Somewhere in the recesses of my female mind is the stalwart belief that if I just give enough or do enough or am supportive enough ...... he would love me.

Then my other synapses kick in and I am sickened. over my own desperate needs. After all most men seem to prefer bitchy dominate women who tell them what to do. So how would my meekness be construed as desirable. Meekness is a synonym for weakness.

I feel most vomital for my lack of spine.

To speak, to say anything at all is to put oneself in jeopardy or peril.
How odd for a one-time writer to be silenced by emotional blackmail.

How can a heart and mind contain this quantity of anger and frustration and forlorn eagerness and yet stifle it behind walls of silence? Is it of a finite size wherein all this is contained? Will it rupture one day spewing forth all contents and creating havoc and upheaval on those I love?

 Or will it be so contained as to put immense pressure on the brain shorting out all thought and leaving in its desolate wake a blithering idiot? Am I destined to be one of those people who is found in a bus station with no former knowledge of who I am or how I came to be there?

 Would that be a better existance?