To be frank, I have been neglecting this for a while. I certainly haven’t been at a loss for words nor thoughts, but I guess the ritual of sitting down and typing out my thoughts was intimidating, or unsavory, or maybe just kind of tedious. Beyond that, though, I guess, is a general fear of the clarity that comes with something like this. Writing has helped me a lot with expunging feelings and often that release gives me some realization or comfort. Right now, I’m scared of what my realizations would be, or I’m hesitant to be comforted. I don’t want to know things.
Where to begin. It has been nine months since Jane and I broke up. Throughout that period, especially the first six months, I felt many things and have enumerated all of those in the fifty or so posts on this blog so far. Specifically, the troublesome mix of anger, yearning, self-deprecation, manic hopefulness, and just a dash of acceptance – I was oscillating wildly between hating her for what she did and wanting her back. Such tempestuousness begets a couple of things in a person. One, I didn’t like myself, one way or another. I hated the me who hated her, I hated the me who loved her. At some point, one must realize that this has nothing to do with the object of an emotion and everything to do with the subject experiencing it. I just didn’t like myself regardless of who she was. If I hated her, I was petulant and childish, I was ungraceful, I was base and unempathetic. If I loved her, I was resentful of my resignation towards what I deserve, I was submissive, I didn’t respect those feelings or myself for having them. At the root of this juxtaposition has to be an acknowledgement that I cannot find within myself the courage to make a decision. Partially, this has to do with the fear of being regretful, either sacrificing the potentiality for great love and happiness or resigning myself to a life with someone who I find it hard to respect now. And I mean, to you, dear reader, this might seem clear cut. But to me, part of me thinks maybe I can work through those negative feelings about her and return to that blissful place. And again, to you, this might be nothing more than a guy wishing to be back amongst the fire-lit shadows on the cave walls. But if I get further into this feeling, this self-denying optimism towards my current disposition, one thought really bubbles to the forefront. I do not think I can love her like I used to, and I hate myself for it. And I hate myself for hating myself for it. I hate myself at the first layer for not being able to forget, for not being able to see her efforts of growth since as substantial evidence for me to love her again. There’s nothing more I can ask of her, no more proof or practice that could affirm that she is serious about wanting to try again. If she is doing all she can, and all I can ask, then how can I be aggrieved? But then, I hate myself for this train of thought. It’s a pattern so deeply rooted in my denial of my own agency, of my own happiness. I learned at a young age that it is better to be loved than to be happy. Feeling like you matter to someone else is preferable to asserting your own wants and will.
As is patently obvious, I don’t deserve to be happy, but I deserve to be loved. Of course, this is not healthy or whatever, but it’s also kind of interesting. The implication here, the syllogism at the end, is that being loved does not make me happy. But I know no other way of trying to be.
I wanted Jane back for a long time, I pleaded with her for chances at reconciliation, that I could overcome this kind of trauma or distrust and we’d be better for it. And if I could, I’m sure we would be. But I don’t know if I can. Now that we’ve been trying for about a month and a half, I’ve scuttled back into this shell of denial and anxiety. To speak about my true feelings is to condemn the whole thing but to not is to be perpetually unstable and withdrawn. And to speak without knowing when the consequences are so dire, when something such as love is on the line, well, that seems hasty.
And she’s been trying, she really has. She really wants it to work out. If I knew that she would feel the way she does today six months ago, I would have been elated. Now, I think maybe there really is nothing worse than getting what you wish for. Delusions are absent of consequence, yearning for the return of an ex can be dressed up in layers upon layers of fantastically optimistic feelings of love and restoration. Reality holds much more bitter flavors.
What I’ve learned so far, I suppose, is that I and everyone else are totems of some gap within me. This situation with Jane, this appeal to reconciliation and happiness, it is an enactment of my own views of myself. To take her back, despite the hurt, is forgiving, it’s mature, it’s compassionate, it’s empathetic. And it’s who I want to be. I want to love her like I used to, I want to forget about this negativity in my stomach. And I feel like she’s deserving of it, right? That she’s trying really hard and that she deserves another chance? However, to let her go, in spite of the potential, is affirming to my feelings, is respectful of myself, is prideful, and is terrifying. From my own perception, it would be less accurate to call this a romantic decision and more poignant to call it a personal trial. To what extent can I knowingly deny myself a base level of self-respect and appreciation – to what extent does the potentiality for a lifelong partner who sees you and loves you for it outweigh the pain of being with them? Who do I want to be? At the end of the day, with my usual narcissistic disposition, this is about me and me alone. And when it comes to myself, I rarely choose the beneficial position.
jeez, louise 