A Lesson in Refusing Niceties

Is your 2010 developed enough to cry a bit in her crib yet, or is she still sleeping in a state of shock? And that old hag 2009, she in the grave yet or still dragging her cadaver around? Put her down, already.

My new year started with events and revelations, adding up to a much-needed and well-aimed thunderbolt. (If you haven't listened to the song below, please do, as this post won't make much sense otherwise.) I shouldn't be surprised to be struck by lightning. It hurts, how it hurts, but that'll teach me to dance barefoot under the tallest tree in a storm, waiting for something to happen.

Conclusions:

1. We all fuck up, tragically and comically.

In my case, what started out as "coping" mutated into cheating myself.

My best friend pointed out that I'd been in warrior mode all year, dealing with crippled finances and home renovations for the inevitable sale and all the other logistics of break-up. Admirable and fierce and necessary for survival.

Oh warrior. Hopped up on adrenaline while wearing armour, you don't know you're wounded. Go get some help. You're bleeding all over the goddamn place already. Christ. You think you're being so tough but your friends have all turned away in pity or disgust. Please just stop kicking the corpses and get off the battlefield.

Summary: Peacetime is scary in its silence, but I'll get used to it.

2. No one escapes a broken heart.

An old friend pointed out that he and I share a special arrogance. We're such smartypants we think we don't have to go through loss like everyone else. Our capable brains will take care of everything, shush up the noisy feelings and put them to bed, repeatedly. Get back there...don't make me come up there!

They always make us, though. We always end up going up there just to realize our feelings aren't tired, not at all, and don't want more any bedtime stories either. Dang, how inconvenient. But it's either drug them or kill them or let them run free, so go on, run around and make some noise at this late hour. Who cares what the neighbours may think.

Summary: It feels better to accept pain as a companion than to pretend it doesn't exist.

3. You can't fix a broken heart by replacing the batteries.

I've been on the feedlot of romance since an early age. Yeah, I've thought at times I was ranging free, but I could usually see the fenceposts and I didn't like getting hungry. It's easy to be a glutton when everything around you points to the trough.

It's easy to blame Society and the Patriarchy and Just The Way Things Are for how women in particular are fed on the cheap protein of romance. It's rewarding in the short term to be the fattest cow on the feedlot. But at the age of 36, I must ask myself: who's choosing to eat up now?

At a certain point, we all see an open gate. Stay put for the predictable meal and companionable mooing, or wander into the unknown? Staying is certain death, but comfortable; going is certain discomfort but a chance to live.

I've decided to go, and am tentative and scared shitless but I want to live.

So what's this metaphor about? Well, about not looking for l*o*v*e to save me from myself. Forcing someone to fit inside that vacant hole in my heart is a sure-fire distraction from pursuing life. It's hard to stop searching for a catalyst in the form of The One, Part II.

It's easy to play at love. It's pretty simple to find a serviceable match and focus on Making This Work by Making You Work, You Poor Clod. It's easy to play, anyone can play. I don't want to play, though.

If I look inwards, the questions are deceptive and plain:
What do I want.
What action can I take to try and get it.
Can I accept repeated failure. If not, I should just slink back to the feedlot and hope no one notices I was gone.

Don't think I'm turning my back on love, dear reader. I crave it just like you. I'd been denying I had it because I missed it so much, and tried to only remember the gory parts and disremember the beauty. I didn't want to admit that we'd lost it together, so I claimed never to have found it at all. Neat trick, but it came with a price. I turned into a half-assed activist, all right.

It's hard not to want to define Love and get caught up in myopic dissection. Worse is the temptation to find someone and project onto them the perfect picture we've created. I'm told by menfriends that a) women do this often and b) it is downright SPOOKY.

I've been spooky myself recently, and can report that this realization is mortifying. To a far lesser extent, I've also been spooked a couple times this past year. It's unsettling to have someone look at you and will themselves to see what's not there, and may never be. The more they want it, the less likely it becomes as unsettling turns into get me the hell outta here.

I've lacked patience. I've been afraid to be alone, because who will I have to blame if I fail?

Summary: I'm trying. I accept confusion, and I'll get there. It's exciting and have I mentioned I'm scared shitless? I reckon that's a great start to the year.

Two hooves on the range,
G