I was talking with a friend last night about my writing. Not this writing per se (though certainly this ‘counts’). The writing that I’ve been doing for a class I was taking. I’ve been writing about my relationships. Not the 10,000 foot narrative. Nope. The nitty gritty, granular shit. I’ve been getting deep into the weeds. I’ve been dissecting and examining. I told this girlfriend of mine that it’s been extremely cathartic for me.
What I shared is that I’ve given myself props for moving through things so much so that I forgot to actually really deal with them. Sure, I dealt with certain high-level issues, but I tried to mute as much as possible so I could recover and move on.
As I was talking, I thought back to a conversation I had with my writing teacher at the end of the class. She was generally very kind about my writing but mentioned to me that she was perplexed at how vague and ambiguous I was when describing the various men that has passed in and out of my life. When I asked her what she meant, she noted that she got some sense of certain interactions we had in a very detailed and meaningful way, but she failed to grasp the holistic sense of our relationship because I failed to include that level of detail about them.
I wasn’t offended in the slightest for a variety of reasons. First, and most importantly, she is a magnificent teacher. What do I mean by that? Well, she knows exactly how to deliver feedback in a way that is helpful and growth inducing. Second of all, I knew what she was saying to be entirely truthful because there was some part of me that very consciously did what she was referring to.
I responded to her queries by advising that some part of me had blurred the lines where those men were concerned because of the way in which I had handled the healing process. I told her that many people tend to blame the other person when shit falls apart for one reason or another. I even shared that I encourage people on this blog to take responsibility for that reason. However, I was one who put the full brunt of responsibility on my own shoulders. I told myself that I was a piece of shit, I was dysfunctional, I was a mess, I was a failure. Of course, I failed to take responsibility for the real stuff. I failed to own (for a long time) that I allowed someone to remain in my life who was unkind or just not my cup of tea. I did need to take responsibility, but my accountability was more in the self-destructive way and less in the real deal way.
Believe it or not, that was taking the easy way out. It is easier to call yourself a piece of shit than to own what really transpired in a relationship. When you look into the relationship and really take a good analysis of what went on, then certain action is required. Action that is scary and life changing. And so, it’s easier just to think ill of oneself and stay stuck. I mean, it isn’t, but also, it is.
I highlighted my fuck ups and then reduced the men I had relationships with to cartoon versions of themselves. The narcissist, the drug addict, the mama’s boy, the rich kid. It was just easier. They were type cast, I was type cast, the movie was what it was. Nope. Not even close.
My teacher shattered this narrative I had carefully crafted by asking one question, and one question alone. Ready for it? She asked me why I fell in love with them to begin with. Um, what? What the fuck are you talking about? Who cares about that? Obviously, it’s because I was a blind idiot who failed to see what I was getting myself into. Clearly, it’s because I was subscribing to some habitual self-punishment.
L, I suppose I can dislike them for how you describe them. I mean I can. It makes sense. They are inherently unlikeable. But what I really crave is an understanding of why you loved them to begin with, because that’s your story. The story isn’t in the ending. It’s in the beginning and the middle and then the end. The end is made more spectacular by all the shit that happened before. It’s easier to identify a villain when you first thought of them as the hero. The fall from grace is the drama that the audience craves.
Mind. Blown. She was right. I was quick to describe the spectacular endings. I was quick to share with everyone just how monumentally shitty things had gotten. However, I was too scared to get into how we started. I was too terrified to admit how good it felt to be with them at any given moment. I was too sick to admit that I really, really loved them before they broke my heart and before I hated them and before I got to a place of indifference. I had shied away from giving that point in history words or feelings or descriptors because it felt like it made it more real. I would have to admit to the goodness that was once there.
Don’t get me wrong as I had good memories from those relationships. As I previously shared, it was only in the exploration of the ‘other’ that I was able to retain and cherish the good stuff, but those were blips on the radar. Moments, events. Wow, that wedding was nice. Boy, that trip was special. That’s the easy shit. Right? Because in those moments there were circumstances and other people and all the things that were outside of my control. But what if I owned up to the slow and methodical process that was falling in love with these men? What if I admitted the friendship that existed before the adoration? What if I waxed poetically on the obsession? What then? Then I would have to really explore all the things. Every minute, every second. All time.
Then, there wouldn’t just be moments here and there. Then, I would have to admit to all of it. I would have to tell the story and that story would be interwoven with my whole story and the two would be inextricably linked. What then? Where do I go from there? Am I then tarnished with the weight of my emotional baggage? Am I marked by it? Defined by it?
I’m not. That’s the short answer. More soon…
L.
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