For most of my life, I have cultivated the very strange habit of giving my heart away to people that will never be able to give it what it needs.

I know that my very nature makes me demanding. I need passion, lust, an urge for more, interesting conversations about literally everything and anything but especially philosophical and metaphysical subjects,  I need to be cuddled and even babied sometimes, I need to be held and comforted and reassured, and have my fears calmed and my anxiety soothed, I need to be shown infinite respect, devotion and patience, but still given space and time to breathe and grow on my own, I just- listen; I need a lot, ok? I need a lot. And I give a lot back. A fuckton of lot. I am able to give people love and devotion and knowledge and diversity of thought that they had never even assumed possible before. A bit of emotional damage and mental instability come with the package as well, yes, but I know damn well what I bring to the table. And I know what I need the other person to offer as well.

I know that. I’ve been aware of it for a few years now. So why the fuck do I keep putting my effort and emotionally investing myself in someone that I know cannot give me what I want and need?

Obvious answer seems to be that deep down I kind of want it to fail because I don’t actually believe I can be with someone in a well-balanced healthy partnership, because if I was, then maybe I would actually be… happy. *gasps* And who would Diana be without the misery that always follows? Who would I be, without the veil of sadness decorating my work and my words? Would I still be me, if I was actually content and satisfied with my life? Maybe that’s it.

Or I don’t know, maybe it’s daddy issues, maybe it’s that I wasn’t hugged enough as a child and teenager, maybe it’s that my family has never known how to communicate feelings, maybe it’s that I don’t really love myself as much as I say I do, or maybe it’s just that I do truly take some sort of sick masochistic pleasure out of being in a situation that I know is not good for me, or maybe it’s something entirely different.

Maybe it’s that I need to challenge the rules that I impose on myself, maybe it’s that urge to say “fuck it” and do the thing I shouldn’t, because fuck, it feels a lot better when you technically shouldn’t be doing it and you’re going against all the odds and all those dramatic fallacies that brains like mine love to indulge in.

Maybe it’s that I don’t know how to be attracted to the people that would give me what I actually need. I don’t feel the butterflies, I don’t feel weak in the knees, I don’t feel the lust  and desires that I now accept about myself, I only know how to be attracted to the ones with whom my bond will always be cursed because it already has an expiration date right from the start.

Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t found the person that will give me the perfect balance between body and mind, passionate lust and passionate ideas, safety and thrill, between what I need for my heart and what I need for my brain.

I

don’t

know.

What I do know is, I willingly let myself fall for people with whom a romantic relationship will always be doomed from the start. And I can’t break the cycle.

Maybe it’s one of the above, or maybe, just maybe, I’m simply stuck in a cycle of cowardice, because deep down, in a place I’m not ready to acknowledge yet, I don’t really think

I’m that lovable

at all.

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