I have an aunt who has been married 15 times. That is not an exaggeration. 14 men, 15 marriages. In fact, that may not even be the case anymore, as the last time we heard from her was several years ago, when her drama became much more than my family could handle.
Once, when I was a teenager, she called me complaining about her latest train wreck. On-and-on she went about disappointed she was in him, about what an ass he was, about all of the things he had done to ruin what they had had. It was a familiar conversation. I had heard it after each of the past few husbands.
“Kim,” I said. “Have you ever considered the fact that maybe it’s not them? Maybe you are just not good at marriage. I mean, maybe it’s you.”
We didn’t speak again for months.
Cut to me, now, as a full-fledged adult and wholly a part of this relationship, men and women, “real life” thing. And, in the past couple of weeks I have ridden a strange man-related roller-coaster. I have ended something that meant a lot to me, and little to him. I have spent time and a fair amount of effort rebuffing the advances of yet another man from my past determined to bring me on his roster in “friends with benefits while I date this other chick” status. And I have gone on a date that I was actually swooning with excitement about with a guy who never called me after.
So, there it is. The last two weeks, it seems, are indicative of my entire life. Of *almost* 30 years of never once having been a “good” or “healthy” relationship. Of never once being able to believe someone who said they loved me. Of having every single man that I have ever cared about make a choice, and it be someone else. Of getting my hopes up, and then being let down.
And though that all sounds pretty sad and painful none of it has ever actually bothered me that much. Because I’m good single, and I’m good alone, and so if they’re all going to be idiots, well, c’est la vie, and I’m better off without them, and she can just have his stupid sorry ass.
But then, the Mack Truck of realizations hit me.
“I mean, maybe it’s you.”
I wanted to scoff at first. I mean, no, that’s not possible. I’m fairly amazing you know. Smart, and witty, and I always make people laugh, and how often do I go out of my way to help strangers and stray animals and what-not, and fairly out-of-this-world (if I do say so myself, and I do) amazing in bed, and did I mention the six feet tall blue eyed brunette thing? I mean, really, it is just. not. possible.
But after the thought crept into my head (on Valentine’s day, of course), I watched these two weeks go by with a different POV.
And it is. I don’t know what I do, or don’t do. I don’t know the problem, but I know where it’s coming from.
It is me.
And now it all hurts just a little bit more.
