Thursday, August 25, 2011

Our love stories

Sometimes I feel like saying to the people in my life, you were supposed to love me. And then I remember that that's what they thought they were doing. But can you feel that if someone is adamant you didn't?

Sometimes Naughtyman comes up and wordlessly hugs my arm. He didn't do that a year ago. I've shown him love and now he wants to show me love. I don't even know what changed or how I changed it. That's what I know about love.

And of course you don't want it to be true because it makes you feel so much less valuable but loving someone is all about yourself, not about them. How many times have I written that and I still hold out hope that it's not true? How many times have I reflected on how much harder it is to be the beloved than the lover? Love is easy. Being worthy of it is not.

Well, what would any of you know about worth? You all believe you're worthwhile and don't have a monkey in your head constantly informing you that you're not.

No, I don't either. I fixed that. Now I know it's really me who thinks I'm shit. And spare me your nod of agreement or shake of the head. Like I GAF what you think anyway. I've always trusted myself more than I trust anyone else, and given how deeply untrustworthy I am, that's not a compliment.

What's the point of crying over it anyway? Most people deal with it by just lying to themselves. Fuck my soul that I should be condemned to be an artist and always have to face the truth because God knows I could do with some convenient lies just now. And not even a good one. Fuck that. I remain heartsick that I couldn't have even one thing I'm actually good at except failing.


Blogger Bob said...

Could you not knock out a slim Martin Amis Night Train? Of course you could. Believe in yourself for once, Dr.

August 26, 2011 at 12:38 PM  
Anonymous Chris.tine said...

I am sorry that you are so sad and being fucked over by circumstances.

As to the sad part, here's a place where one of the mindless beliefs I imagine you deride is worth having, if only because it makes life easier: we are all "worthy" of love, some odd way or other.

Doesn't mean we'll get it, especially not the particular way we want it, of course.

I don't believe in earning love any more than I believe in earning grace. To the extent it happens, it's a random gift. The gift comes when we don't expect it, as many have observed. It seems to be attracted to deep engagement (a form of loving) in (work, people, play, whatever).

We can't compel people to give us love. But we can give love. That's what makes us "special," to the extent any of us is special. Our ability to attach to something and serve it. As you do with your children. As you do with your writing.

August 29, 2011 at 12:32 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow. The stuff you're writing lately is really beautiful. Sad, y'know, but still. Becky

August 29, 2011 at 12:16 PM  

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