I Love You And I'm Leaving You Anyway

And then I start crying. I can see so perfectly, out here on the open road, what I’ve really believed about myself all my life—that I’m less than other people, that there’s something wrong with me, that I’ll always be left, and that I’ll never be loved—I can see it for what it is, that it’s not the truth, that it was never true, and now that I can see it, it never will be true again. Never

I’d rather not be doing what I’m doing, then why am I doing it?

I already know the answer: because I can’t stop.

I really don’t want that to be the answer

didn’t have orgasms because I was frigid. It was that I was refusing. Refusing to let go. Refusing to let a man have an effect on me. Refusing to be vulnerable. Refusing to be with someone completely. Refusing to lose control.

I know it is—it turns cause-and-effect upside down. It means these feelings—of abandonment, anxiety, not-enough-ness—actually came first, and the men followed. Like maybe I’m conscripting them, at gunpoint, into my war against me. I stick a pistol in their ribs and say, “I need someone to prove to me that men will ultimately disappoint me. You’re coming with me.”

The only thing is…if we’re both little girls who miss Daddy, which one of us is going to be the grown-up?

know what this is about. And it’s something I am unwilling to experience. Again. So I’m casual. I retreat into my formidable little intellect.

“Why?” I ask. This is the only safe thing to say right now. Reasons are safe. Explanations are safe. They’re like watching news video of a terrible snowstorm when you live in California. You’re kind of like, Huh, that doesn’t look too good. You can see it, but you can’t feel it

There is this Jungian thing I learned, where if you look at a woman’s choice of mate (or even date) you will see the male version of herself