three steps forward, thirty steps back

I realized something about blogging today. Or at least about my blogging. I have begun to censor myself. I had become aware that more people have been reading my words than I thought they would, which is great. I am glad people are interested. However, I have become aware of how many of my blogs revolve around the break-up, broken-heartedness, and bitterness. Reading my blog can be a real downer. So, over the past couple weeks, I vowed to no longer write about such things, to quit going on and on and on about my own petty hurts and feelings. I realized today that this may been even more pretentious than actually doing what I was doing. The entire reason I started blogging (shallowness alert) was to talk about me and what I am going through, as a medium to help me process whatever I may be going through at the time. If it so happens that I go through the same fucking thing for the next fifty years, well, then that’s what I should write about. Why pretend to be anything other than what I am? Doing this may mean that no one reads this blog. I am sure I wouldn’t. Life is full of enough hurt without hearing some self-absorbed prick ramble on and on about his own. Well, in an act of pure, unadulterated selfishness, I trudge onward.
The depression that I expected to show up Sunday after such a great Halloween weekend came to visit on Monday night, and has yet to take its leave. Wonderful experiences are (get ready for it, this is deep) wonderful. That state of wonderfulness would be heightened to a greater level of wonderfulishishness if it were to be shared with someone—ideally, the one you want to actually share it with. My lack in that department has hit home once again. Knowing the scorn that would have crossed his face when he saw the whorishness of my outfit, the rolling of the eyes at our ridiculous gayishness, at the silliness of it all—I didn’t get to experience those things. I know it sounds silly, but I loved those things. They defined who he is and who I am and how we complemented each other. My arms, my bed, my hands—still empty.
Somehow in the discussion of my class last night in grad school, we got off onto the subject of relationships. The professor (she is my favorite) talked about one of the theories of relationships: the make it or break it points. In this theory they occur at the following stages: Six months, Year and a half, Seven years, Sixteen years. In other words, just when you think you are safe and can truly rely on your spouse/lover, then it is time for a crisis and to reevaluate your relationship and question if you should stay together. Really?
Another theory, albeit similar, was that we are meant to have three lovers throughout our lifetime. One for our twenties and thirties, one for our forties and fifties, and the last one for the fianl years of our life. After all, how can we expect the person we fall in love with in our twenties to still meet our needs in forty years? Well, I guess I am still naive. Isn’t that the whole point? To grow and change together. To create a stable, loving life together. To not simply be focused on our own needs. Sure there will be times where our needs do not get met, maybe for years at a time. There will be times where we don’t met theirs, maybe for years at a time. Still, to walk hand in hand, side by side with the person you CHOSE! Love, real love, is a choice. You stay with it; you fall in love again and again and again.
The wonderful thing about love is that it take two people. The horrifically terrifying thing about love? It takes two people. At any moment, one of them can throw up their hand and say, ‘I’m done! I’m bored! I don’t feel me needs are met! Thanks for the first fifteen years—see ya around!’ Maybe love wouldn’t be as wonderful and life-altering if it did not come with the challenge and the risk. But maybe, it would. . .
By, hey, what the fuck do I know about it? Just because I want it doesn’t mean that is reality or what will happen.