… a term I’ve heard that’s been used to describe me.
I have no concept of my own looks in the eyes of others although I do find beauty when I look in the mirror. My only long term girlfriend once looked at me and said “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” And, she was probably just in love, but she was also right. I have no clue.
Guys never called me beautiful. I was cute… or, omg, fuck-able.
Because that’s what a girl wants to hear, right?!?!
Anyway, I know I’m fuck-able. And cute. And innately beautiful in a non-barbie kind of way. And… incredibly smart, too.
Well, about some things. I ran over my bare foot with the weed whacker two weeks ago. And my finger tips are smooth from all the dishes I’ve grabbed out of the oven with out mitts.
There’s a reason I’m crazy. Especially about relationships. I watched the only man who has ever really loved me, die suddenly.
It’s traumatic to say the least, and maybe it doesn’t excuse the callous way I treat men but the pain is truly unbearable. I’ve never gotten over it.
Maybe I never will.
I know now that I start throwing bricks on my figurative wall as soon as I start liking a guy. And then the first time they screw up, even if it’s something really trivial and stupid, I start flinging those bricks up on that wall as fast as my 44 year old arms will go.
And I intuitively know exactly what will drive that romantic relationship into the dust, and I do it.
I can’t stop it once it starts.
It’s an unending panic attack until I either pass out from exhaustion or we somehow work it out. But if we work it out, it usually just starts the vicious cycle over again.