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  • He has some hold on me, Peter, that is. Is it "love"? I have no idea. Most of the time I remember why I shouldn't like him. Most of the time, I remind myself that I am dangerously close to 50 years old and should behave appropriately - mostly I ignore this bit of advice. I like to think I'm in love with him, and he, in his own stunted way, is in love with me, and one day he will grow up and realize he needs me, and then, well I don't know the next part. but it will be brilliant I'm certain.

    I've been told, by a professional, that I have an abnormal attachment style/pattern/syndrome, ambivalent something or other. I don't attach normally to people because of my unfortunate childhood father figures and something about my mother not loving me. It's all very tragic. The result is the worse they treat me, the more I love them, or, and this is the kicker, if anyone decent shows up and treats me with love and respect I run, because the guy must me a serious loser if he thinks well of me. The kinder and nicer they are the faster and more quickly I move away. Now you know why I find musicians and bikers so attractive. I wrote a story about that once. Actually, I've written a several stories, and way too many poems about Peter, bikers, musicians... jerks. You could say it's a 'recurring theme' with me.

    So, Peter is a bad idea, for me. Number one, he's a writer, specifically a poet, nothing good ever comes from relationships with poets, in fact this is how a lot of terrible poetry gets written. Number two, he's Irish, an angst ridden, emotionally stunted breed of man, at least in my limited experience. The only Irish writer/poet worth knowing was Oscar Wilde, and he is not only dead, but was also gay. Alas. Okay, there are a few more decent Irish writers, in fact the Irish produce fine writers, and fine lovers (I've been told), but I've never personally known one to be both. Number three, he does not care for me, at least not like I care for him. This should be Number one, but I had to work my way up to it, make some excuses, small jokes to distract myself. Slip up to it sideways so I didn't scare myself off. Saying, "Well actually, he doesn't fancy me" right away seems a little abrupt, with very little opportunity for sarcasm and self deprecation. He did, once, fancy me that is, or at least he said he did, and then he said, "actually I was just flirting, and you're great and all, but it was only flirting and I didn't mean anything by it". Crushed me, that sentence did, and later it made me love him more. Sicko.

    Over the years (about 10 of them) I've tried to 'give him up'. I've done Twelve Step programs, lost weight, got fit, survived a major illness, major surgery and a fiery car crash. I've given up chocolate AND coffee (not permanently, but still) how hard could this be? Hard, it would appear.

    Today my yoga instructor based our class on an article she had just read about How to Take a Leap of Faith (and how that is different than a Stupid Decision). I had already read the article while looking for something else (serendipity?), and was really fascinated by it. Is it synchronicity? Am I meant to be making a Leap of Faith right now? In the article it said the difference between a Leap of Faith and a Stupid Decision is the difference between Love and Fear. A true Leap of Faith is based in Love, and will keep poking at you until you do something about it, or go bonkers not doing something about it. Stupid Decisions come from Fear based thinking, 'I'll lose him if I don't have sex with him' kind of think (been there, I was not even slightly dignified). Oh, and before I forget, yoga classes based on 'Flying' postures are really hard.

    Back to Peter, is it Love, or is it Fear? Am I making these two words more important than they should be by capitalizing them? (Is it real or is it Memorex? Butter, or Parkay?) He knows how I feel, well he did, at one point, I'm pretty sure. There was a tremendous amount of mortifying emotional word vomit on my part, and gobs of not responding on his part, once again, I was not even moderately dignified. Now I think I'm that friend that he's too busy to contact but thinks fondly of, but at the same time is very glad that there's an ocean between us (did I mention he lives in London? No? Sorry, my bad). Is the universe giving me a shove, am I making myself bonkers because I'm not doing anything, or am I working with faulty wiring to begin with, and under no circumstances should be trusted with deciding whom to love? Am I being wise and not making a fool of myself, again (and again)? I have no bloody idea, or should that be No Bloody Idea?

    These are the fatuous thoughts that go racing round in my mind if I leave it unattended. That's a great word, Fatuous, and it deserves the capital 'F' I think. In the end, it's all just words running around, and honestly I'm not afraid, I'm terrified and wish someone else would just figure this out for me, thank you very much.
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