I should be doing things for work, but I'm not. So here I am.
Let me first and foremost say that I'm very happy. I don't want whatever rambling I may do in this blog to make anyone think otherwise.
It's a constant struggle for me not to give in to the old fears and just run as far and as fast as my feet will carry me. Even if I know it'd be the stupidest thing ever. By now, it's instinct, and it's hard not to just give in to it.
Seriously. My longest "relationship" ever was only a year and a half. And that was only because about half of it was spent with him far enough away to be out of my hair most of the time. I think the longest time I ever spent with someone within shooting distance was about 8 months or so. I get antsy. My feet start itching. I don't understand it. But I can't help it.
So over the last four or five years or so, I've gone for the dysfunctional in order to avoid any sort of mess. Well, at least any sort of mess on my side, anyway. Star of my own one-woman soap opera, I always say.
I sort of have this habit of having everything I touch turn to shit. The exact opposite of the Midas touch. No matter how well something's going, if you get me involved, it's probably going to go straight to hell, with or without the handbasket.
I sort of have this compulsion to protect people from me. I've (accidentally) hurt enough people to last a lifetime, and I have no desire to do it again. Of course, if you warn people, it's not like they take you seriously. So I just sort of try to stay a safe distance away and cut ties when it starts getting to be too much.
The desire to do so right now is overwhelming. I'd rather slit my own throat than hurt Master or Mistress.
The thing is, I know that leaving will hurt them, too. In the past, I've been able to justify that by telling myself it'd hurt the other person less if I went ahead and did the noble thing and walked away than to stay and ride it 'til its inevitable and far messier end.
The very first day I met J., we were talking about music, country music to be specific. Of course, like every good redneck, I love country music. We started talking about Kenny Chesney, and she brought up his song, "Better as a Memory." All I could think was how ironic that was because I'd always thought that song may as well have been about me, only with the need to make the male pronouns females and vice-versa.
My biggest fear is that no matter what I'll do, I'll hurt B. and J. It's kind of what I do to people, even though I don't mean to.