Through writing this blog, there is one thing that has become apparent to me when it comes to people: our perceptions about ourselves and others are completely wrong more often than not. This has been one of many thoughts floating around in my mind, with every email that I get from a reader who can’t understand why so many bad things could happen to such an amazing woman. Lest we forget that everything you read here is presented to you the way that I want it to be.
I’m not saying that any of it is untrue, but it’s all written from only one perspective. In fact, I’ve often wondered what some of my previous partners would have to say if they were to write a story about me. In many cases, I really don’t want to know.
If you’re curious to know the truth about me and why my relationships seem to be so volatile, then you need to understand something about me: I’m pretty fucked up.
There’s no way to candy coat the facts, I’m a woman in my early 30’s and I have absolutely no idea how to love or be loved. Sometimes I wonder if people are meant to have a basic moment somewhere in their first 5 years of life that sets them up to have the ability to receive and give love in a way that is healthy and mature. If that’s true, I missed that moment by a long shot.
Following my dating habits is just as entertaining as watching a high speed car chase – it’s unpredictable, dangerous and likely to end up in flames. Which is the only reason why so many people read my blog. When you stop and realize that what you find so entertaining and brazen is just my reality, it puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? As much as you enjoy reading about it, there is no way in hell that you’d actually want to place yourself in the middle of this shit storm.
Case in point: I recently met a man who embodies everything that I value in a partner. He’s smart, funny, affectionate and leads an exciting life. He enjoys doing the same things that I do – taking off on random adventures, exploring new places and taking risks. He was excited about getting to know me and told me just as much.
Maybe one day I’ll write the whole story about what happened, but the summary is pretty basic: I slept with him on our second date and woke up the next day to find myself feeling vulnerable. Over the next few days, I collected evidence that pointed to the fact that he was less interested in the relationship than I was, and so I did the only thing that I could do to stop the anxiety from eating me alive: I pushed him away by telling him that I couldn’t see him anymore.
As a result, I sit here in my living room feeling an emptiness like an old familiar friend, the kind that you wish would just vacate from your life. I hate this feeling, and hate the fact that I bring it on myself. Had I just taken things slow, taken the time to get to know this guy and let him win me over, things could have been entirely different. Maybe my loneliness and deep desire to give and receive love with another adult could finally be fulfilled. Maybe it could have been the beginning of something beautiful.
The problem is, there could be hundreds of amazing men waiting at my door step, and I would fuck things up with every last one of them like a slow, methodical relationship killing machine. Even the most loving man in the world wouldn’t stand a chance when faced with my demons.
As much as it’s true that I’m inherently a good person with positive intentions, the only reason why bad things continue to happen in my life is because I openly invite them to. I make one big shitty decision after another, and even after I’ve psychoanalyzed the situation I still continue to rinse and repeat. If you’ve ever found yourself craving a partner who will shower you with love and affection one day and barely speak to you the next – I just might be the one for you. At the very least, the sex is guaranteed to be fucking amazing.