Love Addiction & Love Avoidance: The Dance

Hello, my name is Kelly, and I'm an addict. A "Love Addict", that is. According to Pia Mellody, author of 'Facing Love Addiction', I have been a "Love Addict" almost since my first relationship, always being drawn to love men that either cannot be, or will not be emotionally available, or ever experience healthy intimacy with another person. She calls these men "Love Avoidants". I have to admit, after reading this book, it is true. According to Pia, "Love Addicts" are tragically, only drawn to "Love Avoidants" in their lives to try to fulfill, or fix the trauma within themselves, from a primary care giver not being emotionally available. In other words, for me and women like me, it has been scratching and clawing at men that remind us of our fathers, so as to finally get his attention and to matter, aka: Daddy Issues. However, this man that we are attracted to, being a replica of our fathers, doesn't have the ability to experience true healthy intimacy with another person, for his own reasons, and in fact, feels completely smothered, frightened and irritated by the "Love Addicts" attention at a certain point. He wants to be with her, but only up to the point where he feels it is safe. Mellody states "Love Avoidants consciously (and greatly) fear intimacy because they believe that they will be drained, engulfed, and controlled by it". "Love Avoidants where drained, engulfed and controlled by someone else's neediness (somewhere in their childhoods), and they don't want to go through that experience again". So they flee, and then to try to fix their own trauma, they come back again when time has past and they feel it's safe to re-enter the relationship.

We are drawn to what is familiar to us, aren't we? And so, both of us, go back and forth in this dance between two emotionally unhealthy people that are drawn to each other and then repelled over and over again.

Picture courtesy of vi.sualize.us/tag/robot/?page=5

Lucky You II

Allow me to be creative for a moment. I think I like the middle one the best. What's your vote?

Raining Men

I drive a girl truck. You know one of those little ones. It is nice and I love my little truck. It has an extra cab for all my stuff and it hauls things at my whim, so that I don't have to bother others to do it for me. Occasionally, it hauls a "cute boy".

One night I went out to meet some friends at a swanky restaurant bar in my little redneck truck. They were guy friends and so I was doomed to meet no one. I was in the middle of a huge dry spell, very antsy and I was totally cock-blocked. I decided it could be worse, shook it off and started drinking to forget about it. We all had a blast, then I went out to leave. I backed out of my parking space, then heard and felt a huge banging around in the back of my truck. Someone had jumped into the back! My heart almost stopped and I looked at my glove box and was trying to remember if I had put my gun back into it or not while I had heart palpitations and tried to breathe. I turned around to look at who was behind me and it was one of the most gorgeous guys I had ever seen in this neck of the woods. This guy looked like a male model. He was laying in the back of my truck waving a manicured hand at me. I just sat there staring at him. He was well-dressed from his Banana Republic shirt to his Prada shoes. Clearly this guy was not from here. He was tall, svelte and confident as hell, with a smile that lit up the fucking parking lot. I decided that he was drunk and completely harmless, so I looked up and thanked the dating gods for smiling on old Kelly girl that night.

I rolled down my window and said "Are you looking for work?" He said "I'm going home with you". I said "Are ya now? I don't even know you". He said "Well let's go somewhere and get to know each other". I said "I like the attitude. Get in the front, I'm not driving you around like a tomato picker". He did. We did. I drove him back to his nice little condo in the morning and never heard from him again. No false promises, no apathetic phone number exchanging. He was going back to wherever he came from (I don't remember where that was) and we said goodbye and good luck.

That was the night that the gods decided to give yours truly a much needed gift and break. And for the first time in my life, I just took the gift gracefully. I didn't ask why, I didn't fight and try to claw for more, I just said thank you quietly to myself and drove away.

The Guy Who Doesn't Drink

Every now and again my girlfriends and I run across a nice man, who wants to take one of us out, but he doesn't drink, aka: The Guy Who Doesn't Drink.

Now, I've always said "never trust someone who can't go out and have a couple of beers and be done with it". However, for some women, this may not be an issue, and in fact, I hear tell, that it is actually a plus for some. Of course, I can assure you, that for my two best friends and me, it is most certainly not okay. Unless all three of us need a designated driver and he makes pick up's and deliveries at no cost, with a smile and has the patience of a saint and possibly ear plugs.

But admittedly, I've gone out with The Guy Who Doesn't Drink, because, what wouldn't I do for the possibility of a good story to tell? However, I'm setting aside my own stories for today, because the ones with the non-drinkers are simply not that exciting, and I have recently decided to spare any more of them from the misery of knowing me. I finally stopped thinking that I would be able to get them to drink using psychological trickery, or by them simply seeing how jolly it made me.

Anyway, my girlfriend Katy recently went out with a very cute guy who did not drink. Katy drinks vodka like I drink beer. Now Katy is no sloppy drunk. She can slam her little pink drinks down like a pro and stand up fully erect in her little pink heels all night and be no worse for the wear. She is never embarrassing, only more and more funny as the night goes on, as the vodka slowly begs her to verbalize everything that pops into her mind. Now this nice young man proceeded to tell Katy that he has a sister who has 'special needs' and that his best friend is also 'mentally challenged', and that he is a bit sensitive to the use of the word 'retarded'. Katy then proceeded to tell him how much she hates the "retarded kid" that lives down the street from her because he keeps moving her fucking potted plants around.

Then, so as not to look too kind and gentle, The Guy Who Doesn't Drink proceeded to ask Katy if she liked "ink", then rolled up his dress shirt sleeves and showed her his flame tattoos around his wrists, and that he's got a lot more where that came from. Katy tells him that she hates tattoos and that his "wrist flames" look like clown cuffs.

At this point, our cute and sweet Guy That Doesn't Drink is so taken with our adorable little Katy's blatant honesty and matter-of-fact smiling, that he quickly asked her out on another date to which she calls me immediately afterwards and says "I dunno, he doesn't drink"!

Fun Date #3

Miniature Golf is fun for several reasons. You get to help the lady that you are with play, as this fine gentleman below is demonstrating. Or, the lady that you are with is fiesty, and you get to have some healthy competition, which always gets the blood flowing. And the best reason (drum roll), is that there are little dark nooks and crannies along the course that you can sneak a make-out session in.

Oh, and Busch Gardens is really good for that too, with all of its caves, when it's not too hot. Yay for kissing "cute boys"!

Fun Date #2

When I was married my husband followed the Pittsburgh Steelers football team. Being supportive of our men, we girls usually follow suite. So, I became a Steelers fan, out on the sidelines of our relationship, for eleven years. I never felt like it was an experience that my husband could actually share with me. He claimed it, it was his, and I just didn't seem to understand how he could spend a solid eight hours in front of the television.

Then when I had a boyfriend, after my divorce, who was a fan of yet, the same team, it was totally and completely, 100% different. He was proud to include me in his experience. He bought me a pink jersey, and pink hats and made it a fun "date" whenever we watched a game, even if it was just at home, and just the two of us. I started to like football for the first time in my life! I enjoyed hosting parties at our house. I bought a football shaped crock-pot for Christ's sake, football napkins, plates and all that girl shit. I was excited! My ex-husband would not have believed it.

The moral of this story is that we want to enjoy what you enjoy. Buy us pink sparkly shit to help us do it.

Picture courtesy of www.onthefield.com

Fun Date #1

Wade fishing is southwest Florida is so great! Summer is almost over. Take a girl fishing while the water is still warm...

In Love With A Dick... Literally

As I talk to my girlfriends, a reoccurring theme of 'dick' keeps coming up (pardon the pun). One friend has "never met a dick she didn't like", and another really hasn't met any that she was too crazy about, and then for myself, there have been those "special" dicks, the one's that I felt that I should have plaster-casted, taken photographs of and built a shrine for. I wondered if anyone else that I knew was haunted by 'Ghosts of Dick's Past', so I went to the expert, my mother.

Last week she and I had dinner, and I thought it was a good time to talk about dick's with dear old mom over appetizers, and so I asked "Mom, can you be in love with a penis, and despise the man that it's attached to"? I'm prone to use more clinical verbiage around my mom, like 'penis', since she is a nurse and I don't make a habit of "cussing" in front of her, otherwise I would have used the more favored 'dick' or my favorite 'cock' (just sounds larger, doesn't it?). Anyway, mom paused ever so briefly, snapped her head towards me, locked eyes on me and said, with what I detected as a tinge of fear and regret in her voice, "oh, yeah".

Turning Into A Dude

I think I'm turning into a dude. Either that, or I'm just turning into an asshole. Probably the latter. I went out with one of my favorite girlfriends last night and she wanted to get dressed up and go to some of downtown Sarasota's "nice" places, which translates into "pretentious Latino-styled bullshit nightclub". I got all dolled up and spent too much money on shitty martini's and sangria and walked too far in heels. Now, I did all of this because my girl is mourning the recent death of her three year relationship with a pathological liar, and she didn't want to go to any "trashy" places, and since it is my job, and duty, to be a compassionate and good friend, I completely understood. Sometimes when you're trying to get over a guy, it feels good to get dressed up and remember that you still look good, and are desirable. It's this vapid routine where we women dress up, get hit on by guys we're not interested in, or not get hit on by guys we think should be interested in us, smile politely and go home to over analyze every moment of the evening. However, last night, as I was supposed to be pointing out all of the positive points of being blissfully single and free to my dear, and heartbroken friend, I found myself instead, taking my heels off, leaning back like a tired trucker, and ordering a beer. Classy, I know, but even as I looked around at a few hot guys at the bar, I thought to myself "I don't give a shit". It's easier to call a fuck buddy than to deal with this mess. And then I looked around at all of the girls at the bar, most of them older than us (it's Florida), and how alert and erect they sat in their little dresses, legs crossed, waiting for something, in heels much taller than mine, I thought to myself again "I don't give a shit". Seriously. And then I thought, if we were in one of the "trashy" places, at least I could just sit and wait for a homeless or recklessly drunk person to do something funny. So, as I looked around for any form of entertainment I could find, that I didn't have to create myself, I wished that one of the debutantes would at least fall down and sprang an ankle, or that there would be a really good "couples fight" somewhere.
Alas, there wasn't, and instead of nurturing my poor friend, I proceeded to tell her how shitty it is being single in this town and how I would rather be sitting at home right now in sweat pants watching Comedy Central and UFC in tandem, smoking a bowl and drinking six beers for the price of the one in my hand. She was not amused with me.

Don't Jiz In My Hairdo!

Sometimes I feel that blow-jobs are like war, when there are no rules of etiquette, and I believe in making love, not war.

On behalf of women everywhere, I would like to say: aim down, and don't jiz in our hair-do's! With that being said, it's not wise to piss someone off who has your junk in their hands. You've been warned.

Bad Boys

Ah, bad boys. They have been the curse of my love life since I was sixteen. One can see my Freudian fate played out so predictably over the years. Father's pay attention here, because little girls grow up to date men just like you. When I was little my father was a typical bad ass. Fiercely good looking and edgy, my teachers would flirt with him shamelessly right in front of me. Never to be pinned down, with grease under his fingernails and ripped up jeans, he would ride away into a mysterious "cool" existence and come back with cuts and bruises and stories to tell. How exciting and cruel it was for my mother, and now for me.

Just like Michelle Phieffer in Grease II, one of my favorite movies in my formidable years, I've always needed a 'cool rider that could burn me through and through'. Such a corny song, but how true it is.

Those damned bad boys hurt so much, but the ride is... heaven.

If You Wanna See It... Buy It!

Don't complain if your girl isn't wearing sexy outfits for you, if you're not buying some...

Power Outfits

'Power Outfits' are one of my favorite subjects, because every woman has one. Whether it's the Cowgirl, Cheerleader, Cat Suit or Catholic School Girl outfit, they mean business when it comes to catching the man that she wants. This outfit is so vital to the feminine wardrobe and once a woman finds the outfit that is hers to claim... a man's resistance is futile.

Could It Be... Satan?!

Here's a funny "bad boy" story. I was traveling with some friends and we went bar hopping and ended up at a place where we were doing shots at a little jukebox type place. And of course, I sniffed out the cute guy that had most certainly ridden a motorcycle there and kept putting money into the juke box to play heavy metal. I then unlocked a storage trunk in my head filled with all of the Metal Edge magazines that I had ever read during high school and proceeded to impress him with my vast and profound knowledge of head banging classics, complete with names of guitar players, their song-writing abilities and their unique playing styles, impressive only to this species of male. So later back at the hotel we were fooling around and my selected 'bad boy' took off his shirt, whilst on top of me, and there it was. Suddenly, two inches from my face, was a tattoo of a black, inverted pentagram that covered this guys chest from nipple to nipple, and reached almost to his belly button. I was so completely shocked that I found myself paralyzed with my mouth hanging open in disbelief as his nipple rings just hung there all sparkly, decorating this huge, offensive tattoo like a christmas tree. I think if he had been further away from me I would have been able to laugh out loud, but it was so in my face, all I could do was mumble 'what the fuck is that?'. That's when he proudly told me the story of getting said tattoo and how he felt that it completely represented his awesomeness.

That's when I grabbed him by the top of the head and shoved him down, and said 'this is all your gonna get, enjoy it, because I can't stare at that thing'. Then I wished him lots of luck, he was young yet, and I left. Every time I think of that night, I chuckle. That's what I get!

Risk And Heartache

One of my favorite poems by W.H. Auden goes
"The nightingales are sobbing in the orchard's of our mother's. And heart's that we broke, long ago, have long been breaking others"

Ah, heartache, I know you well. My heart has been broken so many times, I think that if I could see it, it probably looks like crackled glass. Why? I ask myself over and over. Why have I been attracted to emotionally unavailable men, that are so much like my father, when I know better. Isn't the realization of the problem supposed to be the catalyst of fixing it? Isn't realizing that the habits of our pasts, that haven't served us, supposed to spur us on to change? Is this Freudian fate, so ingrained in my psyche that even after knowing that it will hurt me, I still can't break the cycle? Like an addict that relapses, I find myself drawn to the ones that are a challenge. Even though I'm fully aware that these men will never, ever change, does my subconscious feed on that longing that maybe they will? So, I say to myself 'I will not do this anymore, I'm done with bad boys, I want to be attracted to the ones that are emotionally healthy'. So I give them a chance, at the risk of hurting them, because I want so much to break the cycle and to fall madly in love with one of the good ones. I fear breaking them though, so I tread very lightly. But no matter how lightly handled, the heart is a delicate thing when it's open.

But it's the only way to live life. To be open and to love and live with the risk.