So I’ve been up for two hours now… finally gave up just laying there trying to go back to sleep. The only thing I was accomplishing was to make the cats happy. My mind wouldn’t turn off, but now that I sit down to type (in notepad, so I can just copy and paste it into this box… it makes me nuts, not being able to see more than a few sentences… then there’s the refresh factor… if I pause typing too long…. it automatically goes back to the top of the post… then I have to scroll back down, find my place, find my thoughts, then by then it’s probably jumped back to the beginning again, so I found a way to make it work for me… it’s a mess… but, as the attorney’s rule goes… where there’s a will… there’s a way to break it… when something is broken, you can do without, or figure out how to make it work, or find another way to make it work… thinking outside the box… coming at the problem from another angle… I’m GOOD at that… anyway, back to the point…
So I sit down to type, and all those thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone have left me for the moment.
I’m reminded of something I told Dick a while back, so I’ll start typing and maybe something will jump start my brain…
I get told to hang in there a lot…to just have faith that it’ll happen, and to keep trying.
Everytime I try I get burned in one way or another, so when people tell me to keep plugging away it seems to me as they’re encouraging me to go hurt myself again.
I jump into the pool, only to find it’s not filled with water, it’s filled with acid, and no sooner do I pull myself out and lick my wounds, when someone else comes by and tells me to go jump back into the pool to get burned again.
NOBODY decent seems to want me, so why jump back into the pool?
I hurt myself by trying, and I hurt myself by not trying.
The way I put it to Dick though was slightly different. I told him that everytime I tried it was like putting my hand in the fire, only to discover I’d been burned. Put your hand in the fire often enough, and you learn NOT to… .and there he was, telling me to stick my hand back in the fucking fire, expecting that this time I wouldn’t get burned.
To put it plainly…
When I try to find someone decent, I only find assholes, so I’ve learned not to try.
I also know that by not trying, I’ll never find anyone.
I know that when I get shot down again… even by assholes, it fucking HURTS. I put my best foot forward, and the best I can hope for is a polite refusal, but it’s gotten so bad that even a polite refusal knocks me for a tail-spin. The last rejection had me curled up in bed crying for two days.
WHAT’S SO BLOODY WRONG WITH ME?
And don’t tell me it’s them, because there has to be something about the way I present myself that turns these guys off, or into assholes, or attracts assholes exclusively or something.
And don’t tell me that it’s my negative attitude, because only here do I let that out… this is MY place, and I speak what I speak and if you don’t like it
go fuck yourself
When I’m on a date, or simply out on my own, I’m pleasant enough. My mother taught me etiquette, be nice, polite, smile, be friendly and amiable, and I do all that. I make clever conversation, even when I don’t feel like it. I don’t dominate the conversation, or interrupt you in the middle of a sentence. I don’t talk with my mouth full, or put my elbows on the table.. that sort of simple stuff, and I certainly don’t sit there, texting someone else, making plans for dinner with someone else or using some other way to imply that there are things I’d rather be doing (and yes, that’s happened to me too).
I certainly don’t show up at a first date wearing blue jeans that are covered in paint and a t-shirt that says something stupid on it.
I don’t dress like a slut, to make sure I don’t give the impression that I want only to get laid.
I also don’t dress to the nines. I mean, if some guy wanted to take me to the opera for a first date, I’m more than capable of not only dressing the part, but of enjoying the opera and the company before and after.
I don’t dress like a bum either. I usually wear a skirt and blouse, because I want to give them the subconsious reinforcement that they are with a LADY… not a whore, so please treat her as such. Stating it right out… “Please treat me like a lady” hasn’t gotten me anywhere. The direct approach doesn’t work apparently, so a little visual aid can’t hurt is my opinion, and that’s closer to who I am, so is honest, and I’m big on honesty.
If I check out the sexual possibilities first, then they think I’m only after casual sex, but if I don’t let them know that, should the chemistry exist, I expect sex to be a part of a healthy relationship, then I end up with guys who can’t get it up.
What I need is to learn how to cope with rejection, because every rejection hurts worse than the previous one, even if it’s obvious from the get-go that it’s a total mis-match… I end up wondering how I managed to do it again and review everything yet again to figure out what I did wrong… what did I say to give that impression… what did I do to give that impression… what, what, where, when, how, etc.
And I spend hours and hours crying.
Then I spend hours and hours cursing at myself because I’ve let the problem become a bigger problem by curling up in a little ball, crying instead of doing what needs to be done to pay my fucking bills.
But I can’t stop myself. If I try, I end up not focusing on what I’m doing, let my mind wander off into what am I doing wrong, and, at best, find that I’ve spent hours and hours sitting in front of my sewing machine doing nothing…. at worst, I find that I’ve spent hours doing my task wrong and have to spend even more hours to make it right.
There has to be an answer.
It’s friday, and I have to go to work today… I’ve been up for three hours now… and it’s only 6:45 am.
I’m once again going to have to gird my loins for another day of tourists.
Put on the armour.
Paint on the smile and be pleasant.
It gets harder every day to do this.
Sooner or later, someone will say something that totally horks me off and off I’ll go.