Maybe, Just Maybe

Here is a question: If the only knowledge you had of me was through reading this blog, do you know me? Are the words that appear here the "real" me? Would reading these words give you greater insight into who I am than hanging out with me on a regular basis?

In my lawyerly inherently-relativist way, I think the answer is both yes and no.

To know the cyber-me, is to know the peaks and valleys, but none of the landscape in-between. To be fair, there have been a number of stretches of time in the past few years when there wasn't really any landscape in between to report on. Nonetheless, when I write here, it is because I am compelled. I never write out of duty or regularity or even habit. I try to write when I have something to say, but, oftentimes, it is more like I write because I have something to spill. Feelings that are just spilling over and that I can't process any other way than to spew them forth in print, to try to find some safe place to contain them. Though I had never really thought about it, this has long been my practice, even prior to this cyber-endeavor. Often when putting my hand in a long unused pocket or reorganizing an oft-neglected corner, I find folded pieces of paper documenting some angst of the moment in desperate and shrieking tones. Everything is so serious. Everything is so determinative. Funny how different and how very much the same my little scrap paper missives of my adolescence and my cyber entries of today are in both tenor and pitch.

My writing has always been the primary outlet for my scared little girl, afraid of her own shadow and unsure of how to protect herself in a world that made her feel so helplessly out of control. It is only there where she gets a voice. In the real world, she is only found in wracked sobs or rivers of tears. I guess I have always been loathe to speak out loud about a lot of my dark crevices. Actually, I don't think that I could. Correction: I don't think that I could do so without having written them out first. And that is not a matter of scripting things for more palatable consumption by others, but more so because I can't communicate something I myself don't understand. And truly, oftentimes, I have no idea what my feelings are or where they might be coming from till I read the product of my own furious fingers. Even then, my ability to share out loud is limited. There is a line in the sand that I will not cross. I had been so religious about it for so long that I forgot that there might be anything that existed beyond that line. Hence my laughable belief (and I swear, I wholeheartedly believed it up until last summer) that I was an open person.

I always thought being open was a position of vulnerability. But it isn't, it is a matter of trust. And not even trust in the other person, but trust in yourself. Your trust in your own fundamental goodness, and your trust in your choices of the people with whom you have surrounded yourself. Your trust that even if you disappoint people with what you tell them or that they disappoint you with their reactions, that being open was the right thing to do.

In a lot of ways, to this point, I have failed. My life has been characterized by a lack of trust, a lack of faith. In so many ways, it is such an unfair and unreasonable position for me to take. I have been so blessed in this life with more than my fair share of people who have stood by me from the beginning of our relationship to the present day. Even when things are bad, especially when they are. When I have been less of a friend than I should have been, as well as when I was actually present. It is stunning good fortune. It is a solid platform upon which to believe, to reach out, to trust, to let go of the fear.

But I have always been a glass is half empty kind of gal. Funny thing, that, as it really is not a result of my being a cynic, but rather because I am a closet addict to hope. In the fun house mirror inside my head, I have long been a bearer of talismanic worry. If I worry that the worst will happen, if I squelch my impulse to hope that the best will happen, then at least the worst won't occur. What kind of a desired outcome is that? Seriously? It may head off (at least some) searing pain, but the endgame is, by definition, dissatisfaction.

Despite my contemporaneous protestations to the contrary, to this point, things in my life have actually turned out just as they should. That boy (okay, the many boys) I "loved" that I thought I should have been with "forever", the (numerous) jobs I thought I should have which would have made me "so happy", the (various) schools I just had to go to because otherwise my life was "over." All not true. In fact, the alternative result was so much the better -- in the end. Hindsight is 20/20 and perhaps that same hopeful schmuck inside of me is what makes me want to justify all of the events in my life as "ultimately positive" and "hard lessons learned." But the Oprah-speak, therapeutic culture of which I am a product aside, I can see how certain life twists and turns that I disagreed with so vehemently at the time really worked out to my benefit (though I certainly protested, wailed and rended garments enough at the time). Example: the Cubs Fan "breaking up" with me last summer (which was odd because it was only at that moment that I was sure we were "dating"). It felt like the end of the world. I tried to filibuster the relationship back over the course three hours and as many cocktails. And yet for all his faults, he was (let's give him the benefit of the doubt) intuitive enough to make a point to me as to why he thought things didn't work out (hint: it was me, but simply that there wasn't enough of me. More sharing, less obfuscating.) In many ways the statement was outrageous and out -of-line, but mostly because it was true. And being forced to look at it, was a revelation. My own long held assumptions had blinded me to what others could plainly see. Needed to assume less, trust more. Listen better. Think less, feel more. Act accordingly.

