Hanoverian therapy methods are transcendent in nature, requiring objectifying one's own conduct for introspection. — Hanover
Is this sesh free of charge too? If not, I can pay you when me and Cavacava meet in Israel in a couple of months by holding up a placard writing 'Hanover is a Sexy Beast' somewhere deeply religious to the dismay of passers-by. Like in a bus.
My long winded absurd diversion into a non-existent therapy program only means to say that you looked stupid only to yourself. He thought you looked pretty and still wanted pretty girl to hold his hand. I know everything about men, remember? — Hanover
He never said anything of the sort so I am only left with what was actually said - or not said - but it is nice to imagine that he liked me. You do know quite a lot about men that I would have never thought of myself.
Now splain yourself. There's no pining, hints of sadness, crying. No one is saying "pauvre pauvre TimeLine" because (1) you're not expressing pain, and (2) we don't speak French here. But the point here is that you seem to be seeking not comfort from your non-existent sadness, but instead some sort of understanding of what you're doing wrong in this dance, asking why do you keep stepping on folks' toes. Is that right, or was there really a time of genuine pining and heartbreak that you've just not shared (you can tell us anything, don't be a shy bird). I mean it sounds like you guys stopped seeing each other and you were like "what the fuck was that all about'? — Hanover
I am not a shy bird and am one of the few people here that speak openly about my personal experiences in a Nussbaum kind of way, so here is the honest truth. Just a little over three years have since passed and I nearly
died from a broken heart. Quite literally. At one point, his behaviour hurt me so much that I became considerably sick. I cocooned myself away and stopped living and nothing, no one, no matter how much they would implore me to move on and let go, I found myself crying myself to sleep almost every night. I lost all trust in men and there were some days that I wished I never met him because maybe then I would have met someone else and would have been happy. The worst part about it all was that he never let me be me, he never allowed me to show him who I really was because I was too busy either feeling fear or confusion, wondering what he wanted or didn't want and it makes me angry, his games made me so angry because he escaped any responsibility in the hurt that he inflicted, likely telling himself that he done nothing wrong. I am almost certain he is oblivious to how much pain he has caused me and it hurts imagining him shrug his shoulders and tell himself otherwise, just as criminals do. I tried to be someone he would like that I got lost in his maze, realising that I knew nothing about who I really was.
I am very good at hiding my pain. I have always been good at that, because I see such pain as a type of weakness and because I have been on my own from a very young age, appearing strong is a survival mechanism; but deep within I am just a little girl. I had to fight to survive and I needed to survive this as I have everything else in my life. I had to face him and when I saw him again about a year ago, we didn't talk but the 'what the fuck was that all about' seed was planted within me, the empowerment started to grow because he was real again and I could see in his own life that he was simply having fun, that there was so much wrong with him and his social circle that I started to pity him and felt foolish. I was comparing me, someone like me, as being small and worthless because of his behaviour when, in fact, it was the other way around and that is not just the anger talking. As I said, he likes girls that dress like teenage clowns, that have no mind, their ambitions in life are basic and rather than trying to morph into a girl that he would like as I had tried to before, I finally began to see that I do have a mind and I am proud of it, so I started writing a blog writing essays, that I do have proper ambitions and I am proud of it, so I finished a masters degree and volunteered internationally, that I know good people and so intentionally kept my social networking small and intimate.
From that misery grew a powerful transformation and while indeed I am still that little girl inside, still wishing in some way that he could read this and realise his mistakes, still tearing up as I write about my experiences with him, still hoping that he would call me and apologise hoping to reconcile a friendship, still wondering whether he would ever find confidence to be himself and live a life not in the shadow of others but as himself, in the end it is only facts that I can rely on and the facts are that he is long gone and that he never cared for me. Why would he? He never knew me. I never knew me. Until now.
I hope in some way that some of the men here are able to see the importance of being gentle to a woman's feelings.
Your requirements are reasonable, but you don't need to try to universalize them to prove their legitimacy. That is, plenty of women have different requirements than you (thank the good Lord (playful jab)), but different strokes for different folks (allusion to the stroking inherent in the Tootsie Roll). — Hanover
Sorry pal, no stroking in the Tootsie Roll. It kind of involves curling.
Since forever. I labor under no illusions that my insights exceed yours. Your femaleness puts you light years ahead of me in comprehending emotions and motivations. Truth. — Hanover
Wrong. We are just as stupid as you men. We are not light years ahead and that is almost borderline sexist that harbours the notion that somehow we are 'motherly' in our understanding of the male mind and therefore responsible in managing men. Nope. You guys are just as fucking weird to us as we are to you.
But anyhoot (note the Hanoverian method of language adoption and the feelings of comfort it elicits), I didn't read the man child's mind. I just stated the universal truth that all men want women to crawl on their laps like kitty cats (mind out of the gutter perv - talking meowing regular old cats here). — Hanover
Man child. Perfect phrase. As mentioned, I wanted to crawl all over him like a kitten the truth be told, and he remains the only man I have ever met that had some sort of a strange power over me. He was damned attractive. He may have only wanted that, but in doing so he allowed me to catch a glimpse of who I was, someone who would never give that to anyone unless he was the right man. I proved to myself that I am worthy to only be for the one person and the right person (as in, I didn't have sex with him).
Now I am to learn that the failure of the relationship had little really to do with a failure to communicate and his general idiocy, but just old fashioned incompatibility — Hanover
No, his failure to communicate and his general idiocy is confirmation of our incompatibility, that I am compatible with men who are confident and who respect me and admire me as I would them.