The Perils of Passion
Passion. For most of my life, I have been ruled by passion. Consumed by passion. Defeated by passion.
It’s a slippery slope, passion. One seldom stops to ask whether the object of one’s passion returns that emotion. Instead, we give a little more. Try a little harder. Hope for an acknowledgement of our investment. Passion is a dance with blind faith. What we put into a thing will be what we get out of it.
Life seldom works that way. At least, my life hasn’t.
I’ve loved several men who did not love me back. At all. Like many stupid women, I gave more to those relationships, thinking a gift of just a little bit more of myself would cause said man to recognize what he had. And, because people are people, the more I gave, the less those men respected me. They certainly did not appreciate, celebrate or applaud my sacrifice. It was up to me to learn to give pieces of me to people who deserved it.
A hard lesson. Taught in multiple trips to life’s woodshed.
Finally, I found a man who appreciated my passion. Who loves me at least as much as I love him.
Sometimes, I fear, he loves me more.
Because passionate people need to feel passion. It is their crack cocaine. Their drug of choice.
And, when they have an excess of passion, they plow it into other things. Opportunities for another hit, because the next hit will be the one that pays off. Maybe it will be the ultimate hit that will signal they’ve snorted enough. Paid enough. Given enough.
Drugs take. They don’t give. Passion, for me, has been a bad hit more often than not. It shaves off pieces of me. It takes and takes and takes and takes some more. It leaves me crying on my favorite holiday.
It makes me afraid to feel. To believe. To invest. To care.
I am back at the start. Evaluating my passions. Wondering if they will ever give as much to me as I give to them. Ready to wean myself from a drug that does not love me back.
Because, I’m human.
I needed the pat on the back.