The Beginning and Other Random Thoughts

Endings are new beginnings.
Unless of course you’re dead but even that’s disputable. Nobody really knows what happens to us after we die. Our bodies go stiff, they stop working and we preserve them in some way even if that way is only in ashes. Faith has to take over after that. First off, you have to have faith that we (human beings- or living things in general if your leap extends that far) are more than physical. You have to believe, know, feel and have rationalized that, in fact and in faith, there is something that is spiritual about us. Then you can feel confident in engaging in this conversation with me. Because I, in fact and in faith, have concluded that there is no possible way we aren’t something in addition to our physical bodies and so all endings are in fact beginnings, even the ones that seem final. But, in the words of that immensely articulate Danish prince “I know not seems”, so final is really the abstract concept here. Final can be that end to which we had previously engaged before we got were we are right now. So, to over simplify, final doesn’t really last that long. It’s sort of an infinitesimal portion of a fraction of a second that cues change and then the new begins. Now I’m going to do that confusing thing I always do and argue in the completely different direction by devil’s-advocating and injecting this idea: Why does something so small as a finale have such a profound affect on those experiencing them? If they are so small how are they so damn strong? And if something so small as a finale (or ending to stick with the previously chosen vocabulary) can be that powerful then how do you handle the big stuff? Or is the big stuff easier to handle because it’s big and therefore easier to perceive? Maybe then the key to understanding the affect an ending has on us is our perception of what has brought us there. If we can get to the rhetorical “bottom” of that perception then maybe we’d have a bit more influence over the power of the ending? Control is what I really mean. And maybe if I could control it then it wouldn’t hurt me so much? Ahhhh, now Nokomis, you are getting somewhere. Because isn’t that what I really want to do? Make the hurt go away and have this damn ending, this infinitesimal thing with such an unexplainably big affect on me, not have the hold it does over my thoughts, feelings and life at the moment. Ah Ha! That’s it that’s what I want! It’s what I’ve wanted all along. A quick escape; a way out of this insufferable suffering that I shouldn’t be suffering at all. Why? Because it doesn’t make sense that I should be suffering from this thought, this idea, this perception of a situation that has in fact ended. It doesn’t make any sense that some boy,
oh yes, I said some boy-
– that’s it! The divine comedy of it all- that all this profound and philosophical thinking has been inspired by a God Damn boy who didn’t want me (cue the intellectual let-down). And it’s something I should be used to at this point in my life because in my 32 years I’ve never been wanted by a boy so why oh why do I need any explanation at all?
Why?
So I will have a boy someday.
So I won’t keep making the same mistakes; because I’ve finally realized, three years after my five years of therapy, that I have everything to do with why things keep ending. I have everything to do with why things don’t work out and the boy, ohhhh that DAMN BOY, never wants me back or finds it so easy to walk away from me (and in fact most can’t get away quick enough). It’s not because I think to much or talk to much. It’s because I argue too much. I never agree with them. More pointedly, I never listen to them. I hear what they say and use it as an arguing point and I rip and tear them down to feel oh so powerful. Yeah, I feel oh so powerful just then. But then, I’m alone once again. Typing on my blog on this rainy, romantic day that I’d rather be spending making love to Mr. Always Ending. And all because I can’t figure out how to let myself be loved. I believe I want it desperately but now I’m questioning that belief. It once was so firm in me that I never would have questioned it but now I wonder (and welcome your input here) if I really wanted it then would I keep attacking it? I must not really want to be loved. I say must not because I’m not fully convinced of my argument. In my heart, or what I perceive as the center point of all my emotions, I have felt the same longing, the same push toward sharing in love. But my over analytical and disruptive mind is now ripping me apart forcing me to question in order, I feel, to force me to take responsibility for the mess I’ve made. I’ve made such a horrible mess. A mess of myself, my lonely and outcast self, that doesn’t want to be lonely or outcast anymore. I never really did. I just don’t know how to be part of everybody else which isn’t a problem because I still don’t want to be a part of everybody else, just somebody else, one somebody, a somebody that has the strength to love a crazy like me. But I have to give them a reason. And nobody wants to be around someone who constantly tears them down. I’m hard on myself here though. I tear because I care. And maybe that doesn’t make sense so I’ll try to explain. I’m deconstructive to be reconstructive if that makes any sense. I’ve always had a sixth sense for poisonous things, sick things, weak points that don’t work, the spot in a project, idea or person that threatens their integrity. I don’t want it but I have it and it works on everyone, everywhere, especially those I take a particular interest in. I weed it out, their deepest, darkest and most terrible parts; without knowing what they are or how to name them but knowing too well that those dark things are present and all that they threaten. And like an obsessed blood hound I incessantly drive toward that darkness seeking to rip it out and reconstruct after I’ve ousted them, all the while demolishing everything beautiful and attractive around it. I tear all of the boy down in order to tear that terrible part out. I hurt them to help them which is the worst excuse in the world.
And it’s a lie.
It’s not them I want to help. It’s me. I mean did you hear what I just said? I want to “reconstruct” a person. Another person! And who the hell am I to do that? I am good at many things and I do have legitimate insights but I am not God. And I don’t really want to deconstruct the boy, that wonderful boy, who caught my attention in the first place. So what the hell am I really doing? What do I really want?

