And So It Starts
By The Misfit | July 12, 2010
At the time of this writing I am thirty-nine years old with yet another toe-dipping into a relationship perhaps best left in the past to my credit – as if I’m not already indebted enough. Unlike others who scratch their conquests in stone or the ever cliché bedpost, I much prefer to gouge a deep gash next to the ones already scaring the non-tangible. My badge of honor isn’t the actual relationship demise, but rather the scars that are created in the aftermath.
During this most recent adjustment period (which has lasted three years and has consistently been characterized by the manic-depressive lunacy of I love him. I hate him. I miss him. Fuck him. Bastard. What in the hell was I thinking? Is this really worth it? It’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s just scared. He’ll come back. He won’t come back. I deserve better than this. I will not cry. I will not cry. Analyze. Analyze. Rationalize. Rationalize. Blah. Blah. Blah.) I thought it would be a good time to undertake a project I’ve been talking about for years: transcribing my handwritten diaries into an electronic file. I mean, focusing on things other than him is part of the growing process.
Right?
In my zeal to completely erase the most recent from memory, I conveniently forgot that my diaries generally fall into a pattern of one or two diaries per relationship, which isn’t too hard to do considering I haven’t looked at them since they were written – the first one dates back to when I was nineteen. What could provide more ammo for my current plummet into the realm of navigating the emotional confusion than reading about scars that already exist?
So, I dug the first couple out of their hiding places, dusted them off, and got to work. The more I read, the more I typed. The more I typed, the more I thought. The more I thought, the more I realized two things: one: I compartmentalize everything by who I was dating, or was interested in, when. For instance, if you ask me what I was doing in a specific year, I’m inclined to start my answer with, “I was dating [insert name of choice here]….” or “That was when I had a crush on [insert name of choice here]…” or some variation thereof. (It seems to be the only way I can remember what I was doing at any given time. I know people who do the same thing with concerts, but I haven’t yet come across anyone else who uses relationships as mile markers.) And two – I have a very bad habit of dating or being attracted to men who are emotionally retarded.
Now before I get pegged as a misandrist or worse, it is recognizing this fact that has made me address my own emotional retardedness. I’ve long acknowledged my affinity for people who are dysfunctional – people who are as hurt and as lost as I am, wandering around looking for the place we belong – it’s never been a closely guarded secret that I have an affinity for men with wounds in need of healing. The question I’ve had to ask myself is why? Aside from having an older brother who essentially terrorized me (as older brothers are wont to do) while we were growing up, I didn’t have a particularly screwed-up childhood. My parents have been married forty some odd years and not once have I ever heard them raise their voices to each other. Neither of them are alcoholics or drug users. My brother isn’t an alcoholic or drug user. I’m not an alcoholic or drug user. I didn’t grow up too quickly. I have loved and lost no more or less than the average person. So what is it that has drawn me to people who are floundering through life as much, if not more so, than I am?
These essays are in response to that exploration. As is customary when writing about real people, names (and sometimes places) have been changed. While I will admit to having a bit of revenge (I’d be a liar if I didn’t feel resentment toward a few of them) I will not hold them up to ridicule simply for ridicule’s sake; just because the relationships failed doesn’t mean that any or all or none of us are bad people – we’ve all been frogs or princes (or princesses, as the case may be) for someone else. We’re all a little bit screwed-up. These essays are about what I’ve learned from men – and I have learned from them, sometimes painfully so. Additionally, corresponding ages have been played with under creative license, and facts, of course, fall under the heading of my recollections and are subject to the fallibility of said recollections.
Some of you will recognize yourself within these pages. I will neither confirm nor deny anything. And despite my seeming cynicism and occasional bitterness, rest assured that I hope you’ve found the place you belong.
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