“Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.”
― Brené Brown
My brain says NO, while my tattered heart continues to hang on; the blood from my fingers tasting of denial and persistence.
No matter how high the rush, when involved with a toxic partner, the lows always follow. Orgasms aren’t supposed to be succeeded by tears. Trust in our partners isn’t something we wish upon like mythical stars floating above the darkness. It should be a mutual, well-earned feeling shared equally – like the sun kissing the trees in springtime, nurturing them back to life.
My addictions have spiraled me down the rabbit hole of need, desperation and shame more times than I care to admit. And yet no matter how far I claw my way out of the darkness, with each new relationship, I dive head-first cloaked in a thick film of “this time will be different.”
Head: Zero. Heart: I don’t believe we’re in single digits anymore, Toto.
I’ve been repeating the same dysfunctional love-pattern of “I Hate you, don’t leave me” ever since slow-dancing to Earth Wind and Fire’s Reasons with my childhood crush, Mike Ruben. Even then, among the crepe paper and smelly gym lockers lining the walls, I believed true love was percolating. The reality that Mike felt his way through all the girls in the class that night eluded my desperate heart.
Damaged people always find one another; two wrongs making a right, misery loving company, that sort of thing. How we navigate our way out of the chaos without craving it boils down to self-worth.
Unless we dig deep within our stories – and re-wire our thoughts about what we deserve, the revolving door of toxic love will continue to poison our hearts.
We’re not bad people, us toxic folk. Everybody has a story. We just need to work through ours without the beautiful, chaotic and alluring distractions of land-mind relationships.
I’m really gonna miss those.