Now that we have done the destruction, let's do some reconstruction.
Realization number one.
Most of my relationships fail because I am a psycho.
Let's elaborate.
Men find me attractive, funny, intelligent, intriguing. They enjoy my company and look at me with a mixture of lust, friendship and amazement.
The first steps of approach are usually very easy.
These are the possible subsequent options.
Either I remain well-wedged in my 'mate' role, or somebody makes a move and the ball gets rolling (so to speak).
If this embryo of a relationship does go forward, in the first weeks something scary happens. I turn into a crazy monster. Needy, doubtful, teary, jealous and a right out pain in the butt.
Shock and awe! 'Where is the cool, funny woman I met? - they say - Where is the sexpot I was promised?'
Buried under my total incapacity to hold a relationship. Hidden away, locked up in a cupboard, hankie scrunched in her mouth, tied to a chair by psycho me.
The Man mastered the perfect glazed-over look every time I started going off the wall. He just sat there (or stood there) staring at me, thinking about football and waiting for the storm to pass. Of course, this used to make me go even crazier. Give me a reaction! But, bless him, what could he do? In most cases, deep down the outburst was completely unrelated to his actions. My butt looked gigantic in the leather pants I so desperately wanted to buy. The Boss ignored my brilliant ideas and then recycled them as his. I yet again failed to quit smoking. And instead of tackling any of these issues I just lashed out at him for leaving a teabag on the counter top.
Sounds familiar?
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