Alienation of Affection
I’ve got a lot on my mind lately. I guess it’s what you’d call “soul searching.” Sometimes I think I want men to be something they aren’t.. like fictional.
I don’t like being taken for granted. I don’t know if other people experience this problem of a partner slowing slipping into a declining pattern of willful negligence where your relationship is concerned. And I know I don’t like it, and usually I’m clearly stating it right until the other shoe drops. “I don’t like this. Stop this. This is the thing that will eventually push me away from you.”
Why does the honeymoon always have to be over? Why do we start out as partners, but always end up contending with one another? I thought we were going to take are of each other. I don’t want to be the authority figure you’re rebelling against, your ball and chain, your scapegoat, your nag… your woman.
And so, I’m moving on.
Now all of my life I have been told I was equal. And all of my life I was told I could have it all. But I notice often, successful women are alone. I may not look like a successful woman, insecure as I am. I may look like a chubby little girl, laughing and teasing and softly complaint and needing so desperately to hold your hand. I am holding your hand when I’m fixing my car. I’m holding your hand when I’m balancing our budget. I will hold your hand until your hand feels like superman. Somehow, your hand is doing all the work now. It’s propping me up while I bust my ass, because I am very hardworking, and I hate being alone.
But I hate it less than I hate being neglected, and you have been neglecting me. You kept saying you loved me so very much, but we stopped going out. We stopped washing dishes together. We didn’t walk to the beach anymore. You stayed up all night screaming at your XBox, and I started sleeping with my fictional characters. Well if I’m going to be sleeping with Flynn every night now, then I guess I better be my own man. Right? I’ll just be my own man.
Because the premium on hand-holding has gotten way too expensive, and I can hug myself, yes, I can pat myself on the ass. I don’t need to kiss your ass for a cuddle and a pat on the head. I can even go fuck myself, so why don’t I do that now? Sure.
What is this you say? You love me?
Well I love you too, I just don’t love the way you’re treating me.
So I’ll be rubbing my own feet now, I’ll be scratching my own back. I’ll be holding my own hand, I’ll be loving myself. I will look at that little pie-faced girl in the mirror and tell her I love her every day. ‘Cause someone’s going to love me. And someone is going to treat me right. Yes, that’s me…
I know I will love me and treat me right.
Sometimes I think I want men to be something they can’t be.. fictional. But I don’t want to be the authority figure you’re rebelling against… your ball and chain, your scapegoat, your nag… your woman.