Thoughts from yesterday
I have a lot of down time here at work, so I think I’ll write a little. I might bring in some of my writing tomorrow morning to work on, since all of the projects I have left to do at the office require Luanne’s supervision (i.e. going through the files on her desk, organizing the accounting cabinets, etc). Maybe I can make a little more headway on that present for Rachael before Friday.
I’m at an impasse. I’m not sure where to go from here.
I’ve finally isolated our issue. It’s me. *I* am the common factor here. All this time I’d thought I was only a result of habit, that it was just in his nature, and I was only a product of his natural lack of self control. That it didn’t mean he didn’t love me, it just meant that he was succumbing to a weakness that he had fallen prey to many times before. That I was no different from the others… So in the end, could I blame him? I couldn’t expect him to change just for me, could I? I felt that, in light of his apparently sincere efforts to be better, that I could forgive a human subject to habit, even though the habit was a terrible one.
But then to find out that I wasn’t subject to a consistent failure of judgment, or that this had been pre-determined by habitual cheating, but that *I* was the first. *I* was the cause of this new failure in judgment. Futhermore, it wasn’t only ONCE that I drove him into the arms of another woman, but THREE TIMES. On three separate occasions, months apart, I made him so miserable that he sought out the comfort and company of another woman, so that, for a few hours, he could satisfy his need for connection without ever having to think of me.
So there it is, right in plain sight. It was me, it wasn’t him. I pushed him, I ruined him. I was stubborn and volatile, prone to anger and abandonment… I ran away from everything, and then I tried to blame HIM for not wanting to give chase at every notion? Surely had the tables been turned, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did. Perhaps I would have given up sooner.
Everyone always says “it takes two”. This is only partially true. One must lead. I was the lead, and I pushed him right over the edge.
I guess that’s just part of my horrific, self-destructive nature. I can’t accept love, I can’t accept happiness, I can’t accept another’s acceptance. In pessimistic disbelief, I push away everything good in my life. I’m distrustful, closed off, and a cynic of the world. Who could stay faithful to that?
I’m not quite sure why it took so long for me to figure this out, and unfortunately the revelation has come as quite a shock to me… an unhealthy one. Just thinking about it now I have a pit in my stomach.
The last time I had this feeling was back in October, when I walked in on Stacey straddling him, her under-the-skirt peek-a-boo of her black underwear seared into my brain. I feel like this image will never leave me. For at least two weeks I felt that pit in
my stomach, keeping me up at night, keeping me from sleeping… every time I closed my eyes it was all I could see, so I didn’t want to close my eyes, didn’t want to sleep, for fear that I would relive it again in a nightmare.
This helpless feeling sits in my stomach, churning over and over again. All I want to do when I get home is fill the bathtub full of nice, warm water and slip into it. To sink under and feel the water swirling over the tops of my eyelids, bubbles curling up over my nose to break at the surface. I’d like to see how long I can hold my breath.
Hah. It makes me laugh bitterly, thinking of how this was exactly where I was my last semester of school, holding my head under the water, Fiona Apple’s voice sounding as if it was gurgling from the end of a long tunnel. Thinking about how his feelings for me must have been a lie, for him to treat me so awful… to think about the last two years of my life had deteriorated into a lie. To think that someone who had once made me so happy then made me feel so worthless and unwanted. I’d never thought of giving up on myself before, but, suffice it to say, the thought of not coming back up for air crossed my mind many times in those months.
I fell apart at the seams, as if I’d never been tied together at all. I finally realized that I don’t live in the real world. My mind lags behind, distracted by my imagination of what a perfect life should be. Through my many years of writing, I have weaved an idealistic quilt of what I believe the perfect relationship to be, and I wrapped myself up in this blanket, afraid to leave my bed and face what’s really out there, afraid that my extravagant imagination will leave my suicidally disappointed.
I’ve never believed in love at first sight. I’ve never believed that in the perfect relationship, there’s no fighting or arguments, or that everything just falls together like pieces of a puzzle. But I did believe that when I found the right man, that there would be something inexplicable that would draw me to him and him to me. I imagined that falling in love would be difficult for both of us, and would happen without us realizing it. But once we came together, we would be together. There would be no one else, for either of us.
I spent far too much time writing, and not nearly enough time living. Life isn’t some dramatic story of two pieces coming together in unwavering commitment. In real life, no one understands what its like to commit to another.
I have ridiculous expectations. How could I possibly expect someone to commit unconditionally? How could I expect things to merely fall into place? How could I expect to find the right person the first time? How could I expect that they would want the same things I wanted?
WHAT is with my obsession with this ideal? A man who’s eyes will never stray. That once he holds me, he never wants to hold another?
Because that is who and what *I* am. Once I let someone into my heart, I will be with no one else so long as they wish the same.
