Bad Love

"It's like you're a drug
It's like you're a demon I can't face down
It's like I'm stuck
It's like I'm running from you all the time
And I know I let you have all the power"

"Addicted" by Kelly Clarkson

from her 2004 album "Breakaway"

Prior to hooking up with Mr. Fry, I had a penchant for falling in love with men who were emotionally unavailable at best; flawed, broken, and dangerous at worst.

Like many women, I thought that if I loved them enough, stuck around long enough, put up with their shit long enough, surely they would see the light and love me the way normal human beings love each other. In short, I thought my efforts could fix them. The more they misbehaved, the more I thought they needed me and the more determined I was to hang on. I was the poster child for codependence and enablement.

It took many years and a near-death experience, but I finally outgrew bad boys.

Human ones, anyway.

If you want a laugh at my expense, go back to the beginning of my archives for the story of how I got my first horse, Poco. Nearly every other post in the archives is about our love/hate relationship. Although I swore he'd always have a home with me — a promise I was willing to keep — I finally realized we would both be better off if we parted ways. He now lives at Iron Ridge, has his butt worked hard at least 5 days a week, is buff, and thriving. He's even carrying select beginners, which I admit is a huge blow to my self esteem.

For awhile he blew me off when I went up to the farm, but then again, he was blowing everybody off. He reverted to his charming, suck-up self when they got him away from the mares, his drug of choice. He is now pastured with his old buddies Jaz and Daltrey, and the last couple times I've visited, Poko has come to me, sweet and affectionate. The old thought processes kicked in and  ... well, read paragraph 2 (above) again. I found myself with a case of the "what ifs" the "maybes."

I had the honor of roaching him.

I shared my feelings with Heather, who reminded me that the only reason he's gotten with the program is that he's being ridden hard and often, which I can't do. Work, such an inconvenience ...  Poko is flourishing under the discipline and routine at Iron Ridge. Still, it's not a matter of if, but when Poko has his next meltdown. And I'll still be pushing 60 years old, and don't need to be the one on him when that happens. I do hope that at some point, I'm a confident, competent enough rider to ride him again. He's such a rush to ride.

Like any other intense, passionate relationship, remnants of this pony love linger in my psyche, and apparently in his as well. It tugs at my heartstrings every time he lays that big ole head in my arms. He will always have a piece of my heart, but my head tells me things are best left the way they are.