Disgraceful Presence
I am in no mood to write anything but elementary thoughts currently consuming an already confused mind. I suppose the inadequacy of this selection or entry or whatever the term that is most properly fitting is of no significance, because I let myself go somewhere I shouldn't have. Again. I let myself be proud of something. I had faith in myself. I had faith in people; a few members of the male gender in particular. That's where it all went wrong. Maybe childhood determines everything. Then, from that point on, you've already been dealt your destiny and the next 80 years are just a matter of running through the motions, pretending we have some variation of a grip on reality, making choices and living independently. When, in truth, our paths are already laid before us. Rejected in childhood? Yup, it's going to happen time and time over again. Thus, there's no way you can win. If you close your heart off, you subject yourself to a life of misery and suffocate your soul. If you open your heart, then this is the result.
I've been thinking a lot about childhood. Rather, about the difference between a father and a dad. I suppose some people would consider them synonyms with the exact same meaning. I know better. Any John Doe can have a fun night and serve as sperm donor. With the exception of disabling medical conditions, any guy can father a child. However, in this twisted tale known as life, it didn't take me long to learn that not everybody is competent in parenting a child. You can live in the same house, go through the daily routine of "hey, honey, how was your day? Let me know if you need anything" and then not be seen for the rest of the night unless some common happening produces a rant of rage directed at whomever is most convenient. Children whose fathers abandoned them are considered fatherless, so what word describes someone with the possession of a father, but not a dad?
Once more, a shotglass was deemed more worthy than family. To live in a house, not once building a relationship, or even more accurate, building it in tiny segments and just when everything is looking productive and well, the small progress is destroyed and one is left to stand in the rubble, full of questions and "could-have-been"s, is a situation more commonly represented than society may realize. It's surprisingly easy. Everything looks pristine and happy in the family portrait, but behind closed doors it is evident that while there is no doubt of love, the home somehow remains a miserable trench of forced conversations and hidden pain. This is the path that carves all others. From then on, one is cursed.
This time, the heart is opened to love. Real, true, butterflies-in-the-stomach, catch-in-the-throat, bite-your-lip-to-contain-the-happiness love. Then...MISSION FAILED.
Fine, recuperate, heal, and move on to the next attempt. This time allowing yourself to trust friends. Then, because all is going so well, branch out farther and take a leap of faith. Going so far as to trust people when they say you have a talent. This is always a mistake, this business of trusting people. If a pattern hasn't been noticed in previous situations, then it at least ought to be blatantly clear by now. You trust this talent, you trust yourself, you trust your friends. So you do it, you reach out to the world and spread your wings and you are free until...Splat! Well, for once I am at a loss for adjectives. Not only has all hope that you may be good at something, something you love with such a strong, unabashed passion, all hope that you might possibly possess the power to make somebody feel something, inspire something within that person, bring to life something that had remained dormant...Not only has all of that disintegrated into a whirlwind of torment and anguish, but an innocence was lost in the process. The respect and love once deemed so great, for which this is felt I am not entirely certain, has been irreparably damaged.
Even that is not all. Also managed is to make an apparent disgrace of yourself and the anguish of a nation, even if that was not your intent. Even if you were finally writing something true and harsh and real. Writing something that was meant to initiate that spark in others, because it was the first time it awoke something in the writer. It takes skill to be so bad at something. I don't mean so bad at writing, however true that may be, but bad at life. It takes some skill to be this bad at life and relationships and clarity. Perhaps it's the one skill obtained in childhood. Others got great gifts, I got the ability to screw up. A predestined path of failure and heartbreak and pain and everything else that I hate myself for feeling. Never before has the fine line between love and hate been so clear, made prominent by ever-powerful frustration. Considering the horrendous failure at the leap of faith, I wonder if maybe I'd be better off trying just the leap. It's an alternative that sounds better every minute. So, fair audience, I am sorry to disappoint. I tried.
I've been thinking a lot about childhood. Rather, about the difference between a father and a dad. I suppose some people would consider them synonyms with the exact same meaning. I know better. Any John Doe can have a fun night and serve as sperm donor. With the exception of disabling medical conditions, any guy can father a child. However, in this twisted tale known as life, it didn't take me long to learn that not everybody is competent in parenting a child. You can live in the same house, go through the daily routine of "hey, honey, how was your day? Let me know if you need anything" and then not be seen for the rest of the night unless some common happening produces a rant of rage directed at whomever is most convenient. Children whose fathers abandoned them are considered fatherless, so what word describes someone with the possession of a father, but not a dad?
Once more, a shotglass was deemed more worthy than family. To live in a house, not once building a relationship, or even more accurate, building it in tiny segments and just when everything is looking productive and well, the small progress is destroyed and one is left to stand in the rubble, full of questions and "could-have-been"s, is a situation more commonly represented than society may realize. It's surprisingly easy. Everything looks pristine and happy in the family portrait, but behind closed doors it is evident that while there is no doubt of love, the home somehow remains a miserable trench of forced conversations and hidden pain. This is the path that carves all others. From then on, one is cursed.
This time, the heart is opened to love. Real, true, butterflies-in-the-stomach, catch-in-the-throat, bite-your-lip-to-contain-the-happiness love. Then...MISSION FAILED.
Fine, recuperate, heal, and move on to the next attempt. This time allowing yourself to trust friends. Then, because all is going so well, branch out farther and take a leap of faith. Going so far as to trust people when they say you have a talent. This is always a mistake, this business of trusting people. If a pattern hasn't been noticed in previous situations, then it at least ought to be blatantly clear by now. You trust this talent, you trust yourself, you trust your friends. So you do it, you reach out to the world and spread your wings and you are free until...Splat! Well, for once I am at a loss for adjectives. Not only has all hope that you may be good at something, something you love with such a strong, unabashed passion, all hope that you might possibly possess the power to make somebody feel something, inspire something within that person, bring to life something that had remained dormant...Not only has all of that disintegrated into a whirlwind of torment and anguish, but an innocence was lost in the process. The respect and love once deemed so great, for which this is felt I am not entirely certain, has been irreparably damaged.
Even that is not all. Also managed is to make an apparent disgrace of yourself and the anguish of a nation, even if that was not your intent. Even if you were finally writing something true and harsh and real. Writing something that was meant to initiate that spark in others, because it was the first time it awoke something in the writer. It takes skill to be so bad at something. I don't mean so bad at writing, however true that may be, but bad at life. It takes some skill to be this bad at life and relationships and clarity. Perhaps it's the one skill obtained in childhood. Others got great gifts, I got the ability to screw up. A predestined path of failure and heartbreak and pain and everything else that I hate myself for feeling. Never before has the fine line between love and hate been so clear, made prominent by ever-powerful frustration. Considering the horrendous failure at the leap of faith, I wonder if maybe I'd be better off trying just the leap. It's an alternative that sounds better every minute. So, fair audience, I am sorry to disappoint. I tried.
posted by Michelle at 9:00 PM
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