One of my friends said recently that she was embarked on a course of self-destruction. We didn’t discuss it at the time, but I can empathise with that.
For me, it’s a relationship thing. I really can’t handle them.
I’m either incredibly immature (almost certainly) and/or just incapable of handling a nice relationship (equally almost certainly).
I can never believe that something will last – if it feels nice it must be too good to be true – and I’m always waiting for the bitter and inevitable end. And maybe that’s why I feel like rushing it along, hastening the end, to get past the bad bit and move on.
Or I’m not sure whether I feel exposed when I share part of myself with people, and want to rush back into my shell, just venturing out on the odd occasional foray. Or whether I am like a stray dog, wanting to take the scraps offered but frightened that the hand that feeds me will hurt – so I bite it instead.
Maybe I can’t handle all-round perfect nice people. They seem to bring out the worst in me. I like people to have faults. And be real.
Or perhaps I don’t trust people. They usually let you down in the end.