...So I clam up, waiting until the thoughts that I had so perfectly in my head are able to come out in words. It takes months for this to occur, though I have worked upon it that I now can at least say what I need to say and more importantly be understood without escalating the situation any more than possible, within a few hours of the incident. Quite an accomplishment, if you were looking for one.
However I have disappointed them, and they, equally, have disappointed me. Because they shouldn't have done whatever they did in my world in the first place. I am that romantic idealist who will probably never be happy with someone anyway.
And yet I go foraging ahead with my ideal notions and idolized stories of my parent's love, thinking that I will one day find someone who by their very nature is all that I ever wanted. I need someone to fix me, not the other way around. There will never be this person, there is never absolute, and still I stay fighting for it, as if I was fighting to distract my mind from the reality of the situation.
I live wholly in my head, and distraction is needed so that the sadness has no place to sit. I read books, watch movies, noting the stylized romance, placing myself in those stories and how I could have even been better for the protagonist, if only I had the chance. Which is rather odd, if you think about it, since I consider myself one of the ugliest persons I know.
Perhaps that is why for all this romantic hoopla, and for me to jump upon the person so states "you are so beautiful, you are perfect, you are the one I had been searching for." For in my head I think that this one person will be the one who will erase all the brutal realisms of past relationships and be that knight.
It will never happen. Another contradiction. Perhaps I need to live more outside my head, if you know of such away, I am all ears.
Another reason why I haven't written, aside from the obvious insecurities, is that I have creative attention deficit. One of my many growing quirks which I am sure you really needed to know. I start something and if I am no good at it, or have perfected it, I refuse to touch it again.
I paint, in high school I was never very good at it, and through maturity I paint rather well, enough to sell paintings and to awe my coworkers. I think this dramatic change from inadequate to passable came from placing the hobby down for awhile, in this case several years.
The same with writing, I started a class in college where my professor would continually write random sentence of my piece on the chalk board and demand an explanation because they made no sense, even to the most liberal writer. She would do this in front of the class, apparently to teach them what not to do. By the end of the semester however, she pulled me aside and said that I was one of the more talented writers she has seen, save for the fact I had no direction or passion.
I suppose that lack of passion had progressed to my paintings, rather well done copies of another photographer's genius. I just added paint and maybe changed the perspective, or closed up on an object. I suppose I'm really just a fraud. A rather purposeless fraud, if that.
We had a simulating dying exercise at my work - I work now in crisis intervention. Simulated dying, is the practice of pretending that you only have several hours to live. It is a workshop where the moderator cons you into believing that he or she is a doctor and there had been a terrible accident, one of which a vile of highly potent and highly deadly gas was suddenly released into the air ducts, and we are locked within the room due to the disease's contagious quality. And so we are instructed to act as if this is real for the full effect of the exercise and write our families regarding our final thoughts and wishes.
I, of course, being incredibly unable to handle any sort of seriousness, took the humorous route, allowing those other members of the workshop some release in laughter. I bring this up to you now, not to show off my humor, but rather to point out one particular writing piece. We were told to write about our future hopes and dreams. And I had no purpose to write.
I had no future plans. Never thought about children, career, or if my family would miss me. Which I am not saying they would not, for surely they would mourn, if not for my humor alone. However, I had no future. I find myself in careers that I do not like, working on hobbies that I become bored with and I cast an envious eye on those that are doing what they want, that they have passion for.
My friend Ursula and I are in the same boat, the idealism that we share is staggering, the fight that we have to achieve it is also surprising, yet it is incredibly unfocused, un-purposed. And so we sit, the contradiction idealism caught up in this sort of malaise. Not accomplishing our dreams of saving humanity, which should be a crime for which we are locked away without a key.
I do however show some idealism at random times and when it is most inconvenient for me. And a fight I take on with gusto. It usually involves the place I am employed and if others are hurt by the actions of the director/ CEO/ higher power. So I suppose that is were the contradiction lies, the idealism and fight must be present to me, place upon my lap - so I needn't have to worry about focusing it, because it was already focused by others.
I am not quite sure of a career that would entail that particular bit, and so I sit in careers I do not want, fighting against executive directors who have wrong those that she employed in some apparent twisted ethics. And I will not stop fighting, costing me promotions and raises, just so that I can see some sense of justice being served, some sense of right.
And I will not stop romanticizing some great and awesome knight, though it has cost me relationships and lead to heartaches. And I am sorry to say that this complex creature full of contradictions is me, like some sort of multifaceted piece of broken glass.
Much like the windshield chips I had in my car not too long ago, but that is another story altogether...
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