He was alone because he was too picky. Because he rejected a woman he claimed to like generally because, and I quote, "she smelled like soup."
This has been one of the excuses I have co-opted for my own interminable state of singleness and solitude. I am just too picky. They all smell like soup. Well, all of them except those who are arrogant and emotionally damaged and who treat me badly and leave me crying and making myself less than (and who, uncannily, generally have some sort of affiliation with the armed forces).
So, in short, I am alone because I make bad choices, discarding good men because they "smell like soup", and because the men I do choose are assholes, in one form or another, and so it is doomed because, of course, it is "them and not me."
Except that all of this is absolute bullshit.
Don't get me wrong, it is necessary bullshit. It is the bullshit you need to tell yourself to get through the day, to get through your life. It is the bullshit your girlfriends have to tell you in order not to hurt your feelings and because they love you and desperately want to believe that your inability to have a relationship longer than the lifespan of a fruitfly (approximately 8 to 12 days) has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with this abstractly odious man.
And yet, again, generally, it is, in fact, all bullshit.
The truth of the matter: It is me.
Again: It. is. me.
There is something profoundly wrong with me, and I am simply unable to put my finger on it. I think I can try, and probably get pretty close. But, what scares me most, is even if I can approximate it, I don't think I can change it.
For the last couple of years, I have been working on convincing myself that the reason I could not find and keep a partner in life was that I failed to be authentic when I dated. I was so insecure and nervous that I spun-plates and completely obscured "who I really am."
Well, here we are, approximately two years down the road from making that discovery, and the more "real" I become, the more horrifying I am to my dating prospects. It isn't achieving authenticity that is my problem, it is that who I am, such that it is, is not in fact a very appealing package. I need to acknowledge this hard truth, regroup and reassess. There is something very wrong with me -- in a very fundamental sense -- despite the paper selling points I may being to the table, things that may spur initial interest. There is a very deep and searing flaw in my personality which makes me unsuitable for dating, let alone commitment. Even the occasional considerate and kind fellow I happen to date finds it unappealing and runs at the first opportunity. If I don't confront this hard reality, I am going to be left with living out my greatest nightmare for the rest of my life: being utterly alone. I have been looking back, trying to understand if it is just revisionist history or if it is in fact true, and as near as I can figure it is my lifelong truth: My lifelong overarching goal was to be loved. Really, I have never had any goal other than that. I never wanted to be anything in particular or to achieve anything in particular. I have been successful in my life (well, by a fairly loose measure of the standard), but mostly because I feared not being successful, and I was seeking the approval (a weaker strain of love?) from others.
I feel that it is inappropriate to speak about now, because it inflicts pain on those I care about, but my life in its current definition is almost schizophrenic for me: on one hand I can be proud that I am self-supporting and have "achieved" a respectable paper resume, on the other hand, my life is an absolute horror show. This is exactly where I never wanted to be. I never wanted to be old and alone. I wanted to fall in love, and have a family, and not have to keep throwing my bruised heart out on the table to be mishandled and dropped and stepped on again and again. It is not that strong. I am not that strong.
I sustain. I endure. I "endure" far less than others that have actually been tested -- by health issues, economic issues, crises of conscience. I know my problems are small and petty. I hate myself for not being able to dismiss them. In fact, in this week of absolutely awesome inspiration, of an elation and a bonding with my fellow Americans, with absolute strangers that I did not know -- the culmination of nearly a year of wishing and hoping, of more that two hundred years of pervasive inequality -- I was soaring on Tuesday night, and I spent my entire day walking around silently crying in corners today.
I am leaving the country on Monday and I am grateful for it.
I need to pull myself together. And contemplation on foreign soil seems to be just the right palliative at this moment.
It has been suggested to me that I should get back on the anti-depressants. Perhaps I should. I went off of them because they made me feel like a slug and instead of feeling bad, I simply felt nothing. It might be nice to take a holiday from feeling for a while. But I fear letting go.
A good man, a seemingly honorable person has rejected me for reasons I cannot even fathom. Well, I know it is my flaw -- I just haven't pinpointed it yet. His response is a complete 180. It is puzzling. It is searingly painful. But I keep such things to myself, as I know I am ridiculous. It is stupid that I am so affected by someone I knew for a matter of days. It is the ultimate demarcation of loser, and of weakness. Of an inability to parse what is important from what is inconsequential. When it comes to matters where my heart -- my romantic life -- is involved. I have no ability to shield myself. All of this hurts. It hurts -- a sting, persistent, eventually to bruise, if not to sear.
What is wrong with me? Why can't I fix it?
I need to figure out what it is first.
It makes me sad to admit that I am so weak. That shepherding my heart around this world for thirty-one years has made me so tired. I know I generally bruise easily (I was black and blue all through my boxing bootcamp), but my heart seems to be the only part of my body that seems unable to recover. Each bruise may lessen a bit, but it remains incorporated into the landscape. Simultaneously indented and swollen, ever tender.
I want to be resilient. But I am tired. But I cry. And cry. And cry.
I know how annoyed everyone is with hearing this. I am working on being better about my stoicism as well. So far, I managed to avoid discussing this at all with anyone this week. But here it has spilled out, as is my way.
My arena of last resort.
I am sure my comment trolls will eviscerate me for it -- and in their defense, they are right, I am dour and self-pitying in this format, and it is indeed tiresome.
But again, this is my forum of last resort. The niceties and tempering, even comments are all used up in interacting with the outside world. This is my safe place to dump my sadness. To try to make sense of it. To try to off-load it.
It does not lead to very pleasant reading, but, my hope is, it leads to more pleasant living... for me at least.
This will be, however, a post without a conclusion, as I don't have any answers here. I have only my painfully flawed self. My only company for the long haul.
And perhaps that is the answer. But the acceptance of that brutal reality is something that eludes me.
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