Now, I should explain that my family has a long, murky history with ketchup. So, while a bottle of ketchup may be the last analogy most people would ever think of for their own lives, it's not that far-fetched in my strange little world.
It started, I believe, when my younger sister and I were sitting at the dinner table at my dad's house. Dad had made hot dogs- one of his few culinary achievements that didn't require a special gizmo and an instruction booklet- and my sister wanted to go play with her friends after dinner. When she asked and my father said no, she slammed the plastic ketchup bottle she'd been emptying onto her hot dog back down on to the table. Tumbleweed, in a rare act of laying down the law, responded with the phrase "I can do that, too!" and- I should pause here to mention that this was back when the word "UNBREAKABLE!" was emblazoned upon the front of the new plastic version- well, ketchup and plastic pieces were found for the rest of the time he lived there. The ceiling, in case you were wondering, got quite a bit more than one might expect.
So, while I was out spending time with a friend of mine- Backwoods, we'll call him- we went to see a movie. After the movie, naturally, a woman has to rush to the bathroom because she's been holding that bottle of water and whatever she drank during dinner for seven tenths of the movie. I'm not sure what set the light bulb off, to be honest, but the explanation Tumbleweed gave me about ketchup popped into my head. You see, if you hold the bottle perfectly vertical, you're going to have quite the time getting anything out of it, because the air can't get past all that ketchup trying to come through. If you hold it at a slightly more gentle horizontal angle, though, and don't try so hard to force it, the ketchup will come out just fine. Confused? I continuously put myself in all-or-nothing relationships. For one thing, I've never allowed myself air- no room to breathe. I don't take a break between relationships, I don't give myself time to heal, and, frankly, I pretend a lot of the pain I feel doesn't exist at all. There's more counts of broken hearts and questionable actions than I can begin to explain. I have pretended because these not-quite-relationships weren't put on display, that they couldn't have hurt me. What a load of hooey.
So, here I am, staring down the barrel of the perfect relationship with the most incredible guy I've ever dated- truly, I couldn't have written a script and had his actions and words been more exactly what I needed and wanted- and realizing that all this pain, fear, regret, doubt, hurt, and all manner of other negative emotion is still just sitting there, untouched and unhealed, like a drop of oil on the top of a measuring cup full of water. What's worse, I'm not just involving the man who's been so good to me, but I'm also dragging his wonderful little girl who needs so much to have a woman be there, be a good, reliable, loving example for her, too. Maybe if it was just Bright Eyes, I wouldn't know how badly I'm screwing up by trying to prove my mother wrong instead of trying to heal my wounds before I try to settle down.
I sit here, knowing what the right course of action is for me, yet I have never felt more guilty and more scared to have any conversation in my entire life than the one that I know I should have already had. So I hide.
It started, I believe, when my younger sister and I were sitting at the dinner table at my dad's house. Dad had made hot dogs- one of his few culinary achievements that didn't require a special gizmo and an instruction booklet- and my sister wanted to go play with her friends after dinner. When she asked and my father said no, she slammed the plastic ketchup bottle she'd been emptying onto her hot dog back down on to the table. Tumbleweed, in a rare act of laying down the law, responded with the phrase "I can do that, too!" and- I should pause here to mention that this was back when the word "UNBREAKABLE!" was emblazoned upon the front of the new plastic version- well, ketchup and plastic pieces were found for the rest of the time he lived there. The ceiling, in case you were wondering, got quite a bit more than one might expect.
So, while I was out spending time with a friend of mine- Backwoods, we'll call him- we went to see a movie. After the movie, naturally, a woman has to rush to the bathroom because she's been holding that bottle of water and whatever she drank during dinner for seven tenths of the movie. I'm not sure what set the light bulb off, to be honest, but the explanation Tumbleweed gave me about ketchup popped into my head. You see, if you hold the bottle perfectly vertical, you're going to have quite the time getting anything out of it, because the air can't get past all that ketchup trying to come through. If you hold it at a slightly more gentle horizontal angle, though, and don't try so hard to force it, the ketchup will come out just fine. Confused? I continuously put myself in all-or-nothing relationships. For one thing, I've never allowed myself air- no room to breathe. I don't take a break between relationships, I don't give myself time to heal, and, frankly, I pretend a lot of the pain I feel doesn't exist at all. There's more counts of broken hearts and questionable actions than I can begin to explain. I have pretended because these not-quite-relationships weren't put on display, that they couldn't have hurt me. What a load of hooey.
So, here I am, staring down the barrel of the perfect relationship with the most incredible guy I've ever dated- truly, I couldn't have written a script and had his actions and words been more exactly what I needed and wanted- and realizing that all this pain, fear, regret, doubt, hurt, and all manner of other negative emotion is still just sitting there, untouched and unhealed, like a drop of oil on the top of a measuring cup full of water. What's worse, I'm not just involving the man who's been so good to me, but I'm also dragging his wonderful little girl who needs so much to have a woman be there, be a good, reliable, loving example for her, too. Maybe if it was just Bright Eyes, I wouldn't know how badly I'm screwing up by trying to prove my mother wrong instead of trying to heal my wounds before I try to settle down.
I sit here, knowing what the right course of action is for me, yet I have never felt more guilty and more scared to have any conversation in my entire life than the one that I know I should have already had. So I hide.
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