When you find within your PTSD-ridden self the courage to open up to a “man” and, once again, endure the potential shame of sharing not just your body, but your mind too (it’s become a less secondary thing ever since that manic pixie dream girl archetype), all you want is for it to not backfire–yet again. You lay all your cards on the table like a little fool, a novice poker player naively trusting her mentor to show her the way without taking advantage.
And this seems to happen every time you walk in to the gaming room that is l’amour (or the ruins of what it used to mean from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries). You suppress all that your instincts are telling you–that he will bolt when he knows too much of you–and try, once again to ignore what you can already foresee is going to happen. Mother will tell you these “negative” thoughts are a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the prophecy isn’t fulfilled by the self so much as the egregious overall character of “men,” who, when bored with your so-called bullshit, will chuck you into the trash like so much bad lettuce. So you shared your body and your mind again. That’s all over now. Because you pretty much have neither entity left to give, no wherewithal to regurgitate the same flirtations or attempts at allurement.