head + sand = ?

Almost without transition and immediately preceding its newness. a thing, a person, a situation becomes stale, old, familiar. For some more stable people who are deterred by the awkwardness of change, there is great comfort in this. 

But as for me, I inadvertently become bored. My condition is a rather unfortunate one, because as soon as I learn the ins-and-outs of any given job, I desire another, more challenging one. Such inconsistency is not conducive to success in any way. It foreshadows, in fact, failure.

This I know.

So why then, do I continue to say, "...but it's the years, I must confess" as my excuse for commitment paranoia, as if investing years in something were a bad thing?
"It's the thrill of something new," I said. But he looked uncomfortable.
"Er...it's the thought of selling short for what's in front of you," I waved my arms. He shifted.
"Well. It's this - this internal conflict - when you ask me what I'm thinking that i am then subjected to." I was stammering but he was unconvinced.
"Okay," I continued, "you have been a sort of...study - in the subject of my will. I am finding I don't know myself (and thinking I do, still). You will wish you never knew me,"
"No, I won't!" he interjected.
I carried on, "We won't make amends."
But he argued, "Yes, yes we will!"
So, I said, "Let's forget 'the future' until then," and he obliged.

It isn't fair that I drag others down with me. I'm scared to death that I might stick with something, be it a location or a job or a relationship. And then what happens? If I find a city I like, I might never travel elsewhere. If I become established in a career, does that mean I will sacrifice the other things I want to do? Perhaps the most terrifying of these thoughts, though, is that, because I'm not as young as I once was, I might marry someone.

And then there's the idea that I might someday make a decision and follow through. I would like, more than anything, to be grounded; but it's difficult when fear and circumstance and absolute selfishness have me dangling from marionette strings that I'm too cowardly to cut myself free from.

This erratic behavior hurts those around me; sometimes I think I am capricious on purpose, in order to spare those who might otherwise get close to me from getting hurt when I drop into a week or a month or a year of solitude. 

Once, when I was four, I went into a local home furnishings store with my mother and immediately spotted a rack full of brightly-colored plastic dinosaurs at the check out counter. I rationalized that if I asked mom to buy some, she would probably only get me one. I wanted all species, though, not just the purple brontosaurus. In my usual hasty, thoughtless manner, I reached out my chubby little hands and stuffed the pockets of my red London Fog raincoat full of my new, free toys. 

I'm not sure what I was thinking later at home, when I hid them underneath my jacket in the playroom, but my mother-the-sleuth claimed to smell fresh plastic; and when she uncovered my first attempt at larceny, she marched me straight to the store owner's home to return the stolen goods and (gasp!) make me apologize for my wrongdoing. 

For two solid hours, my mother held me as I buried my face in her chest and sobbed, refusing to tell Mrs Duke what I had done. Obviously, she already knew; but it being one of my first real encounters with confrontation, I froze.

I carry that attitude with me today. But forgetting a problem is not the same as dealing with it.

I had read stories about children owning up to their dishonesty and being rewarded for coming clean, so I figured if I eventually mustered up a "s-s-sorry," Mrs. Duke would let me keep the dinosaurs I stole. This was not the case. I didn't even get one.

I quickly learned that, when caught in an act, I should change my story - avoiding the truth at all costs. So a year or two later in first grade, when my teacher Mrs. Downing called my mother at home to discuss the reason why I wrote "I HATE MRS. DOWNING" across my math work, I feigned utter surprise. "What? I wrote 'hate?' I meant to write love! I meant I LOVE Mrs. Downing!"

The next morning, Mrs. Downing greeted me with the biggest, most sincere hug I can remember receiving since; and when she passed away from cancer not too long ago, I couldn't help but wonder how anyone could be so unconditionally understanding and forgiving of a little rat bastard kid like myself.

Maybe it's the knowledge of my ownself, the discoveries I made about my inherently evil character as a child, that has made me the way I am today. I've hated myself for as long as I can remember, yet I've never done anything to change; and when things feel beyond my control, I either bury my head or run.

I have made it my goal in recent years to stop talking in code, to start telling the truth, to approach conflict head-on and stop being a baby; still, I can't escape this age-old pattern. I'm in the process of sabotaging my job, so that i can claim that I tried to stick with something but it just didn't work out. I'm excited about the prospect of something new and more challenging - so excited, in fact, that I've mentally finished my current obligation, which I do not think is a good attitude to have.

My head, it seems, is in the sand. I've done this before, I think. It feels familiar. Yeah, familiar. It's comforting. Stale. Old. As one who lives for change, perhaps the most beneficial change I could make would be a behavioral one. Perhaps, for once, i could stop running. it's worth a try.