Like a Moth to a Flame
From the very beginning with Stu—the widow—I was enamored by his ability to say what I needed to hear in the language I crave. He spoke the language of recovery while behaving like an unrecovered addict. And like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to both.
His behavior and his words were always in conflict. Instead of doubting him, I doubted my own sanity and perception. His words soothed me, so I overrode my instincts and dismissed them as PTSD. I preferred his words to being right. I wanted to be wrong. Badly.
I did grow from and enjoy our situationship. But what have I learned? Today, I feel deeply agitated that I still cannot make people, places, or things be different from how they are. I hate having to accept what I do not want. I hate it.
The widow part of his story was a gift—a reminder that “I do not know.” I cannot assume motives, but I do understand that repeated patterns don’t lie, even when words do. I am a sucker for the language of recovery.
Fun fact: the two men I’m currently getting to know (and using to dull the pain) share the names of my previous long‑term relationship people. OY. What I’m observing in one of them is a strong protector‑provider instinct. That will be new and delightful. And I’m noting how much I would like to experience that.
