At Least They're Committed

It was a grainy black and white photo in a circa 1960s digest and it’s become rather commonplace, but I imagine it was quite shocking for the people at the time. “Stop me before I kill again.” A man out of control, a lost demented soul who took out his psychosis and self loathing on a woman who may have eagerly let him in. The message was scrawled in blood — or so the caption said — on the wall above the bed where the woman’s twisted body lay.

I can’t imagine hurting anyone, not physically, never, never, never. But I sure seem to be doing an excellent job of it mentally. I texted “Mark” (name changed!)  ‘happy birthday’ and he texted back at least seven times wondering when we can get together in a very literal sense. I laughed and playfully said “yeah, I love you too,” because I do — I love all my friends and I appreciate them and he really is a very kind man.

Later that night, right before CU went into overtime against West Virginia, Mark even called. We had a really, really nice talk, he’s such a good friend, but he was still pretty descriptive in what he wanted.

All this irritated the hell out of my husband, with good reason. I said I thought it was funny and Mark’s situation was maybe a little sad. D sees it as disrespectful and I can understand that, too. What an asshole I am. It’s all my fault. I let these things go on and I let them escalate and I string more men than just Mark along keeping them close but not touching them and then I act amazed and upset when these guys get pushy and demanding. What the hell am I doing???

Is it because I got barked at as a child? Was it the way boys “oinked” at me because of my turned up nose? I have no idea.

I try to justify all this by saying everyone — such as these wonderful guy friends — needs to feel special and attractive and appreciated and I DO think that’s true. But I go much too far. I seem to want to be wanted and need to be needed and it’s wrong. I mean, when one guy who wants to sleep with you doesn’t like that another man with whom you recently became friends (flirt buddies maybe?) called you “Babe” (I liked that) then there’s something way out of whack.

I’m a mess. I need to be kept in line. I need a good friend to tell me when I’ve crossed over; someone I really trust to shake me when I’m acting like a harlot and say “Jesus Christ Cathy! Knock it the fuck off” (deep down I like being told what to do). Hmmmm. It would have to be someone who doesn’t want to sleep with me, because otherwise he would be reacting out of jealousy and that would perpetuate the cycle. It can’t be a female friend because, well, we collectively have way too much fun with this sort of shit. Who? Who? Who?

How pathetic that I can’t self police. I am SUCH a loser! I’m somewhere caught between the mangled woman in the bed sheets and the mangler. Someone stop me before I . . . whatever it is that I do . . . again!!!!