Bad habits are hard to break because they're familiar. When life is more uncertain than not, and revelation tends to bring more pain and sorrow than joyful enlightenment, the rational choice becomes to stay with the already known evil. After a period, coping with unpleasant realities becomes an easy habit of its own, and the makeshift bandage such behavior places over one's wounds can be worn like a badge of honor.

Ways of thinking can also become bad habits. As a body falls into its ruts and routines, so does a mind — perhaps even more easily. Expecting certain responses, we begin to brace ourselves for anticipated blows before a hand is ever raised.

And so, my life at this point has evolved into a string of evasive actions taken to protect myself from things that haven't yet hurt me, that haven't yet even threatened me. I cringe away from traffic, even when I cross with the light, because I don't believe the driver will stop. I don't expect people I like to like me. I don't expect people to be honest with me, or loyal, or trustworthy.

My way of compensating, the reliable mantra my mind's formed to adjust to these fears, is that I must rid myself of expectations. Buddhists were onto something when they equated desire with suffering. In my mind, if I can get to a point where I don't expect anything from anyone, and I can be okay no matter what they do to me, I will be happy. Or maybe not happy, but odds-are-good reasonably safe. If I don't walk across the street when cars are coming, I probably won't be hit. If I don't trust anyone, no one can betray my trust. If I get sick of people and push them away first, I won't be rejected. If I really like someone and don't think they will like me, I can treat them terribly and then feel in control of their resulting dislike.

I want, sometimes, the benefits that would probably eventually arise from a change in my behavior — people who care about me, who understand my eccentricities, that I like and can trust. But I can't seem to force myself to change my behavior. As long as I only deal with myself, I'm in familiar territory. I may be miserable, but chances are good that I won't be more miserable than I already am.

It's sad, I know. But I suppose I am. In more ways than one.

Beneath my eyelids, you kiss me often.

Sometimes you're the powerful one who allows me weakness. I think of crawling to you on hands and knees, prepared to beg you for all I don't want and knowing you will never grant it. I see my mad, flighty inconsistencies and fears restrained by your firm words, which express total understanding before explaining away their usefulness and focusing my mind elsewhere. I see no longer being allowed to wallow in pity, or fret in indecision. Your track record of good decisions makes my tiresome bookkeeping obsolete. Your strength sustains us both, and I am your only indulgence.

Sometimes you're the weak one, whose strength lies in utterly singular devotion. I see myself on a pillar of your construction, formed of my frailty and humanity and everything else I hate about myself. It's what makes you love me. I am the best you have, or will ever have, the goddess whose cult you're astonished allowed you membership. The adoration reflected in your eyes urges me toward greatness even as you remain in obscurity yourself. If I crawl to you, playacting the role I might have chosen had I only been able to find it, you are frightened. It is through this fear that I control you, and through this carefully exerted control that I find my own balance. You will never leave me, but I may destroy you.

Looking too far below is dizzying; idols bring devastation if they fall.

As I sleep, my loves are varied and both. Unconscious, all I need.