Like all of us, I find myself from time to time marching down a well trodden, familiar path, one that I simply know leads to (my) suffering. And yet, I tell myself, “THIS TIME IT WILL BE DIFFERENT!”
And, of course, it never is.
The hydraulics of unconscious fantasy mystify me. But. I’ve written versions of the post I want to write right now over and over: they boil down to, “I’m easy; why do people find me so difficult?” Or, “I don’t, actually, ask for much.”
Clearly, I’m deluded. What feels to me like “not much” feels to others simply inconceivable. Not all others. Some – the ones whose names are most familiar to longtime readers of this blog – give me what I want, or at least the single largest thing I want, intuitively. Others struggle with this. And I, strangely, struggle with them.
I don’t know what prevents me from moving on, from simply declaring “game over.” It’s something profound, something deep, a wound I know relates to my mother. I long to win every woman’s love, that’s a truth. And/but, this is something more, or at least, something different: I long for women who don’t hold me in their minds to hold me in their minds. And, it causes me something akin to agony when I see evidence I’m not being held in mind.
Every so often, I find myself in a tortured dance with a woman who professes to want to keep me in mind in precisely the way I long for, but who simply can’t. Or won’t.
Just writing the words, it’s obvious to me what I should do in such a situation. Run the fuck away. But as tight as my chest is, as rapid as my respiration, the thought of giving up – giving up the fantasy that this time will be different – makes me feel even worse.