The Sorrows Of Muses

I am a muse.

Those whom I touch, are challeneged, nourished, blossom into something they only dreamed they might become.

I feed them my essence, and they sprout anew from their hopes and dreams.

And, because I care, because I, too, am wounded from my past, I am injured by life force I give to them and never receive in turn.

Yet, I know that I do not challenge myself enough to be more than I am.  I am lazy.  I am dizzy and sickened by it.  I am depressed from years of emotional abuse and neglect.  I try to take care of my own needs, to follow my own heart, but I am always listening to what someone else wants, too.

Very female of me.

I should learn to embrace that.

But our culture denies it.  Our culture says we should not have connection, should never act like we need each other, should deny our sense of longing and belonging as deviant.  That no one else should ever be able to hurt us.  Yet, we are told we must be vulnerable in love, we must open to each other. 

Agape is not a relationship.  Agape wouldn’t care if he brought me home AIDS.  But that is stupid and escapist.  That is burying one’s head in the sand.

I read someone’s blog about dealing with their own stuff with their sex addict.  It sounded like a game of denial, refusal to confront, and a different form of codependency where she stays with him even though she does not feel safe or trust or allow herself to know the truth.  Digging through his computer with a thrill of fear and self righteous anger, yes, that is addictive.  To refuse to look at his computer because that is addiction rather than providing safety and knowledge?  That is a codependent idiocy.  That is choosing to live with an abusive, potentially deadly situation and distract yourself with CoSA meetings whenever your gut tells you to find out the truth because it knows, and you refuse to listen.

I wonder if she requires he use condoms every time now?

Yeah, that is what I want in marriage.

Her comments simply sounded neurotic and insane to me.  But then, there are two distinct types living with SAs.  One is the type who found out early on and chose to stay even though they were repeatedly being cheated on and lied to.  The other, like me, really didn’t know how bad it was behind my back.  I didn’t know what he was capable of because his web of lies was so clean and so clever. 

Maybe I am his muse, too.  Maybe he was awed and afraid, and couldn’t admit his previous sexual activities because he thought it was a phase, and now he would get to have a real marriage.  But his fear kept him distant and on guard, and he never allowed himself to be in the marriage, and he turned back to his easy relationship of addiction and using women because he wasn’t afraid of them.  They were under his control because he paid them to be.  They would tell him what he wanted to hear, and keep his ego stroked and his addict high, and allow him to have his fantasies because they knew their place.  He never had to care about them.

But he wanted to care.  He thought that was what he wanted in life, was to care about someone and have someone care about him.  But he didn’t even know what that meant.  And he was too lazy to do the work to find out.

And I was too lazy to push the issue with him.  I thought it was fair and right to give someone the benefit of the doubt, to not expect perfection, to forgive small slights and momentary losses for the harmony of the bigger picture.  But he never forgave, he only resented and added to his fear and fed his darkness and envy and self hate.  Besides, fear is exciting, and the more he feared me, the more exciting hurting me became because the stakes were very high.  Everyone would be so deeply hurt.  The scene of disaster would be amazing, and that added to his thrill.

I am a piece of his addiction.

Maybe he will be able to truly grow from this.

I never get to see it, that fruitful end result.

Like my homes, I always have to move on before the trees are fully established on their own.

I always end up alone.

I am a muse.


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