August 13, 2009

I’ve never been a particularly confident person. I was a cute kid until about the age of seven, then experienced thirteen years of awkwardness. Nerdy and scrawny with a big head, bad  eyes, bad nose, bad skin, and worse clothes.  I hated having my picture taken. And I was severely, painfully shy. New situations, new people would make my heart race,  my palms sweat. I was essentially a loner for many years.

I am still very uncomfortable being the center of attention. Even positive attention makes me squirm inside. I’m certain, deep down inside, that the person complimenting me is wrong, that they will soon enough see me for who and what I really am.

So I was a late bloomer. It’s only been in the past several years that I’ve become somewhat more comfortable with myself. I’ve learned to fake confidence to some degree too. And it helps that people tend to mistake shyness for arrogance.

This latest thing has been a real blow to my self-esteem.

It would be easier to understand past romantic failures if the other person had not insisted that I was attractive, smart, funny, fun to be with, good in bed, or whatever.  I’ve been told that I’m different, special, that I must have men lining up to be with me.

And then I get dumped. Or rejected. Or otherwise treated as something expendable. Just another girl. Not important to anyone.

That’s what’s hardest for me to understand. If I’m so great, then why are they able to leave so easily? Why do they hesitate so long to commit? Why do they get over me so quickly?

The only thing I can conclude is that there’s something wrong with me. I must not make much of an impression. And they must’ve all been lying to me. Every good thing they said about me was a lie, a trick to get my defenses down.

And all the negative thoughts that I’ve been trying to suppress for years are starting to resurface: I am not worthy. It doesn’t matter how I act, or look, or what I say. It doesn’t matter how hard I try. I’ll never be good enough for anyone. I’ll always be second.

The boy told me I made him feel things he’d never felt before, that he didn’t submit to just anyone, that I was special.

He was composing a Craigslist ad days after I ended things. He was writing ecstatically about submitting to his new Domme soon after.

And I’m here. But I’m not alone. I still have my old doubts and self-pity to keep me company. And a new, profound sense that things will always come to this.

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