A Mother's Musings and Mumblings

<!DOCTYPE pity party>

I keep a list of topics of things that I intend to blog about at some point in the future. That means that the topics that show up here aren’t always directly related to something that’s happened recently – although they certainly could be. One topic that’s been hovering on the list for some time is my own personal Hell. I’ve thought, more than once, that writing about it and bringing it to the light of day would perhaps dispel its power if not it’s existence. That said, after many years of spending significant time there I do have to say that it is well furnished – although the provisions are dwindling a bit and I could use brownies if I’m to stay here much longer. I don’t mean to imply that I live here, just that I visit often enough to make it worth the effort to decorate.

So why do I visit? My relationships with men over the years have thrown me into this pit on more than one occasion (a visit from Uncle Sigmund would help define why it exists in the first place but that‚Äôs a topic for another day).  DJ used to send me here on a regular basis ‚Äì nearly weekly ‚Äì although never intentionally. In the year we were together, he always made it clear that Annie was first in his life and always would be despite everything she‚Äôd done to him up to and including the bitter divorce. We didn‚Äôt part ways because of this, we parted ways because he said he would never make that kind of commitment to a woman again and I didn‚Äôt want to live like that. Of course, he‚Äôs made that commitment now to another ‚Äì a fact that brings us to the nature of my personal Hell.

I will never be “that” woman. It is simply not my role in life to be the one that a partner will make a priority of. Some of that is age and circumstance – I’m past the point in my life where anyone is going to make me that high a priority in their life – but some of it goes beyond time. WF wouldn’t give me the consideration of letting me know where he was when we were married and yet, his new wife gets that and more. He’s learned. That’s great and, logically, I know I should be happy for him (and her) but then I turn back to the men who have been in my life since WF and the vast majority of them have put their ex first.

Even when we’re not talking about ex’s, the men in my life are willing to chase other women down and leave me sitting on the back burner until I’m near completely convinced of my absolute lack of desirability. I’m not “that” woman that they chase. I’m not “that” woman that they commit to or worry about or even fail to take for granted. In short, I am not, nor will I ever be, worthy of that sort of emotional investment.

Logically, I know better.  I can go case-by-case through my life and explain away every single incident. They‚Äôve learned, they‚Äôve been burned, they have a brain tumor, she‚Äôs a better manipulator than I am, he‚Äôs addicted to the chase‚Ķ. the list goes on. But at the bottom of this pit none of the reasons matter. Once I‚Äôve fallen over the edge and landed on my rump, logic plays no role. All I know at that point is that I‚Äôm not the ‚Äúworthy‚Äù one and, at this age, it is unlikely that I ever will be.

As with so many things in my life, I can make my peace with a lot. I don’t need to be “that” woman to have value. Being chased is overrated and having someone feel the need to take care of you because you can’t do it for yourself is demeaning. It should be easy to make my peace with this since the demons exist largely in my own head so all I have to do is tell them to scram, right?

Wrong.

Last year I watched a very dear man lose his partner of many, many years. I saw him at her bedside ‚Äì listened to him as he spoke to her even as she couldn‚Äôt respond and heard the rich emotion in his voice as he spoke to us about her and what he would have us do for her. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever witnessed.  I cried all the way home as it sunk slowly in that I would never mean that much to anyone. Certainly I hadn‚Äôt meant that much to anyone I‚Äôd been married to. WF had left me to find my own way home from the ER and Guido had resorted to violence to manage his anger at my illness.

My illness.

At last we get to the point of the timing of this post. I’m waiting for test results and while there’s a good part of my logical brain that knows everything will be fine, there’s the emotional undercurrent of “what if”. Under the surface, I’m scared out of my wits. I’m not scared of being sick or scared of what treatment I’ll face – I’m scared of facing it alone – any of it: the tests, the results, the treatment, the symptoms.

Thing 1 is my empathic little twin and Thing 2 is an emotional barometer – forget me, I can’t allow my emotions to bleed onto them. But I can’t hold it all on my own either. And Goddess help me, the most terrifying thought of all is needing someone. Because needing someone gives them the power to hurt you when they find “that” woman. The one who inspires them. The one I’ll never be.

And yes, Wife of mine, I have friends. And all y’all are scattered so far away and many of y’all have families of your own to tend and don’t need to adopt one more needy orphan. Don’t worry, I won’t feel this way by the light of day once I get some of this crap behind me.

</pity party>