I want to help me stay all alone and safe in the lonely and desolate world I’ve grown accustomed to. So when I finally can name or diagnose the darkness deep down inside of them I have ruined every chance I ever had to have them love me. To have them love me. That’s what I believed I wanted. That’s what I said to you isn’t it? I wrote it just a few lines up- you can reread it. I know I did. I wanted them to love me. But I worked for them to be repulsed by me. This way I could stay alone. And alone is safe. Because it’s the same. The same place I’ve always been; the same thing I’ve always had. I could call all those beautiful men that have dared step into my dance space assholes, pigs and liars but they weren’t. They were people and some of them were wonderful. Wonderful, smart, bright and talented and even though-ha Ha HA! I’d been right about their little secrets, right about their hidden darkness and I’d predicted their inevitable down falls, they were still beautiful and I was still alone. Being right just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. What I am wondering now is, is there a way to be right- and I must warn you, I always am. No, really, I ALWAYS am. I can predict a train wreck from miles, nay, years away. I’ve told you I have a sixth sense about these darknesses in people. It’s very true and real- But what I’m wondering is, despite that- no- in fact, along with that quality of mine, is there a way for me to let someone love me? Is there a way for me to allow them to see my darkest parts? because after all, I do always see theirs.

And I can hear all the ladies, the liberated, autonomous ladies yelling back here,- ” but if they had those darknesses about them, if you were right about their down falls, then you’re lucky you didn’t end up with any of them”. But no, in fact, I’m not. Because none of this is about them or their darknesses, it’s about me and mine. And yes, I may have saved myself some heart ache, but none worth sacrificing the love I would have experienced along with it. And just because those relationships may have ended does not make them irrelevant or bad overall; and I speak from a historical perspective here in that I am looking back on these situations and I’ve seen how these boys have ended up. And they did have these “darknesses”, but they over came them. And along side of them now are women who dared to have faith in them, darknesses and all, not reconstructed “thems” but the real, imperfect “thems” they started out as and here’s the must hurtful part- those beautiful boys are better people because someone girl with enough courage allowed herself to be loved by them, placed her faith in them. In being allowed to give love, they could be loved and in being loved they were inspired to deal with their own demons: no heroism required.

Obviously this isn’t first date material. Holding back a little is a must. I mustn’t continue to rape every man I become interested in with my heroism.  If it deserves to be called heroism at all. It could in fact be an elaborate excuse for my lack of courage. Because it takes courage to be loved. To allow someone into your dance space and join in a dance with them, maybe even allowing them to lead me. Men do like to do that I’ve heard. In fact I’ve noticed that most become infuriated when women attempt to take the lead. Subtlety is key and I am keyless. I do think it would be nice to dance; to dance and to follow. Just the thought of somebody else making decisions for a change helped me exhale and relax a little. I’m wound so tightly I’m all knots and left feet. It would be nice to take a big strong hand and… maybe… trust a little. Yeah. Trust a little. And then maybe a little more. Must I always bull-in-a-china-shop my way through every situation? I step on too many toes that way. And more importantly I loose my connection with the music. I get off rhythm. I’m so locked in a battle to lead that I don’t hear the music playing anymore. I obsess over what I perceive and loose connection with the music and it’s the music that’s important.  The music defines the dance, the dancers don’t. The dancers are just there to interpret the music and that is only possible when they are listening to it. My perception has had too much to do with my ego. That thin little beast inside of me that I’ve allowed to convince me is my entirety. It isn’t so. In fact it’s my leap of faith in that beautiful boy reaching out to dance with me that attests to it. What of his perceptions of me? Why did he choose to engage me in this dance to begin with? Something about me that I am incapable of seeing rallied his courage enough to direct him into my dance space. If only I could see what he was seeing. But that’s the secret isn’t it? I have to trust in him. I have to see what he sees through his lead, not his eyes. I must follow where he goes by allowing him to take me there, not by insisting he map it out prior to our beginning. And only, only if his rhythm is out of time to the music do I, should I, have any reason to question his decision to engage in this dance with me. He chose me. I don’t have to know why. I have to trust why. And I have to dance.

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