The patterns in life

Last week, a friend of mine was telling me about her dating pattern. She's recently started seeing a healer and says that it's made a world of difference to the way she sees herself and her relationships. And she says she's finally identified the problem that makes her fall for the worst kind of men. And I'm not even talking about bad boys. Because bad boys are predictable and almost always follow a universal pattern. The way I see it, my friend seems to have a thing for emotional wrecks. Men who think they want something and the moment they get it, they want something else. So her dating, semi-dating and fling history consists of a series of men that have spent the best years of their life fumbling around in the dark. Nothing wrong with that, but only until you don't hurt other people in the process. And my friend's been hurt, multiple times.

Her newfound realisation about her dating pattern got me thinking about the patterns in my life. And the only unfailing constant in my relationships is that all of them are destined to fail. From day one. So my pattern seems to be impossible relationships. I seem to be incapable of being in a healthy, happy relationship. You'd think that the realisation would leave a bitter taste in my mouth. But it didn't. Because I guess it's one of those truths that my heart has decided that my mind can finally handle.

Thinking about this pattern also got me thinking about the reasons behind it. I don't know why, but all of last night, I wrestled with my comforter, almost like my mind refused to shut down till I found an answer. Like it was imperative I find this piece of the puzzle that very night. And so I did something that I haven't done in a long long time. I called V.

Because he's the only person I know who can make sense of my madness. Maybe that's the reason we lasted for as long as we did. Because I could cling to him every time the questions in my head scared me. Because he could make me believe that eventually, I'd figure it all out. I needed to know if he'd seen my relationship pattern before I had. He had.

V has a theory. One that makes sense but is too awful to contemplate. According to him, I have so little faith in people, particularly men, that I gravitate towards the ones that will do exactly what I believe they will--hurt me. And the ones that seem like they won't, scare me. Because then I'd have to relinquish some control over my heart. And because I am a creature of the mind, this is something I will simply not be permitted to do. And so I go along life, one hopeless date after another.

V also believes that my lack of faith comes from that time of my life that I never let myself think about. But yesterday, the memories refused to lie still. And V would not let it go. When I was 10, someone in my family did something bad to me. I was in his house, sleeping next to his daughter in her bed, when it happened. He didn't rape me, but I felt violated. I remember shrinking into the bed, confused, scared and guilty. Confused because family shouldn't make you feel threatened, scared because I didn't feel safe anymore and guilty for thinking such thoughts about a man who was supposed to be like my father. I stayed in his house for three more days and we'd go out every night. And every time we went out, I wondered whether it was pure coincidence or design that he happened to be seated next to me during the movie, at dinner, at the ice-cream parlour. Each time there was even the remotest possibility of him touching me, I would scurry around the place like a demented child. I didn't sleep a wink in the time I was there. But I'd lie huddled next to my cousin, pretending to be asleep, as still as a dead body, while he stood looking at us in the doorway. The tears would come only after he'd finally go away.

Time moved on and eventually, I forgot about it. Completely. I buried the memory down so deep that it was like nothing had ever happened. It was like someone had wiped that time from my memories. I still saw uncle at family functions and during vacations. He'd joke with my parents, praise my marks and I'd smile back happily. But somehow, I never went back to his house.

Then a year-and-a-half ago, while V and I were going through a particularly rough time, I went to a hypnotherapist to seek answers. And that's when the memories came rushing back. And now, every time I think of Uncle, all I can see is his large looming figure blocking the doorway, blocking my only route to escape, as I peered, petrified, from under the sheets. For all the years that I buried them deep inside, hoping that they'd die, the memories are now more alive than some of the people I move around with.

V says that the doorway is my relationship pattern, that I always have one foot jammed at the entrance, keeping the door ajar, in case I need to bolt. Which is why I only go for men that allow me to keep not just a foot, but one leg out of the door. Because I don't believe there can come a time when I won't want to run. V says that the closest I've come is with him, and although I'd let go of the door, I still had my eye on the fire escape. And when the time came, I did use it.

Is it time to finally leave my spot near the door? I don't know. Should I decide to do it, will I be able to, even? I sure hope so. A few weeks ago, I was in bed with one of the Mr Inappropriates. Our relationship, or at least one part of it, is over. But I was still somehow in bed with him. Because that night, I just needed to not be alone. And he's actually a nice guy when he wants to be. Sometime in the middle of the night, I hugged him. It wasn't a sexual touch, it was an intimate one. Because I wanted to be held. And I wanted to feel safe. It's surprising how often one has every luxury in the world but not a basic need. But he shrugged me away. And although it shouldn't matter, because I've been equally blase about relationships based on nothing in the past, that night it stung. Painfully. Maybe that was the cue my heart had been waiting for, a sign that it could now go ahead and tell my mind something that would cause it distress. That maybe it's time to make a conscious attempt to break my own pattern.

It would be easier to put it off for another day. Give myself some more time to accept my truth. But deep down, I know that it's time to let the wound heal. It's been festering for too long. And writing this post is the first step in that direction. I hope some day soon, it sees the light of the day.