judecorp | On losing oneself.

I don't think I've ever sat down here to contemplate and process my situation with A. This isn't to say that I haven't processed it - I've done it several times over in my bed, on the telephone, with people in person. But I've never tried to type things out. So maybe I will. In pieces. Because it's probably dreadfully boring to all of you. And to help you all out, I'm gonna LJ-cut it if you want to, you know, avoid the spammage.

On losing oneself

I think in song lyrics. One of the perks of having a phenomenal auditory memory is a knack for song lyrics. Most of the time, my thoughts will come in lyrics or movie lines before they come in actual original words. This will likely blow my Tough Guy image, but for our first anniversary, I compiled a collection of 100 pages of poems and song lyrics for A., entitled "The Book of Love." My thoughts? If he ever wonder wondered who-o-o wrote the Book of Love, the answer would be 'me.'

But for all of the song lyrics in that collection, the lyrics that most define my position in our relationship, my feelings for him, are contained in "Midnight Train to Georgia," a song that these days bothers me to hear. A song that wasn't in the Book.

I'd rather live in his world then live without him in mine.

I knew from the beginning that we were entirely different people. Some people say that familiarity breeds contempt, or that opposites attract, and I very much wanted that. We were coming from two different worlds: big city versus small town, introverted versus extroverted, outgoing versus homebody, apathetic versus idealistic and empassioned, submissive versus dominant. And then, well, there's the whole matter of me liking girls.

When A. and I were friends, I confided in him that I was in the process of coming out. I told him that I wanted to exclusively date women for a while, to try to get my head on and see who I liked and who worked for me and why. Then we hooked up, and I told him I didn't want a relationship because I needed to reiterate that I was going to date women. And then we were dating, because I liked him. I liked him very much. He had a close-knit circle of friends in Maine, and he appeared sociable and fun and goofy. And he was pagan, and open-minded. I liked that.

We could date, I rationalized, because it would never get serious. I told him that I would date him, but before I ever settled down with someone, I would attempt a serious, long-term relationship with a woman. To see if it was right. (I'm so scientific, or something.) Then we were getting serious. It was about that time that I was starting to realize the vast space between our worlds. And it terrified me. But I was determined to make it work. For him. For us.

He would come visit me at Hofstra, 30 minutes outside the most frantically wonderful City in the universe, and wouldn't want to do anything. I would have to drag him there - forcefeed him museums and monuments and giant parks and restaurants. I would go to Maine and beg to see coastlines and rocks and mountains, but we would stay in his apartment with the boys and occasionally see movies and go to dinner.

I didn't know then that dinner and movies would comprise my social life for the next five and a half years.

All aboard, one world, her man, his girl.

My paper journal is full of stupid, angsty poetry from as far back as high school. It stops in 1996. It picks up again in 2001. Guess when A. and I got together. Guess when we split up. Do the math. I lost that, too.

But I wanted him. I loved him, with everything I could and with everything I was, and so I wanted to fit into his world. I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, then the perfect fiancee, and then the perfect wife. Wife was important to him, not to me. I opposed the idea, but it was so important to him that my ideals seemed insignificant at the time. I already knew by this time that I wasn't into boys in that naked way - but I didn't want to lose him. This is a recurring theme. A recurring theme of 'dumb.'

To think of the times that I could have experienced beautiful intimacy and instead I just endured it. To think of the times that I should have been in ecstacy because I was being shown love and instead I pulled away mentally. In the first year of our relationship I told him I needed the option of seeing women. (I actually only 'used' this clause once.) By the second year, sex was beginning to dwindle, which made me more comfortable. By the time we were married, it was all but nonexistent. I know that this is hardly fair to him. I comfort myself in being honest about everything with him, but that is a small consolation in the long run.

So he's leaving a life he's come to know...

I wasn't a very good Perfect Wife. Everyone knew that, but I did try. I tried so very hard because he was worth it. Eventually the trying and the giving up became too much, and I was a shell of the girl that I was, which, well, wasn't all that attractive or appealing. I'm not at all surprised that he fell out of love with me. Because 'me' wasn't there anymore.

This is getting very long. In summary - I lost me. I lost him. I found me. I love me.