There's a new man in my life. A good one even, and I'm clearly threatened because after I spoke to my sister about it the other night, she looked at me, rolled her eyes, and said, "Denise, don't sabotage it."
Most people would be happy about all this, which I am. Most people, however, might stop there. Not me. I worry, relentlessly, fretfully. It's who I am. I used to hate this about me, but now I've accepted it. It actually turns out to be a useful trait in many contexts - work for instance.
While I've accepted my worrying, I still feel reluctant to share it with others. No one can possibly be expected to deal with all my neuroses, and so, instead, I do what any mature adult would do. I act like a child. A petulant, annoying child. I sabotage, I knitpick, I behave passive aggressively, a trait I'm sorry to say I inherited from my mother.
The best I can say is that I'm working on it. At least I recognize it now for what it is. Sometimes I feel like my entire life is an emotional twelve step program. I'll let you know how it goes.
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