“…women are machines for suffering.”
“For me, there are only two kinds of women, goddesses and doormats.”
I feel like a doormat. My colleague (whom I’m beginning to look up to as a life coach) went, ‘Who is Picasso to you? Why do you set store by what he says?’ Perfectly logical questions for which I have no decent reply, particularly when I am not all that familiar with Picasso’s oeuvre.
Perhaps, perversely enough, I don’t mind being a doormat. I want to be a doormat. I loved him enough to make sacrifices, even forgoing my pride to, well, send him gifts for his birthday. Twice. Having to admit that brings an odd sensation to my tummy, which perhaps is what embarrassment feels like.
Nevertheless, the common assumption that people treasure what they worked hard for probably holds much truth, yet I threw myself at his feet like a loser, knowing full well I wasn’t much of a prize to begin with, what with being bipolar and all. I can’t channel my inner goddess, so I guess I’ll never be a goddess to him.