It’s entirely foreign to me. So much so that I feel like a space alien even talking about it.
I’ve never been in love, or been in a relationship. I’ve barely even dated. Just a few dates a long time ago.
Same with sex. I’ve had it, but it was an even longer time ago.
And it wasn’t all that great, either. Presumably if I had remained sexually active for long enough, I would have gotten the hang of it, or better yet, met someone who definitely knew what they were doing and could teach me.
But it was more two or more people who have no idea what they are doing fumbling around. Which is, I suppose, what a lot of people’s early sex lives were like.
Looking back through the lens of my current wisdom, I can see that all the times I was trying to get it on with other dudes, I was having a low grade panic attack. The kind I had pretty much constantly at Kwantlen and VFS.
The kind I thought was perfectly normal until fairly recently.
And there are complicated psychological reasons for that. I don’t feel like going through them right now, though maybe I will do so soon.
There’s a lot of crazy bundled up in there.
Suffice it to say that being raped at the age of 4 fucks you up in a lot of ways and makes having actual normal, consensual sex a pretty complicated endeavour.
For me, despite being 51 years old (very), I have no idea if I am even capable of true romantic love. To me, it’s entirely possible that the best I can hope for is to be really, really fond of somebody.
To be in like with them, basically.
And that could seem a lot like love to the outside observer. I would dote on and adore this person, and shower them with love and affection. We could spend lots of time cuddling and canoodling and cohabiting.
But deep down, I wouldn’t really let them in. We wouldn’t truly connect. There is something akin to a shark cage inside me and nothing can breach that. It’s my final defense against a cold cruel world that never let me in.
But who knows. Maybe the right fella could change all that. Maybe with him, I would be able to truly relax and feel safe and loved and secure because for once in my life I am not constantly and anxiously waiting for my love object to reject and abandon me.
I guess I don’t expect anyone to pay attention to me for very long, no matter how hard I try to be pleasant and funny and cute and lovable.
I know that everyone always has more important things to do than be with me. I grok that I am nobody’s trop priority. I know that being around me can be draining. I know it can be hard to be my audience.
I guess, then, that on some level, I find it hard to imagine anyone wanting to be around me enough to actually date me, let alone be in a relationship with me.
And I am used to having loads and loads of alone time. I might find that I still need that no matter how in love I am.
After all, if life’s a performance, I am going to need a lot of time to recharge between shows. I put my everything into my little act, and that’s inherently a limited thing.
Then again, maybe I would finally learn to just be myself. No show, no dazzle, no sparkling wit, no borrowed bonhomie, just… me.
Maybe we could meet the real me together.
More after the break.
The lord of illusion
I really don’t know where I end and “performance” begins.
Mostly, I ignore the whole issue by just assuming that they’re continuous. My “show” is an expression of who I truly am. I am not faking anything. I am, in fact, expressing the heck out of myself.
I just happen to be a naturally showy and flamboyant dude.
But that idea I expressed at the end of part 1 – the idea of being just me, no razzle dazzle, just the being at my core – the wearer of masks, the illusionist, the imagineer, the man behind the curtain – the thought of that makes my heart go cold.
So there’s clearly something hiding backstage and using all the costume changes and set fly-ins and such to distract people into not looking for anything deeper.
After all, I’m showing you too much to be holding anything back. Right?
Not quite. And that’s where this all gets sticky.
The fact that I wish I truly was the person I pretend to be and leave my “real” self behind is a pretty bad sign, honestly.
It’s perfectly emblematic of my profound weakness of self. I’d rather be a product of my own imagination than the real person I am stuck being.
The real me is boring and ugly and broken and sad. It’s hard to be him. He’s taken a lot of damage over the years from all that frustrated growth potential and his inability to truly deal with the real world.
And now, of course, the physical form is breaking down too. It’s hard to get my feet planted firmly on the ground when I’m standing on shifting sands and I never know what is going to go wrong next.
I want to build a sense of stability and identity but my world is so chaotic on the inside that I feel like I am trying to tap-dance on teacups just to stay alive.
I want to start over. I want to reboot myself. I want to start a brand new playthrough so I can use what I know now to do way better this time through.
But that’s not possible. I have only one save game and this is it. And I would love to be able to boldly declare myself reborn and psychologically section off my past to leave it all behind and stride purposefully into a brand new day.
But I can’t. Whatever it is I would need to do that is just plain not here. I don’t have it in me. Instead I wander endlessly in this castle of shadows I call a mind, not even really looking for anything any more, just afraid of what would happen if I stopped.
I wand to be strong. I want to stand on solid ground. I want to be able to face the world and deal with it instead of hiding inside myself all the time.
But I don’t know how to make that happen.
I know a lot of things that would work for other people, but not me. Smart, positive, effective sounding things that would totally work… if I was much healthier than I am.
But I can’t even start the process. It’s like I am trying to fill a bucket with no bottom. Everything falls through.
And I don’t know WTF yu do about that.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.