My PTSD, undiagnosed but real nonetheless, was so profound that I cannot to this day tell you whether or not she ever found the shy cervix. I can tell you that when I hopped off the table to get dressed that pasted to my backside, soaked in nervous sweat, was a big-ass pair of paper doll pants made from the white paper they place on the table. I kid you not.
Looking back, as I do with all failed relationships, there had been other warning signs which I had ignored: she did all the talking and she never made much time for me.
As I’ve gotten older I find that I’m getting better at identifying the red flags earlier in the relationship. But when I don’t, I’m also getting better at letting go and moving on.
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