I have been reading, now, for over a year, blogs about men feeling a desperate need to connect with other men, to give and receive affection, to fall in love. I have spent one-on-one time with many of them, and they have graciously answered my questions. The reason for my interest, I suppose, is because I have never really felt those longings for anyone--or acknowledged that I felt them. I have felt attraction in its most basic form. I've had relationships and some friendships. But prior to this year, with the exception of my husband, I've been emotionally intimate with no one.

I listen as these men express longings I cannot understand. The closest feeling I've had to what they describe is when I became overwhelmed earlier this year, with the need to be held in a non-sexual way, by someone who had no attraction to me. Not the same thing by a long shot, but still, I think the longing part I may have started to understand. Those feelings have since gone away, and now when I feel emotions, they seem to last about ten or fifteen minutes, then they pass and leave me feeling a bit confused that they happened in the first place. I find myself apologizing for acting out of character, building a wall to protect the vulnerable place, and moving on with life.

I have never wanted anyone to share my life, to take care of me when I was ill (I still hate it when someone tries to empathize or help me when I'm sick), to be with me every day. The fact that Darrin is there to fill those non-existent needs is somewhat of a mystery to me. The fact that he stays, knowing I really don't want anyone, is something I understand even less. Perhaps he knows that I love him deeply, and can see beneath all the layers to the point where what I think I need is less valid than what he knows I need. And for whatever reason, he's willing to continue to give to a less than grateful recipient.

I have heard the men I've been "studying" talk about romantic love. Their definition of that phenomenon is much different from my own--which of course, isn't a real definition, but one that I twist to suit my own needs. They listen to songs and respond to the lyrics, attaching hidden meanings and hopeful dreams. I listen to songs and analyze the chord structure, admire occasional musicianship or clever wordsmithing. They dream of their "one and only", "soulmate", "perfect guy", "forever friend." I dream of sleeping, making it through another day successfully, beautiful sights, a really great practice session.

I thought that I would find some answers with the people I've come to know. Instead, I've found more questions about myself. As I've learned how to heal from my past, I'm realizing that it's not really changing who I am. I'm not more "normal". I still feel the need to isolate. I still fight against allowing people to be close to me. I still feel at peace only when I'm running alone. It seems I attached more importance to the results of abuse than I should have. The truth, I suppose, is that I'm just this way.

Sometimes, though, I would like to know how it feels to long for someone with all my soul, to view the world through "in love" eyes, to feel giddy and excited just to be with someone special. To have a heart broken because of love, not because of fear or violence, seems an experience every person should have. To feel purely, and intensely, without a surrounding cushion of numbness, practicality, and inevitability...

Language of Love, or Love of Language?

I don't remember a time when I haven't loved reading. My parents tell me I learned to read at age three. All I know is that when I discovered the bookshelf in my Kindergarten room, I thought I'd found heaven. My teacher, for whatever reason, felt that it would be inappropriate to allow me to read the books (they were for "reading aloud"), and as a result, I spent much of the time looking at the spines,wondering what was inside, and getting an F in coloring, snacktime, and naptime. I did well at recess, though, securing at least a B.

My parents moved frequently during my elementary school years. Most of the time I didn't mind, but when we moved the final time I was entering fourth grade. We had been living in a tiny town in Idaho. I loved it there. I had many friends, I felt accepted, it was a good place to live. We relocated to Hicktown, Wyoming--and I hated it. Most of the children in my class had lived there all their lives and were not interested in newcomers. Making friends was difficult, and my teacher disliked me, for whatever reason. I remember sitting in front of a boy who was flexing a plastic ruler and releasing it into the back of my neck. I walked to my teacher, who was sitting at her desk, mentioned that it hurt and asked for her help. She told me, rather nastily, "No one likes a tattletale," and went back to grading papers. I walked to my seat and the ruler commenced it's meeting with my neck. The boy finally found another activity when the welts he was making came to the notice of the girl sitting next to him and she mentioned that she was going to beat him up at recess if he didn't stop. This was not a happy class. I felt displaced and lonely.

However, the new school had a very good library. I believe in the three years that I was there, I read every book in the juvenile fiction section, some of them more than once. I immersed myself in reading to escape the new situations in which I found it difficult to cope. By the time I was in sixth grade, I'd found a social circle and a niche, but reading was, and is still, my first love. Darrin understands that he ranks first in my life--right after my love of literature.

My parents had a box filled with paperback classics--Shakespeare, Poe, Dickens, Stevenson, Homer, Scott, Emerson, Thoreau, and others. It was in these that I learned the real beauty of language. I began reading them when I was eleven. They became my salvation when I was twelve. I'm certain that given my age, there was very little that I truly understood, but I was mesmerized by their narratives and read them repeatedly. A dictionary sat next to me as I read--these were not words introduced in fifth and sixth grade vocabulary. I fell in love with the authors. They were more real to me than the stories they had written. I would sometimes imagine that they were my friends, keeping me company when I was consumed by sadness after the episodes of abuse in my life. I remember telling Henry David Thoreau (as we walked in the mountains behind my home) about how much it hurt inside after my cousin abused me. He nodded and agreed that was a very difficult thing, then pointed out how lovely the wildflowers were that day, and together we caught and held a tiny frog. And one time, Shakespeare and I identified cloud shapes in the sky as I suggested to him that, while his tragedies were certainly worthwhile and interesting, I much preferred his comedies and sonnets. He agreed with me.

While I realized that none of the authors wrote their stories for me, imagining that they had done so helped me live through many days. I'm quite certain that when a story is being written, the last thing on the author's mind is whether or not an abused little girl will cling to those words as a lifeline, and thank a God in whom she no longer believes, for the man or woman who penned them. Regardless of their past cognizance, someday I hope they know. They touched my life and sustained me in a hopeless time. And while my life is only one of many, and I am no more remarkable than anyone else, I think it's rather amazing that they were able to reach into the future just for me. I know--they didn't, really--but I still intend to believe it.

Love

rtI realized something about love today. I freely express love to people. I don't feel self-conscious or uncomfortable, and I don't really care if my love is returned. If I love you, I'll probably tell you whether you like it or not. And I don't have to have met you to feel love for you. I just do. It's fairly uncomplicated.

The flip side is that, while I want others to love me (I think), I'm much more comfortable when my love is not reciprocated, verbally or otherwise. I'm fine if I love people who don't know who I am and who feel nothing for me. So I've been thinking about what that means, and I think I've figured some of it out.

1. If my love is one-sided, I never have to worry about vulnerablity. I'm the one who has feelings for the other and I'm in complete control of the situation. I don't have to worry about whether or not the other person will stop loving me, because they don't in the first place.
2. I don't have to decide if I'm worth loving. The point is moot because it doesn't exist. That leaves me free to feel however I choose, without anyone else's feelings complicating the situation.
3. My independence is left intact. I don't have to work on a relationship/friendship because there is none. You can tell me not to love you, but I'll do as I please, regardless.
4. If the recipient of my love never expresses love back, I don't have to wonder if he/she really means what is expressed--or if it's just an aesthetically pleasing response.

I suppose what I've realized is that loving people with abandon, but not wanting that love returned feels natural and free to me--and it leaves me protected and in control. I like that.

Tolkien Boy might argue with me that there's no satisfaction in such relationships. Satisfaction is not what I'm looking for.

I also realized that while I feel safe and strong in this situation, when someone does express love to me, it gets into my heart and overwhelms me a bit. And while I feel exposed and scared by such feelings, I also feel sort of grateful that person cares about me, and I want that to continue.

Ick. This is such a weird post.