Some Kind of Masochist

A few weeks ago a cousin of mine living in Albany sent several members of our family the same e-mail message. In a nutshell, she was asking that, for her birthday, we all pray that she get back together with some guy who had broken up with her and taken out a restraining order on her (something about her breaking into his apartment).

She's been in a tailspin for the last two or three years, and all of her shenanigans have involved guys, which is pretty sad because apart from that she'd actually been doing pretty well for herself over there, even without a college degree. For awhile it was as though she was completely in her element over there in America...until she started dating at the ripe old age of twenty-nine (or was it thirty? I forget). She's been with married guys, involved guys, jerks and wimps, and it seems that at the end of each and every relationship, the guy wants nothing to do with her. The restraining order recently slapped against her is one of several, apparently.

So I wrote her. I wrote about how she shouldn't pin all her hopes for happiness on this guy, or any guy, for that matter. I wrote about how she needed to go out there and experience life. I wrote about how love would and should find her when she's ready for it, not desperate for it. It felt like poetry.

It also went unanswered.

I should have known better, really. I should have known that someone who's been in and out of jail because she can't get over her habit of stalking her ex-boyfriends, someone who sees multiple shrinks so that she can get several prescriptions of various anti-depressants, and someone who has proclaimed herself a hopeless cases wasn't exactly about to say "oh thank you, Jim, for beating me over the head with what a stupid, sociopathically co-dependent bitch I've been all these years. I will surely mend my ways now." But for some reason, I couldn't help hoping.

I think I know now how all those women who are irrepressibly in love with "bad boys" feel. I've often derided them before, saying that the way they feel about these scumbuckets is really nothing more than a form of narcissism; that is, their ability to get these bad boys to "change their ways" is a way to reassure themselves of their importance in this world. This viewpoint hasn't really changed; I, too, now want to be important. I want to have an effect on this self-destructive cousin of mine, even though all the evidence tells me that she'll probably get shot by one of her ex-boyfriends while she's breaking into his apartment before so much as a word of what I say even registers.

She is my unicorn, my avocation now. Part of it is the fact that she's my first cousin, but there is something more than that as well. To be perfectly and selfishly frank, yes, I want to reaffirm my own place in this world by trying to concretely help someone else.

The funny thing about it is, I'm not sure whether or not to feel guilty or good about myself.