How You Doin’ Blondie?


That Train Is Never Late
November 14, 2007, 5:01 pm
Filed under: Electra Complex, Life, Psychoanlysis, Reflections, relationships, thoughts | Tags: , , , ,

Today he led me back to his office and when we were settled, he leaned towards me and said very somberly, “We have to talk.” He told me that he’s come to the realization that there’s nothing he can do for me. He said professionally, medically, ethically; he knows there’s something wrong, something he should weed out and fix. But personally, when he analyzes me on a purely human to human level, he doesn’t see much point or probability in change. He told me that, quite simply, he just go to me too late. He said that I know I make unhealthy decisions, and that what throws him is that I know why I make them too. He said I really do his job for him, and he said that it’s for that reason that I had probably already drawn the conclusion he was about to make. He said I was more then welcome to continue with our sessions, but he couldn’t let me go on unless he was sure I knew it was an exercise in futility.

His seriousness was so charming, I didn’t tell him he’s just another notch on my belt.

Advertisements


de • grade – verb [used with object] 1. to reduce; to decompose by stages.

Sometimes I feel like my love life is so pathetic it’s tangible. Like people can see it just as clearly as they could see a piece of lettuce in my teeth. My relationships with men are so twisted and unhealthy, I don’t ever fully confide in anyone about them, not even Dr. J. And I don’t lie because I’m afraid of what people will say about my lifestyle, I can handle being looked at as the obligatory bimbo indicative of a man’s mid-life crisis. What I can’t handle is people seeing how much of my heart I put into being objectified. On some level, I know he doesn’t really love me, I know I’m just another accessory he bought, but the part of me that wants so badly to be loved, lies to the part of me that knows that I’m not. It’s sick, it’s sad, it’s disgusting, it’s deplorable; I should know better, I deserve better, insert the self-empowering lie of your choice here. But for all those things, for all those wretched, dirty little things that define my relationships with men, the worst, the very worst thing about it all: this is the way it has to be. I am only happy with a man when he devalues me as a person.



People’d call, say “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”

To the men I date, I am their trophy. I am tall, I am blonde, I’ve got the measurements women take out second mortgages for. I look good in their recently acquired late model luxury car (usually red), and I look even better on the deck of their yachts that managed to escape the hatchet in divorce court. I’m intelligent, so when they dress me up and show me off to their friends, I don’t embarrass them by saying something vapid or staring vacantly into my wine glass. They love the way the men in their social circle congratulate them discreetly, and the way the wives of those same men glare at me with unadulterated envy and scorn. Everything I do is cute, every idea I have is refreshing. Anything I express even a mild interest in, I get.

But I am never introduced to their children. I am never invited to family functions. Pictures are taken of us as a couple, but they never manage to make it to the coffee table or the wall. Though I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with Bachelors degrees in both Applied Mathematics and History, I am rarely asked for my opinion concerning business or social matters. I have never made it past the engagement phase. I used to give the rings back when the wedding plans fell through, but now I keep them. They never ask for the gifts back, so I never had to make a conscious decision to keep them. I own more luxury cars than Shaq, and I have more bling too. My baubles make the Hope Diamond look like junk from a vending machine.

But I’ve never had a wedding. I’ve never had a man look at me with hopeless love and devotion. I’m an object. A symbol of a phase of their life they’ll laugh about someday with their second wife, a woman older than me and probably not as attractive.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a twenty something home-wrecker, I see a little girl who wants so desperately to be loved that it hurts sometimes. On the few occasions my family gets together, I can’t bear to look at Dad’s new girlfriend, can’t stand to see how beautiful, how young, how intelligent she is. But the worst part, the part that is truly sick, is that I’m content being an object. Actually, I’m more than content, it thrills me. I get an indescribable sense of euphoria from being that hot thing hanging off some middle-aged millionaire’s arm. But what happens when I’m not young enough to be a trophy anymore? Then what? How do I find someone to love me? Do I just raise my age requirements? Start dating men that are older than the ones I date now? What happens when I’m 40 years old and my friends all have husbands and families and daughters old enough to be trophies themselves? What happens when all I’ve got to show for all my relationships is things, things that can’t talk to me or touch me or love me?

With this new man, this one I’ve been writing about, I sense that things will be different. His attitude is different from all the other ones, I can actually picture myself saying “I do.” That’s why he’s so important, so very, very important to me. I don’t want to be alone, living in the shadow of my “Daddy Issues” forever.



Thanks Jack, but my psychoanalyst has been saying that for years