The Fallout of Hope
“It’s because you’re an optimist.”
What the fuck did he just say to me??
He was kidding. He had to be kidding.
Me? An optimist? Especially when it comes to me thinking about finding love??
My brain didn’t want to even think about the word!
My mouth didn’t want to form the “O” or purse my lips for the “P” of the first syllable.
I felt dirty. Like he’d insulted me and called me the “C word”.
How dare he!
I pride myself on being a pessimistic realist–especially when it comes to that particular topic.
Was I losing my snark? Was I allowing something which seemed to say “optimist” to peek through my rough exterior?
Is there some teeny tiny kernel of optimism which lives somewhere deep down inside my black heart which he caught a tiny glimpse of?
Or, worse yet, am I lying to myself?
Is there something within me that believes it’s possible for me to find love again, that there might be someone out there who will love me like I need to be loved?
I’d like to think not, but maybe he sees something within me I can’t. Maybe he sees some sort of potential in me that I refuse to because it makes my life easier.
For me, realism is so much easier than optimism, and pessimism kicks both their asses, because it means I don’t have to manufacture “hope” for love, because even if it were to happen, it would probably just go to shit anyway.
I think I started being a realist about love when, while carrying my son, his father left me for one of my best friends.
I became a pessimist when every man since then cheated on me with other women.
I doubt romantic love exists anymore, and so far, no man has shown up to disprove my theory.
Maybe, some day a great guy will come along, but I’m not holding my breath.
Until then, I will live in my cynical world, because it protects my heart from the fallout of hope.