What am I doing? (or What the hell is wrong with men?)

Today is Friday night and I couldn’t have imagine in a million years that I would be sitting in my living room drinking red wine, watching re-runs of Waking the Dead and bloging in my pajamas instead of being out there in the city. This is certainly not a the life I planned for myself, but then again things rarely turn out as I’d planned (more like never).

So, I am sitting here drinking wine and not quite feeling sorry for myself (since I despise pity) but feeling a bit sad and lonely and thinking about the men that have come and go in my life. I’m thinking about three in particular, whom have been part of my life of late, the three of them have been quite important to me in one way or another and I didn’t quite get to where I wanted to go with them.

The first one is Daniel, from Spain, and I was madly in love with him for over 10 years, he was not in love with me, not even remotely. Finally one day it was over, and now I think we can be friends.
The second one is Donald, my soon-to-be ex-husband, I was truly in love with him, I chose him, he was the love of my life, but he is not in love with me anymore and who the fuck knows why? I most certainly do not.
The third and last is Bruce, from Rapid City SD (he’s originally from Kenya). Bruce who has been my source of pain and love and inspiration this past couple of months. I am in love with him, and I am in love with the idea of him, and I am in love with the possibility of us. And I honestly doubt he is or was ever in love with me, despite the fact that he said he was, but he was great sex.

Looking back I see of course what I could have done differently, where I could have behaved differently and I wondered if the outcome in any of those cases, would have been different. Of course in retrospect everything is clearer, is like having a buzz or being drunk, a world in which the unthinkable becomes plausible. The thing is, that every single time I was myself, fiercely so. I was relentless in my being me, stubborn, I was undeniably me. So, the question would be if to have a man (or a woman) is it worth to not be one self. Is it worth it? Not to be me, not to be independent and strong, not to speak my mind?

All this I ponder, this Friday night as I sit with my kitties drinking wine. Is it worth it? So many women do it. So many of us leave behind ourselves and our dreams for another. We strip to our very core and rebuild ourselves as an illusion to serve the men we love. But if we are not us, how can we truly love? Can we truly be happy if we are not us? Then I think back to each of those moments and my mindset at the time and I realize that more important to me than  each of those men, more important to me than their love, the most important thing at the time, and every time, was to be completely true to myself. And, if they cannot love me when I am truly being me, how can they love me at all?

Each time I wanted them with all my heart and all my soul, and each time they left me, each time I thought I could have been different and keep them but each time I wasn’t different, I was . . .  me. And I didn’t change for them, and I didn’t leave my job for them, and I didn’t move for them, I didn’t have children and I didn’t become a house wife, and I wasn’t the woman that they wanted me to be. I was the woman I wanted to be. And to be myself I pay a price, now I sit here with my two cats and a glass of wine, with no man but at least my mind and soul are free.

I am sad sometimes, and lonely sometimes, but I am mostly glad that I am free of the bonds and prisons of not being me. Still, sometimes like now, I think about it. If it’s really worth it not to be me to have him. And I thank whichever gods may be that it’s only a fleeting thought and only that.


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