Ready. Set. Write.

It was a potent and complex emotional cocktail:

Part rage, part hurt, part frustration, part humiliation, and, still, part suffocating love.

Over the years the quantities of each had changed, but the result was the same...

Almost overwhelming, drunken feeling.

I never got past the first chapter of The Reading Group, by Elizabeth Noble (Thank god. I mean, why don't I just start wearing my red hat with purple, buy 8 more cats, and join my mother's book club already).

But the point is... that quote makes my insides churn.

I used to think that pain was necessary in love. In creation. In life. That through great conflict I would learn to appreciate peace and harmony.

Now, this mentality can prove to have elements of truth, but I took it too far.

I became accustomed to pain. To never having my needs met. To emotional despair. Being unsatisfied and stressed the fuck! out. with too much responsibility became home.

---

A few years ago, my old roommate had a shirt custom designed for me...


Only now, dozens of self help books and chick lit memoirs later, am I actually recognizing that I am NOT a drama magnet... but truly, a drama facilitator.

I have a sick sense for drama (that might be my super power... for real for real). And when I find the right scenario, I get out the watering can, miracle grow, and unleash the power of my own personal sunshine on this itty bitty drama sprout, and to my contrived surprise... TA DA! DRAMA!

It's disgusting, really. I find someone in need of help or advice and I am drawn to them like white on rice. They get me high. Because I see this potential and opportunity to really FIX something... and well, it's like the chance to make up for what I couldn't fix originally.

Get ready, kids... cause here comes Freud.

I couldn't fix my family. My parents' marriage. And god dammit! did I try. I tried everything I could to get them back together, and I tried everything I could to protect my little brother in the wake of it all.

... but it didn't work.

I remember most of my late childhood being a job. I had to be perfect in school. I had to always be good, never get in trouble, never do anything wrong. I had to take care of my little brother, my mother, and eventually my grandmother because dad left... and mom gave up.

But I got too tired. Too sick of failing. And I started to see opportunities outside of my family to help, fix and actually SUCCEED. Shy best friends, deviant boys, socially awkward classmates, blah blah blah... I was hooked.

The problem is that I wasn't actually hooked on the succeeding. I was hooked on the struggle.

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The only time I felt truly connected to you was when we were in pain together. When I was empathizing and helping you through your issues. When I was left unfulfilled because you were too preoccupied with your own shit to really even see me as anything other than your therapist. Your life coach.

I made it all about you. And I forgot all about me. Codependent. I needed you to need me so you wouldn't leave me...

fear. of. abandonment.

But you always left anyway. Whether you were my "best friend" or my "boyfriend"... you still always left. Always ended up hating me. Probably because despite what I was doing and thinking about on the conscious level...

... deep down I probably wanted you to stay broken. Stay sick. Stay needy so you won't leave me.

It makes me nauseous just thinking about it.

And I don't ever want to be that again.

I have to learn how to love and help ME as much as those close to me. No. MORE than those close to me.

But when you've spent your whole life chasing distractions (albeit, very interesting, exhilarating and awe-inspiring distractions) in order to avoid dealing with yourself...

How do you even know where to begin?