So, this song practically invited me to blog today :
It takes a lot of self-esteem to not allow someone to mess with you. It takes self-honesty and staying out of denial. That's a lot to ask of a person; perhaps that's why it's so easy for the most sensitive of us to get messed with. In my experience, you can't trust anyone even who says they won't, because their intellect is not in control of their emotions and actions. Even if they claim it is.
I use my life examples because this is what I know--I'm sure you can think of something completely different that works.
On my walk today, I remembered what my lover said to me a few months ago. He said in warning, "The deeper we go, the more it's going to hurt when it's over." We had a bad time, a few years ago when he started dating someone, and told me goodbye. Prematurely. This was soon after our first encounter. I knew it would happen at some point, but hell, we were just starting. And to top it off, this was right after two rejections in a row. I wasn't in any place to handle it at all well. I allowed him to mess with me. I was a wreck for quite a while and just taught myself to adjust.
So, the lesson in that? I'm not sure I've learned anything much, except that I'm responsible for my own suffering. You see, if you decide that no one's ever going to mess with you again, you fall into an chasm. You build a wall and hide behind it. At least, that's been my experience. If you open yourself, someone's going to mess with you. I guess I can venture to say that I walked into this with my eyes wide open, this time, if that's a lesson. I am intellectually aware of the future. It's still going to sting--like when you have a cavity drilled with no anesthesia; yes, it will. And I could have mitigated that pain by not allowing our physical intimacy to enter the realm it has. But the one thing I can say is that I am consciously choosing this. I don't know what else to say, though.
I am getting older every day. My daughter is growing up. My husband is, too. Sex is a temporary state of affairs, and I peer at myself in the mirror every day, looking for the wrinkles on my face, the grey in my hair; surveying the extra weight I have put on since I became pregnant. I think about my mother and how I was always so hard on her for letting herself "fall apart"--for as many years as I can remember. But here I am. Falling apart. There's so much to do, so much care taking and pressure to keep my job(s), and not a second to spare (and yes, I write, but that's in my quick break times during the work week). I'm still vain, but I don't have the appearance to match it now. (no, I'm not fat, but carry an extra 15 pounds that I never used to, and it hurts me every time I look at myself.) I don't know why this doesn't bother the men in my life like it bothers me, but they honestly don't seem to care; it's me who insists on keeping the lights out.
Getting older is troublesome. I am on the verge of giving in and just becoming someone's mother, someone's wife, living in suburban tranquility (haha, never tranquility!). But I'm so exhausted, how can I keep up with what I used to be? I just don't know. Perhaps this is depression rearing its ugly head now.
I don't like where I'm going with this, so I'm going to stop while I'm still coping decently.
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