traipsing through the mush
(thank you, frans)

Early this morning, I awoke to the discovery of this post on the website of my dearest Frans, who not only calls and sends cards with impeccable timing, but has now (apparently) mastered the art of posting perfection, choosing a topic about which I have often (over)thought in recent weeks. And as I opened my eyes to greet a work-free day of guaranteed and substantial solitude, I found myself once again contemplating my own independence and isolation, my complicated embrace of each in my life. Then, reading the words Frans has written, her fearless declaration of an undeniable desire for other people as supporters, empathizers, motivators, co-conspirators, lovers, I had to wonder where my brand of supposed and defiant independence fits in with my (often clumsy) attempts at human connection.

For too many years now, I have channeled too much energy into staying emotionally safe and impenetrable, striving for self-sufficiency to a point of self-detriment, living an all-too-isolated existence for the sake of self-protection. And, for the most part, my plan to escape the pain that can accompany emotional attachment has been successful, made possible by my efforts to fly solo more often than not. But, as I begin to see the benefits of sacrificing a sliver of solitude for the chance to know another person intimately (and for the chance to be known), I fear my deep investment in independence has left me unprepared and potentially unable to truly connect.

The first (and only) time I loved a man (boy, at the time), that love was returned and then, subsequently, withdrawn with an “I was mistaken” explanation. And when I, in a defensive move, initiated the inevitable end of that ridiculously unhealthy relationship, I was confronted by the reality of his minimal care, the way losing me was really no loss at all, but rather a doorway to freedom. Or so it seemed.

It saddens me to think this experience at eighteen has had such a far-reaching effect on my ability to invest in my interactions with others—romantically and platonically, with friends as well as family—today. Having found out what it means to be the one who cares more (see: being vulnerable and hurt and embarrassed by both), I promised myself I would never again assume such an unbecoming-of-me role. And I haven’t. I’ve been the bearer of bad in my own life, my own source of sadness, any pain I may have felt—emotional or otherwise—almost exclusively self-inflicted.

For a while, that kind of self-containment seemed the desirable, admirable, and even intelligent choice. Neediness was the enemy, the sure sign of weakness, and I worked tirelessly to ensure its defeat. But I’m realizing now that to make someone feel valuable, essential in your life is the sincerest form of flattery, the most generous gift you can give. And I want to be needed, though I continue to deny my own need.

I struggle to experience love—to even conceive of love—not because I’m incapable of loving, but because I’m afraid to be loved. I’m terrified of the take-back.


(We now return to your (hopefully more humorous) regularly scheduled posting)