He deserves someone like I should have been. Brilliant, energetic, a hard worker who takes pride in her craft, "an enthusiastic and dynamic individual possessing a powerful mind, who would be an asset to any organisation," one of my ancient letters of recommendation read. Yes, I memorised it, because even then, I couldn't imagine someone could think so highly of me, let alone a professor of philosophy.
Okay. Off the subject of my lady business, and back onto the subject of me being bad at being married to someone who actually treats me well. There's a lot of childhood stuff I could get into, but for now I'm going to focus on my adult life, and sum up my childhood as a grilled shit sandwich in which I knew, from toddler age, that my parents didn't love each other but pretended to "for my sake."
It's funny. I've spent my whole life running, taking all the blame in relationships, rather than listening to my intuition, that told me to shatter illusions before it was too late. But those mirrors and smoke were, for the time being, providing something I needed. I let myself settle into my false security. Illusion after illusion, the time in between spent seeking out my next escape route, a new town, a new state, a new school, a new country -- anything but home.
Now that I'm finally safe, I can't accept it. My brain can't believe it. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm sure Matt will hate me when he sees what I really am, or even if he loves all of me, he won't be able to "handle" me, and he'll just drop me off in the middle of the hell hole where he found me. I know this is irrational, but I can't stop scheming and planning my next stop on the road to survival. I am always looking for cracks in the foundation. Always ready to bug out. Always listening for the dreaded phrase, "we have to talk."
I don't know how to be married. I don't know how to be domesticated. I have to learn, or I am going to sabotage everything, My instinct is to isolate myself if I think I've been a burden. I imagine that others mentally keep score of my flaws, and every time I screw up, it gets struck in stone. When I think that score is getting pretty high, I assume that my partner must be angry at me almost all the time. So I isolate, and I break it off, cut my losses, and leave. It's what I've always done. "No hard feelings, no regrets. It's okay. We just didn't work well as a couple, but we can be friends." And, indeed, I am friends with a number of my exes, just not the assholes.
But now is different. My name is on the deed to an actual house. We aren't going anywhere for maybe even a decade. I can't fathom it. I've not stayed in once place for more than two years since I moved back from England in 2004, and I usually only kept an address for six months to a year before I met Matt. And this unconditional love thing, how does that really work? How sick can I get before he can't take it any more, or worse, bears the burden in silent misery?
And for all of this paranoid, maniacal shit, I can thank my abusers, from my parents, to bullies at school to some of my partners, and the great American healthcare system that gave me too little, too late. Oh, I am long overdue for some vitriol. Well-directed anger is so much more productive than turning inward and tearing myself down. I just don't know where to direct it. I need focus.
Which is why I went running back to my old friend, Academia. Oh, silly me, applying to Otterbein's communications program as an adult student. What a joke. I couldn't even get transcripts from most of the schools I attended, because I owe them money, and I'm behind on my student loans as it is. Why should this time be any different? I'm grasping at straws, trying to find something for my brain to do, trying to find meaning, be that star student again, and online classes from a diploma mill ain't gonna cut it. Hah. I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeVille.