It hurts, again

I am sitting at work and I am getting nothing done. My heart hurts. My head hurts. I'm having trouble breathing. It's a familiar feeling. And it's a pattern. Doesn't some psychological theory point out that this is now all my fault and no one else, because I let this happen to me? I mean, I am the one who keeps holding on to people who are bad.

My friend told me to keep up with this blog. To write my life down, because my life is full of stories. I always wanted a big life, a life that was full of stories, a life that read like a book, or like a movie. And here I am. I can say the things that have happened to me, the things I have done, the places I have been, the people I have met have all played roles, stories, sets of a million movies.

And all it does is hurt.

All I do is look on facebook at old lovers, old boyfriends, old friends who ended up normal. Who got married at the right time, had children at the right time. Who all seem blissfully happy and in place.

And I call a woman my best friend, but behind my back she sleeps with the man who I loved, who used to push me around, who betrayed me, while she watched. And she found solace with him, instead of for me. And the irony is that she dropped this all on me out of the blue as I was in the process of letting him back in. She had to burst my bubble, because she got jealous. Probably better off.

And now I have spent days ruined over this.

When THIS is not me. These people are not who I am supposed to know and to associate with. When did I land here?

This is getting in the way of my ability to be productive, to move forward into normal relationships, to have fun, enjoy myself, walk my dog, get out of bed, open my eyes.

I wonder, like in sliding doors, that silly Gwyneth Paltrow movie, what the heck would have happened if Nicole and I had just killed the conversation with Dean on April 7th, 2007 before it event started. If we just chalked him up to some drunk English dude, instead of me spending the entire next day with him at brunch, the movies and over sangria. What would have happened then? Would she have found another way to destroy me? Probably. Would he have? Who knows. Who knows if he never would have made this move to New York.

But you can not turn back time. Betrayal sticks and it stays. It seeps in the creases and it oozes out just as the cut begins to scab. Like a reminder of the accident you had, the silly, klutzy moment that you got the cut comes rushing back. And you are back to square 1.

I wonder when I won't have something bad to write.

When my posts will be full of love, romance and wedding plans.

Or great success in other areas.

This is getting just a bit boring.