I am easily intimidated–until I know better. I always think I am wrong, or scared?or wrong to be scared?whenever someone wants to have contact with me. It could be someone I have never met who wants to establish a new connection with me, or it could be a past intimate who wants to ‘reconnect’. Unfailingly, in every case, I choose the safe path, the one less chosen by most of humanity when navigating the interpersonal space. I suppose I choose the lonely path because I do not want contact; how could I rationalize it any other way. And what are the reasons that I do not want contact? …well, my quest for that answer is yet unfinished. <\/p>\n
When I do isolate, I almost always mercilessly degrade myself for the crimes of cowardice, inconsideration, self-centeredness, and deliberate cruelty. And only occasionally do I realize, in fleeting glimpses as represented by this post, that I never make a frivolous choice to isolate based on laziness or disinterest. Never. Once in a while I realize that every contact I have ever walked away from tore me both inside and out; many of those failures to connect will hurt forever. Anyone who thinks I could do that to myself in the absence of profound and unrelenting anguish is either ignorant of anguish in the world, or does not know me at all. <\/p>\n
Yet some of my most intimate friends do, nonetheless, fail to see any evidence of the blood-spattered carnage within my heart; they fail to recognize in the fears and anxieties strewn liberally about my life any evidence of something out-of-sight gone wrong; and in the quiet of my isolation some of my most intimate friends fail to hear the muffled—nay, strangulated?cries which might help explain my reluctance to come out and play. <\/p>\n
This hermit might never have had the courage to stand up for himself and his eccentric ways if not for a few brave friends, who fearlessly acknowledged (on the outside of me) that some grave horror dwelt inside me out-of-sight. They did not pretend not to see. They didn’t pretend at all. They recognized some hidden agony, and dignified me by accepting, non-judgementally, whatever path I chose upon which to bear my burden. In some small way, they liberated me. <\/p>\n
You were among them. <\/p>\n
Of course I am sorry if my behavior has disappointed anyone, especially those whom I have loved. I know you are out there still, in Northern Europe, and if you see this, please don’t be offended. You’re the reason I haven’t written anything for two weeks. If I wasn’t going to write to you, I couldn’t very well write… anything. So this is my compromise. I am not emerging as might be necessary in a personal letter to you, but I am writing to you anyway. It hurts more than I can say to be the way I am, here in the quiet. But here in the quiet is the only place I can say anything at all; it’s the only place that feels safe enough for me. Just me. <\/p>\n
This is my place, alone. Despite that, I love you. <\/p>\n
One might wonder how I can say that with a straight face, and remain hiding. Maybe I don’t love you. I suppose it is possible that I have no idea at all what constitutes love. You have some historic insight in this. So let me say it this way: As far as I have ever been capable of loving you, I do.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I am easily intimidated–until I know better. I always think I am wrong, or scared?or wrong to be scared?whenever someone wants to have contact with me. It could be someone I have never met who wants to establish a new … Continue reading