The worst feeling in the world is having your heart broken, when you know damn well it’s your own fault. You knowingly went into a situation, with the knowledge of the risk, but wanted so badly to believe something had changed... they had changed. They hadn’t changed. You can’t even be mad at them anymore, because at this point, even you can’t say you didn’t know the likely outcome. You should have predicted it, and you did.
Some don’t believe in astrology or in the idea your birth time and date could successfully predict your behavior. They believe we are all floating through life and despite sharing identical backgrounds, upbringing and parents, we just miraculously have a completely opposite personality than our siblings. Birth order may play a role, but after three kids, even that becomes vague and inaccurate. The fact that we are generally 65 percent water, and water is affected by gravity should be evidence enough that heavenly bodies affect us just like the moon affects the ocean.
I’m finally dating someone. Or more accurately, I am dating someone again and not shying away from talking about it for fear of jinxing it. It is so weird to me you have to almost have a philosophical internal dialogue to know what is okay or not okay to say to someone you are dating now. I have always been the type of person who is awkwardly honest about my feelings, and necessary discussion has never terrified me. That makes me a freak now.
If I wasn’t crazy before, which is up for debate depending on who you ask, I am now. The four years since suddenly losing my husband, Ryan, have been a roller coaster. I met someone relatively early on and the poor guy was given a crash course into my grief cycle antics. A combination of depression, insecurity, abandonment issues, and my newfound experience of addiction teetering with the ever present accountability boulder I now carried securely on my shoulders makes it hard to invest in relationships. I had four offspring on their own journey of grief, and the idea of me now being the last of the Mohicans as far as parents for them was constantly on my mind. That is my reality.
Far be it from me to buy into the concept of summer flings bred by pop culture such as Grease and Dear John, especially with my history in love. There is just something about warmer temperatures and longer days that make love easier. Everyone has experienced this phenomenon at some point in their lives. The third time is the charm, so they say and hoping it holds true in my story.