And here I lie. Alone. And i hate it. And so i must write. I've never been one for a candid, extemporaneous blog entry, but apparently tonight is the night. No premeditation, no attempt at adroit wit or uncanny satire -- just raw, unfiltered neurotic thoughts (for better or worse). But it's an apposite entry, I suppose, because today is March 11th, 2010. On March 11th, 2009, I met her -- the woman that made the room sink around her and the woman that would change my life. And change it for the better (or so i keep telling myself). A quick fast forward to March 11th, 2010, and I'm faced with a poignant, yet inescapable reflection. Now at 29, I had thought I'd felt pain. I was wrong. The pain I've felt over the past two (plus whatever/forever) months outweighs even the pain branded on the scars from my alcoholic childhood home (at least acutely). I am hurt on March 11th, 2010, and hurt like never before. I suppose it's the Siren call of love that has betrayed me (as she does), or even my own pattern of bedeviled relationships rooted in my voracious desire to fill my vacancies with love, attention, and affection (ah, but don't we all want that?). Details aside, on March 11th, 2010, I'm alone. And I hate it.
The woman I loved (and certainly still do) over the past year -- despite her recent demonic haunts upon every night of my attempted sleep -- has changed my life for the better. How can this be (I ask...continuously)? Because at the age of 29, I finally know what it means to truly love someone. Cliche, of course. I'm a musician, so I'm well-aware that nearly every single album on my digital archive deals with such subject matter. But until one has felt what it's like to be literally destroyed by someone else's vacancy, no song, no poem, no advice, and no prayer can adequately prepare nor offer solace for love's power. Love is an experience, not an emotion. Therefore, the loss of my first "true love" (i know, the cliche again...but seriously) is like a death inside. And so the pain I feel is the grief of loss. My life has lost something that it once had: the experience of my life with this truly special, beautiful woman.
Fortunately, I haven't dealt with much grief in my life. I haven't lost anyone in my life (yet, fingers crossed) that was particularly close enough to me to push me to grief. And my father was ill with addiction since I can remember, so his absence (at least during my childhood) was never really a "loss" since it wasn't fully there in the first place. But losing my found love -- someone that I came to define myself through, not with -- is grief. The year we spent together was unmatched by any clock. I could spend two hours with her (as such the last two hours i saw her) and the hands might as well spin off the wall. Our bodies were like two raindrops magnetically fusing together -- or in our words, "of the same substance". Yes, romanticizing a bit, but only in terms of frequency, not amplitude. Our darkness was shared, and so was our light. And my, were we bright together. Most experiences I recount (particularly our travel sojourns) were filled with as much risible lightheartedness as they were with academic conversation. And to speak of amplitude, the experience that was our love swept from the expansion of the Pacific Northwest wilderness to the intimacy of stargazing through my foggy bay window. She knows my darkness and I know hers; she knows my light and I know hers; which, I suppose, brings me to another substance of love: vulnerability.
Clearly, I made myself vulnerable. In fact, I've never been so vulnerable to another person as I was with her. Otherwise, I wouldn't feel shattered into a million (+ 1) pieces across my wooden floor. It is like emotional nuclear technology, wielding as much potential for salvation as wielding potential for destruction. Hence, I paradoxically feel as though I've been saved and destroyed at the same time. And this is what permits me to claim that my loving relationship with that stunning woman i met one year ago today changed my life for the better. This is because I now understand value; that is to say, I know now what it is to have because I know now what it is to not have. And tonight i do not have my true love. I've had and lost love before; but "true" love -- that in which i define myself through someone else -- I have not. And so the death of my relationship with this true love has also poisoned and killed a piece of my own identity. That is the source of the pain i am feeling tonight.
I never knew I could be myself around someone and have them accept me -- all of me. I've been a pariah my entire life, and it has taken an ugly toll. Too much "crazy" creativity for most mentors (including to this day, perhaps); too many questions in class (so why don't we remove you and put you in "special" classes so you feel less isolated -- ahh, the irony); too little patience to understand my confusing adolescent peers with their inane dramas and "crises;" too quirky of a humor to make anyone (but myself) laugh; too accepting of all beauty -- whether black, white, male, or female -- to be taken without challenge in a relationship. The woman I write of tonight, accepted these things about me (...or did she?); in fact, she loved me for them, perhaps because she herself is afflicted with similar insecurities. Whether it seems selfish in the end, that two people would match largely to accommodate each other's childhood (and now adulthood) vacancies is moot. I think if anyone is truly honest with themselves, we all match, at least partly, to provide what we lack ourselves. And for me, it has been, is now, and probably forever will be: acceptance. The woman I met on March 11th, 2009, laughed at my jokes. How silly (no pun intended) does that sound as the most outstanding criteria for instant compatibility? But it's true. I remember telling one of my closet friends this the following day. One year later, I laugh in reflection: she laughed hysterically at my ridiculous, asinine, non sequitur humor that somehow convened on the topic of a squirrel. And, importantly, she made me laugh as well. Consider it a shared infection.This was (still is?) a woman that accepted me -- all of me.
Except my love, ironically. Not to get rancorous here (i'm over most of the anger stage...right?), but that remains the only thing I'm convinced she didn't accept from me. I wasn't a perfect lover by any means. Who is? Gaging from the above pity party, I clearly have self-worth issues that would easily make a career paycheck for a willing shrink to tell me "you actually didn't give her all your love because you don't feel you're worthy enough to receive love (thanks, Dad)". Okay, there's probably truth in that. But I wanted to try. I truly did. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, brace myself, and change. For the better. With her. And help her. Change for the better. With me. And I was rejected. And I broke. Apart. Into pieces. Not to abuse the ironies, but the ugliest part of our relationship was the breakup itself. I find that interesting. I can't think of a single "fight" we ever had while together. When issues arose, our relationship was one of amicable confrontation: when something was "up," we talked about it. And then we would move on. Wow -- talk about one more hook and sinker to pierce my heart. I know that's rare (and perhaps fiction, because...).
Yet, we failed. How? I feel it may be a bit naive for me to speculate now, even after a couple (+ forever) months. And I do think the answer to that question is very important so long as it's honest, but in some regards it doesn't matter because now, at 29, I've truly loved. And I can finally value love beyond any hackneyed song or film. Having and then losing the experience of her in my life has allowed me to value love and demand nothing less in my next love-worthy relationship (although evidently I'm suppose to date around and have various "rebound relationships" or whatever(s) to fill my current emotional and physical vacuums with boredom and droll facades of interest...which is precisely why i'll likely be single for some time, for better or worse...or i don't know...i'll have to do some thinking about those things). In other words, I learned more about myself through being with my true love in a year than i learned about myself in the past 29 years. That is power. That is beauty. That is not regret. The love I am now able to experience when i so choose will be the result of my relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect woman's willingness to risk her vulnerable identity (the best she could) for a relationship with this beautiful, quirky-witted, imperfectly-perfect man (the best he could).
I've said before that (being a scientist and all) the only truth we can honestly attest to is in our experience: if we have "experience" in our memories, then it was "real". Anything else is speculation by others. And so to define a love for someone as a beautiful "experience" is also to define that love as true. I have no doubt, then, that I truly loved this woman because I have the beautiful experience to prove it. Even if for just 10 months together, her precious impact may transcend even into my future paternal legacy -- because she showed me the experience of love, and therefore the value of love necessary for a healthy, lasting relationship. I can only hope I showed her the same.
