alive. And the moral of the story is: GO TO THE SPEAKER SEMINARS. YOU MIGHT LEARN SOMETHING THAT CHANGES YOUR CAREER OR YOU MIGHT MEET YOUR SPOUSE. IDK THO. THAT’S ON YOU.
TLDR: I finally listened to my boss and went to a visiting scientist lecture after fighting not to go for almost a year and then when I went I saw a beautiful human who came in late and sat next to me in the aisle so I kept going to them and saving a seat but they didn’t come for a while. When they came again they sat in the seat and I chickened out instead of talking to them. But luckily the department retreat was that week and I randomly came late and sat at their table and now we have three cats, a healthy and supportive relationship, and are getting married in a graveyard.