Relationshit

Well, Chicago, so far I've rediscovered faith in myself, found safety
in the uncertain, and now it seems I'm learning  how to not sabotage
myself in relationships.  This is probably fairly valuable, as I am 
divorced and relatively inept at dating.

It's almost as if I foul up any relationship prospects intentionally.  I anticipate
the forthcoming rejection either because I'm not young enough, attractive
enough, or I've just got too much "baggage."  Call me Samsonite if you
will, but we've all at least got a carry-on that comes with our
present personages.  I realize that it's a self-esteem issue I've carried
with me since I was a child.  Growing up in a household where I was
either the most remarkable little girl, or a useless, unworthy child led
me to believe I was powerful refuse.  It's a strange complex I've been
attempting to disassemble, and recreate myself without that part of my past.

My father would tell me I was the only reason he was alive, and then
he'd let me read his suicide notes.  He never literally killed himself,
and I naively thought I saved him.  But then the next day I was ungrateful
and he'd pull the car over on the side of the road.  And we'd sit there.
Alone.

I'm sure it appears that I have "daddy" issues.  And sure, like so many
other women out there, I do.  It is the one man in your life who is
supposed to think you are the most beautiful and brilliant girl in the
world.  And I was only that girl on a good, less crazy day for my father.
A fine, tremulous line I walked because I hated the dark, but it
was unavoidable.  And I came very close to letting it devour me whole,
believing every man maintained a well disguised Mr. Hyde.  At some point,
they'd unleash the violence and disdain; so it was up to me to be the
saboteur.  And in the wreckage, I failed to find grace.  I became the one who
would cause the insanity.  I suppose it felt appealing for awhile.  Comforting
almost, as I disappeared into myself.

But, here, in this city of 2.8 million separate souls I feel less
powerful.  It's a power I need to let go of finally.  I am almost thirty years old
and I have been hopelessly digging my nails into the idea that I must
constantly be on the defensive.  I don't feel that so much now.  Maybe,
it's the physical distance between myself and my past; or perhaps it is that
I finally realized that whatever semblance of a father I had died a long time ago.
I let the manipulation and anger go with him, and I will cease to create chaos
where there should be only curiosity.