Why Men Can’t Help But Fuck Up A Good Thing

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A man who screws up a good thing
Unsplash / Chris Benson

Just about every day I find myself lurking her feed aimlessly. Physically, she’s everything I’ve ever asked for. A combination of Ashanti meets Taraji P. Henson and I’m as smitten as I’ve ever been in my adult life. As much as I may have outgrown my hometown, I’ve always felt like ultimately, I would end up settling down with a southern Virginia girl. That’s exactly what she is. A sweet southern girl with just the right tinge of big city flavor for my taste. Lo and behold I’ve met my match.

I’ve lucked up. Again. And somehow, in the back of my mind, I know I’m going to fuck up. Again.

When I think about her (us), I can’t help but imagine the worst. I’ve been through the worst. I begin to imagine what it would feel like to go through it again. Knowing damn well I’m no angel myself, I also begin to wonder if karma still has it out for me.

“Watch me fuck this up,” I think to myself. It’s not that I want to. It’s just that I always manage to, somehow. For twenty-nine years this has been a consistent theme in my life.

People tend to sabotage the most promising things in exchange for something that usually turns out to be virulent and potentially volatile.

Honestly, this habitual sabotage stems from a nauseating stir of anxiety and some insecurity.

Whenever I feel like I might be falling in “like,” one of two things either happen. Someone else, who probably isn’t even worth (that much of) my time just shows up to lead me astray. Or I just completely go dark.

Yes. I’ve ghosted women for nothing short of the fact that they were decent.

Maybe because I’ve been here before. It never ends well. Okay, so I’ve only been all the way here once and it didn’t end well. That was one time. I haven’t been back since until now. Never went there before.

It was always so much easier to just somehow go astray. Easier on me. Yes, it is selfish.

As I look at her, I imagine everything that can go wrong in the worst possible way. I’ve seen it go wrong in the worst possible way. The possibilities are endless. Anxiety begins to take over the pilot seat in my mind.

There are just so many fish in this vast ocean. No point in risking your sanity on one, right? Find some leverage and run with it. At least that’s what my inner devils tell us. The devil on my shoulder is my biggest adversary in the fight against temptation. The more I let my guard down, the more I become vulnerable. Not to her, but to temptation.

None of this makes sense. If you know you have something good, you do everything in your power to keep it, right? But the fact is, men can be just as ridiculously irrational as we tend to espouse women to be when in the midst of this thing called love.

Lack of rationale by otherwise rational people can ultimately be drawn back to anxiety. The fear of what could go wrong as you allow yourself to fall deeper and deeper in love is enough to drive someone off the rails.

So why even roll the dice on love, right? It’s easier to just not do so and keep your sanity. Or if nothing else quit while you’re ahead and go home with what you have already. Especially when you lost out heavy on your last crapshoot. Amirite?

The thing is, the easy way out is for losers. In my ripe old age, I’m just starting to learn that you can win big unless you go big. So the concept of messing up something good out of a fear of greatness is exactly what losers are made of. This is what we as men tend to do just when we’ve found potential greatness.

Some of us cheat our way out of it; some of us may find a way out through petty grievances. The exceptionally talented sociopaths are able to just walk away…or just let things go sour.

That’s exactly what cowards are made of. We’d rather lose on our own terms than potentially win big by paying that “hefty” price of vulnerability. Lord knows we’ve all fought this fight in some form or fashion.

At this point, I know better. No more coward shit. The only way to truly win is to roll the dice and see things all the way through. TC mark

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