Is time the enemy of a broken soul? Does a worthless heart predict that love will eventually fail?

Admittedly, today’s post was another that was written in a fury of both heavy contemplation and defeat. Because of that, it took on a life of its own and there is some profanity in it. I apologize if that is offensive to you. It is not the post to read if you’re in the mood for cotton candy and clapping monkeys. That being said, I feel it’s something that some of us might do well to discuss.

There is a question that has been asked again, and again, and again. There is a never-ending stream of people, mostly with good intentions, who want to know why and how “a guy like me” ever got divorced, and they want to know why and how “a guy like me” ended up divorced twice at the age of 30. They want to know how the author of  a blog that devotes so much of itself to figuring out personal issues, bettering himself, and encouraging others to do the same can have such a defining smear of failure tarnishing his record.

I am asked this question at least daily, and I’ve skirted around it as long as I possibly could. Not because I didn’t want to answer, but because I haven’t known what the answer actually was. Over the last little while I’ve finally begun to unravel some of the murkier areas of my past, and I guess it’s time I give you all a “real” answer.

That being said, let me reiterate something about this blog that I have for some reason failed to get across to some. The reason I write about fixing shit is because I have a lot of shit to fix. Much of what I write is because I’m either trying to figure out my own problems, I’m trying to give myself a message that I need to hear, or I become desperate to speak my mind about a serious problem that few people with large platforms are willing to touch.

That being said, there are some things most of you don’t realize about me, and to be honest I don’t often realize them either.

Most of you don’t know that I often consider myself a disappointment. I consider myself a letdown. I consider myself a failure. I mean, how could I not? I have been divorced twice. Sometimes it gets to the point where I hate myself for being so.

Get divorced once, anybody can turn a blind eye. It’s easy to blame the other party. It’s easy to pretend like none of it was your fault. Get divorced twice, and the perception is that there is something seriously wrong with you. Only douche bags, idiots, and selfish pricks get divorced twice, right?

And, as I sit here, quite often feeling like nothing but a waste of space and a colossal failure in life, I also get lost trying to figure out why. Why did I get divorced? Why when I was giving it my all, did I have two marriages end for me?

I am forced to sit with myself and my personal history every single day. I am forced to explain myself and my situation to any girl I ever ask on a date. I am so disheartened with myself and my failures that I have locked my heart away, sometimes unable to believe that I am even worth knowing. I am more than convinced that the double marriage notch carved into my belt has ruined any chance for normalcy in the arena of love and commitment.

So, why? What happened? Is it possible to actually identify a cause? I could straightforwardly focus on final events in both marriages and quite easily cast blame on each of my ex-wives, but in all reality final events very rarely are the cause for any divorce, and they certainly weren’t for mine.

No, I have always known that it goes back much further than the end. It goes back before any anger, any hostility, and any questioning about whether the marriage would work or not. It goes back to before our first fights and before our first quarrels. In all reality, it goes back to before our wedding days ever happened. It goes back to before our first kisses, the first time we held hands, and our first hugs. It goes back to before I met either of them.

As I have pondered just what my poisoned dagger has been, I have come to realize that it wasn’t really the relationships at all.

It was time.

As I mentioned in the bullying piece, I was not always the person you now know as Single Dad Laughing, especially when it came to the ladies. I was severely bullied by girls almost as often as guys in school, and when that finally ended I more than lacked the confidence and self-esteem to ever believe that any girl could truly want me. In the time of my life when every boy is at his horniest,  I couldn’t get a single girl to look at me twice. I did my best to make friends. I did my best to act confident. But I never believed a girl could be sincere in her affection for me, and so everything with the opposite sex was approached with hesitancy, fear, and caution.

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