But this ideal… who shares it? No one. Just because my parents do doesn’t mean that it will exist for me.
Thinking about my future in solitude, with only my imagination to keep my company… it makes me want to test how long I really can hold my breath.
I’m at an impasse. I’m not sure where to go from here.
I’ve finally isolated our issue. It’s me. *I* am the common factor here. All this time I’d thought I was only a result of habit, that it was just in his nature, and I was only a product of his natural lack of self control. That it didn’t mean he didn’t love me, it just meant that he was succumbing to a weakness that he had fallen prey to many times before. That I was no different from the others… So in the end, could I blame him? I couldn’t expect him to change just for me, could I? I felt that, in light of his apparently sincere efforts to be better, that I could forgive a human subject to habit, even though the habit was a terrible one.
But then to find out that I wasn’t subject to a consistent failure of judgment, or that this had been pre-determined by habitual cheating, but that *I* was the first. *I* was the cause of this new failure in judgment. Futhermore, it wasn’t only ONCE that I drove him into the arms of another woman, but THREE TIMES. On three separate occasions, months apart, I made him so miserable that he sought out the comfort and company of another woman, so that, for a few hours, he could satisfy his need for connection without ever having to think of me.
So there it is, right in plain sight. It was me, it wasn’t him. I pushed him, I ruined him. I was stubborn and volatile, prone to anger and abandonment… I ran away from everything, and then I tried to blame HIM for not wanting to give chase at every notion? Surely had the tables been turned, I wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did. Perhaps I would have given up sooner.
Everyone always says “it takes two”. This is only partially true. One must lead. I was the lead, and I pushed him right over the edge.
I guess that’s just part of my horrific, self-destructive nature. I can’t accept love, I can’t accept happiness, I can’t accept another’s acceptance. In pessimistic disbelief, I push away everything good in my life. I’m distrustful, closed off, and a cynic of the world. Who could stay faithful to that?
I’m not quite sure why it took so long for me to figure this out, and unfortunately the revelation has come as quite a shock to me… an unhealthy one. Just thinking about it now I have a pit in my stomach.
The last time I had this feeling was back in October, when I walked in on Stacey straddling him, her under-the-skirt peek-a-boo of her black underwear seared into my brain. I feel like this image will never leave me. For at least two weeks I felt that pit in
my stomach, keeping me up at night, keeping me from sleeping… every time I closed my eyes it was all I could see, so I didn’t want to close my eyes, didn’t want to sleep, for fear that I would relive it again in a nightmare.
This helpless feeling sits in my stomach, churning over and over again. All I want to do when I get home is fill the bathtub full of nice, warm water and slip into it. To sink under and feel the water swirling over the tops of my eyelids, bubbles curling up over my nose to break at the surface. I’d like to see how long I can hold my breath.
Hah. It makes me laugh bitterly, thinking of how this was exactly where I was my last semester of school, holding my head under the water, Fiona Apple’s voice sounding as if it was gurgling from the end of a long tunnel. Thinking about how his feelings for me must have been a lie, for him to treat me so awful… to think about the last two years of my life had deteriorated into a lie. To think that someone who had once made me so happy then made me feel so worthless and unwanted. I’d never thought of giving up on myself before, but, suffice it to say, the thought of not coming back up for air crossed my mind many times in those months.
I fell apart at the seams, as if I’d never been tied together at all. I finally realized that I don’t live in the real world. My mind lags behind, distracted by my imagination of what a perfect life should be. Through my many years of writing, I have weaved an idealistic quilt of what I believe the perfect relationship to be, and I wrapped myself up in this blanket, afraid to leave my bed and face what’s really out there, afraid that my extravagant imagination will leave my suicidally disappointed.
I’ve never believed in love at first sight. I’ve never believed that in the perfect relationship, there’s no fighting or arguments, or that everything just falls together like pieces of a puzzle. But I did believe that when I found the right man, that there would be something inexplicable that would draw me to him and him to me. I imagined that falling in love would be difficult for both of us, and would happen without us realizing it. But once we came together, we would be together. There would be no one else, for either of us.
I spent far too much time writing, and not nearly enough time living. Life isn’t some dramatic story of two pieces coming together in unwavering commitment. In real life, no one understands what its like to commit to another.
I have ridiculous expectations. How could I possibly expect someone to commit unconditionally? How could I expect things to merely fall into place? How could I expect to find the right person the first time? How could I expect that they would want the same things I wanted?
WHAT is with my obsession with this ideal? A man who’s eyes will never stray. That once he holds me, he never wants to hold another?
Because that is who and what *I* am. Once I let someone into my heart, I will be with no one else so long as they wish the same.
But this ideal… who shares it? No one. Just because my parents do doesn’t mean that it will exist for me.
Thinking about my future in solitude, with only my imagination to keep my company… it makes me want to test how long I really can hold my breath.