I am in a little pain today. Tooth pain. I hate tooth pain. It’s the worst kind of pain, I think. I am sure it will go away in a day or so; it just sucks a little bit right now. I felt the need to write this morning, after my blurting/venting yesterday, sparked some of my followers to say “What the fuck is wrong with you?”. Most of them said it in a nicer way than that, but really, when it comes down to it, that’s basically what they were asking.
Anyway, it got me wondering what my motivation for being with The Cowboy is? I think there are numerous reasons, but at this point I can only identify a couple. The first one being my need to be a caretaker. I have been a caretaker all my life; always the person my friends would come to for advice or help. For the last 12 years I have had the most important caretaking job there is, which is being a mother. Those of you who read on a regular basis, know that my son is now going to go live with his dad full-time, and I will only have him every other weekend. But even before the decision for him to live with his dad was arrived at, my son had already started pulling away, becoming more independent. If you are a good parent, you know this is what you strive for, for your children to be able to take care of themselves and to be productive members of society. It seems my son is getting a good start on that, and I will continue to co-parent with his father to make sure he becomes even more adept at it. Presents a problem for me though, because what am I to do with all this time on my hands? I guess I need to find someone else to take care of. Enter The Cowboy. Is he capable of surviving on his own? Yes, I suppose he is, as he has made it 42 years without me. But, he is struggling right now, can’t quite get his shit together, is depressed over the fact he is 2 1/2 hours away from his son and doesn’t get to see him on a regular basis, and he feels like shit because he fucked up a good job and is struggling to find another one. It just so happened that we were dating when he got fired, and he decided that was a good time to move in. Which, if he was making money, and contributing to the household expenses, would be helping me out tremendously, but right now he’s not. I am financing pretty much everything. If I turn him out, it would be to nothing. I can’t do that. He is my friend, and I wouldn’t do that to a friend. Would I like him to be more appreciative? Hell yes, I would! To me it doesn’t take much to say thank you, and it does mean a lot. However, I have had other friends I have done things for who have never said thank you, who have never reciprocated, and they are still my friends, for various reasons. I would feel like a bit of a hypocrite believing I am a good friend, and then kicking his ass when he’s down.
One of the other main reasons is because I am broken. Off-kilter. Fucked up. Screwed up. Odd. Out of the ordinary. Half a bucket of fucking crazy. I’ve never been given a diagnosis, except for depression, but there’s something a little off about me. I choose not to try to put a label on it. I won’t take medication anymore. I have tried medication, and it doesn’t really work for me. I choose to ride the roller-coaster. I prefer the roller-coaster. That being said, I need someone who can put up with my particular brand of crazy. Can The Cowboy handle my brand of crazy? Right now he seems to handle it okay, but in the future who knows? All I know is that a so-called “normal” guy probably couldn’t live with me. My ex was somewhat “normal”, and I was just too much for him. He was too straight-laced and I was too off the charts. I have a “normal” side, one that works hard, and cooks good, and keeps a nice house, and is a good mom, and can even sew and quilt, but that’s not all there is to me. The Cowboy can relate to my half-bucket of crazy side, because he’s got his own half-bucket of crazy. I suppose that means together, we have a whole fucking bucket. We’re going to have to be careful carrying that damn thing, or it might slop over the side.