All of these people showed me what is possible, and what I want and what I didn't. My academic life is over (unless I happen to win the lottery), my work life is stable and contented (for once), and I am so lucky for having all of my friends. The last missing component is that romantic part, and it does require me to put some things together.

After all of this -- the wit, the wisdom, the whining encompassed within nearly three decades -- I have concluded that the truth is this: Relationships are in fact simple: Holding someone's heart close to your own requires simply this -- you each must provide constant care and feeding to both of those hearts. That is not neediness. That is not obsession. That is love. Plain and simple. Love survives past the initial phases of giddy chemical attraction and through the mire and muck of life only because you both choose for it to do so. You pay attention. You compromise. You share. You talk. You trust. And you do it all again and again, without question, hesitation (though likely a fair amount of exasperation). All of these done, with love, in the deepest, most difficult and knotty sense. Why do you do this? Because you know you both have someone who "gets" you -- all of you -- and you both remind yourself of the precious nature of that gift every day. Even when they are spiteful, even when you are cranky, even when life rains down cruelty, or when tempers concurrently flare. You are angry, but in your heart you remember. You remember the why of that other person. Difficult and angry emotions expressed eventually evaporate, but (I imagine) the why never does.

Life is a difficult process when you navigate it alone. It is foolhardy to expect it to be easier when navigating together and all of the politics and negotiation that that inevitably requires. It is the pay-off of the pleasure of someone's company on that extended journey, and the trust that they will travel with you, no matter what, that makes the difficulties worth it.

Life isn't easy, but it can be happy. But lasting happiness -- whatever form in which it comes -- requires effort. Life is not static. Adjustments must always be made.

Then again, I guess this is the point where my theory of relationship simplicity begins to falter, and where the complicated part comes in. Knowing you need to make continual adjustments is just half the battle, knowing when and how much adjustment is required is another matter.

And so again, it seems we are back to trust.

Trusting in yourself and the other person, to know when to tighten up and when to grant a little slack.

Equal parts bravery and intuition. And a fair measure of luck.

But then again, it is easy for me to pontificate and make sweeping pronouncements, as, at the end of the day, what do I know? I haven't had any kind of a significant relationship in years. And in a truth I have long been unwilling to admit to myself, for me love is simply conjecture, purely theoretical, as it seems to me that love is more a carpool lane, than a single commuter endeavor, and therefore admission requires two people equally invested in the ride. "One-sided love" is, by definition, simply infatuation, right?

Anyway, in another truth about myself that I have always been unwilling to admit, I really am hopeful at heart. Frustrated and prone to self-pity, but deep down hopeful. The hope keeps me going, but the hope keeps me scared. The hope keeps me feeling vulnerable, In many ways, the hope keeps me alone. But in the end it is hope, and it is a precious and beautiful thing, and, much as it might vex me, it is an amazing gift.

If only I knew what to do with it.

Maybe, just maybe, if we can walk forward hand-in-hand -- the little girl and I -- and, all the while, I can carry the hope -- both woven into my heart and written upon my sleeve -- then maybe, just maybe, she and I can find exactly what we are looking for.

We'll know it when we feel it.

Frame of Reference

For those who know me, and for those who don 't, a fateful trip to my local movie theater this weekend revealed to me the perfect frame of reference for understanding exactly who and what I am.

Meet my animated doppelganger. I am a brunette and not a blonde, but the differences pretty much end there.

If you have seen The Simpson's Movie, Lisa's first interaction with Colin where she is internally telling herself to "Be cool" is pretty much the epitome of my (so-called) dating life.

