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Because I’m an Asshole

I’ve been a bit open about my situation, and my divorce. And often such times are ones of deep self-examination. This isn’t meant to be a slam on myself, and I am not depressed, at least not overly so. But realistically, sometimes i just realize maybe I don’t have to be one going forward, but in the past at least, I’ve been a real asshole.

The evidence is clear, the witnesses have been called.
Cold, calculating, much too intellectual and practical for love.
That’s me. Don’t take my word for it.
Two failed marriages, countless ruined relationships. A magic
eight ball, that at every consultation about matters of
the heart, returns the verdicts:
“Not Likely”
“Doubtful”
“Outcome Uncertain”
Then when asked, since no one else will deliver an
answer so honest and without guile,
“Am I an asshole?”
the triangle swirls in the murky blue liquid before:
“Yes.”

The first failed for the same reason as the last,
along with all those in between.
I’m a workaholic, and a problem solver. I fail to console, to
show enough empathy. My form of love is not accepted,
not perceived the same way I mean it. I want to care, and I
want to show I do by my actions, not just my words.
“You don’t understand.”
“I want something more.”
“You’re never home.”
These reasons one gave. Another declared I was too much a dreamer,
yet another, too practical.
I strive for affection, perhaps never offered when I was a child,
and yet betrayed often, struggle with
trust.

Unfocused, I failed.
A workaholic, I failed.
Betrayed, I failed.
Jealous, I failed.
Honest, I failed.
Dishonest, I failed.
Faithful, I failed.
Unfaithful, I failed.
Loosing myself for another, I failed.
Finding myself and my way, I failed.
Generous, I failed.
Miserly, I failed.
In all of these, I failed.
Because I’m an asshole.

I sit now, on the verge of a new start
alone with my thoughts, words and worlds of
my own creation, filled with those characters formed
from parts of me. I’m surrounded by the potential
for love, for friendship. But I’m afraid.
“You don’t love me.”
“I think you want someone else.”
“Just come home.”
These things I hear, these thoughts in my head
echo through the empty space. It used to be
filled. Thoughts of love and hurt are both gone,
leaving behind empty space. I want to try again, but
fear repeated failure.
Because I’m an asshole.

Published inAdvice for Authors