Sick-O

Some thoughts from the sick-bed (or rather, sick-couch) of a very cranky sick person:

• I realize bullet points are lazy, but such is life. I feel like I have sorely neglected posting here, and figure that bullet points are better than nothing. So there it is.
• Where have I been? Simultaneously trying to recapture my youth while still attempting to find my present self. You can imagine how well that is going. (See e.g. the opening line to this post indicating the poster is home sick on a Friday night... all this discovery and re-discovery has left her bedridden.)
• News broke today that the mayor of the esteemed city in which I live recently broke up with his girlfriend. This would not necessarily be newsworthy, but for the fact that I find myself feeling sorry for her. I suppose I should be on the "He is hot, so who cares why he dumped her" bandwagon (not to mention the fact that several times she has shown she is bringing plenty of the "crazy," oft-discussed in this forum, to the party). But for all of her crazy, it was clear she was invested. She wasn't savvy, but she was invested. And if you take a look at any pictures of her (and there are many as she does not shy away from self promotion), there is such a look of overwhelming sadness in her eyes, some unspoken, unfulfilled, yet all consuming need. It is almost painful to look at. I guess I feel bad for her (and not to be unduly cruel about this, but it's true) because she reminds me of me. He liked her because she was high maintenance and dependent, but he doesn't have time for that. And dating a public figure requires a thick skin. I hope the press gives her a pass on this one.
• Ever wish you could be someone else? Not permanently, but in a sort of sabbatical from yourself?
  
• I am lacking in the energy level to cope with myself anymore. I might have to break up with myself soon if I don't shape up. "It's not you... well, actually, yes, it is you... and me."
  
• So there are a number of things I have suspicions about -- that I am fairly certain will be true, and which I wonder if there is anything I can do right now to change, but am unsure as to what: (1) I am pretty sure I am infertile. I am not sure why I think this, but I just do. This shouldn't be too big of a deal as I don't think I want to have kids, but if I think about too much will upset me because it is always nice to have the option if you change your mind. (2) I have a suspicion that I should be a lot kinder to my family because I am going to need them to take care of me when I am old -- because of point 1 above, and because I am pretty certain I will be alone for the rest of my life. I know this sounds like a pity-party, and I acknowledge that it is, and I know I haven't really been out there that long (if at all), but I am just frustrated. Frustrated-sad, frustrated-angry. Just frustrated with a capital F. There are those who I like and those who like me and, apparently, never the twain shall meet.
  
• Maybe I don't like people who like me because they like me. Perhaps that accounts for my lack of chemistry.
  
• Or maybe I am just irrevocably broken.
• Being tossed aside and getting up and dusting yourself off and walking back onto the field of play is commendable, but eventually it just gets old. At what point do you just say, "Enough is enough. I can endure no more abuse. I will not play this silly game any longer."
  
• But as hopeless as I sound, I am actually incapable of giving up all hope. If only I could. If only I could actually give up all hope entirely then maybe, like some romantic comedy heroine, I would meet by rumpled, though adorable suitor-soon-to-be-life-partner. Isn't that how they say it always happens. Oh John Cusack/Hugh Grant/Matthew Perry, where art thou?
• But see, all of this bitching and moaning, belies the fact that I am still "not ready" to meet someone. I have to "accept myself" and "love myself" first before anyone can love me. Sheesh, if I have to wait for that to happen, I really am going to be alone forever. Seriously, I have a hard time envisioning any scenario in which I am totally comfortable and accepting of myself with no insecurities or reservations. That seems to be as unlikely as me waking up one morning and being "perfect." Just never going to happen. So if my romantic happiness is pegged to an impossible scenario, then the logical follow up is that it too is impossible.
• Can I just ask here -- if any powers that be may be listening, or surfing the blogosphere -- why do I have to accept all of my issues and be at complete peace with myself before I get to meet someone, but everyone else is allowed to find love even with loads of unresolved issues and pounds of ever present baggage following them around? I am just asking. It seems a little unfair.
  
• Then again, maybe I had farther to go, more to make up for, than everyone else. I understand. But when will it be enough? I am not sure I can make enough progress to actually get what I want prior to being 90.
  
• Ugh. So sorry. Just sick and cranky (and equal parts restless, melancholy, and self-pitying).