There was more to that last page of stuff, but I've not written in here for some time. As a quick update, I'll say here that that girl at the chai party and I e-mail occasionally now, but there's not a whole lot to say at this time (I would've said more earlier, but now I have something else to say; perhaps we will connect a bit further down the road).
Today at church I had the pleasure of sitting behind the girl I am attracted to; it allowed me to watch her during the service. I noted some interesting things. First, I had a longing of sorts. Rather possessive, actually. She looked so lovely, sitting there. This, even though her hair was done in a manner I don't really find particularly attractive. I had the feeling that I was unworthy to even touch her, but I wanted to hold her anyway. And it was a possessive sort of holding; the way one might hold a prized possession. That was kind of disturbing; I would hate to think of her (or any person, really -- but especially her) as a possession, a thing. Still, I wanted her.
It was that distaste for the feeling that led me to other, more general (or perhaps merely more detached) thoughts. I thought of other ways one might hold a beloved. There is the protective manner; this one in particular stands in soft contrast (it certainly isn't the proverbial stark contrast, but it is certainly well-defined, if rather obscurely so…) with the possession scheme. In one, I am unworthy of this thing that I must have; in the other, I must protect, soothe, heal, and foster this delicate thing as if I am the only thing standing between it and all ills. I use "it" and "thing" rather impersonally here, but I think it's easiest to deal with; perhaps because it is less personal. Let's try.
On one hand, I respect who she is, and feel (particularly in light of my performance last semester, and because I know that its cause runs deeply within me) very unworthy of her. I suppose because of the protective aspect, I wish to protect her from myself. I feel that I would somehow hurt her by being something she needed, or wanted. Okay, trusted. By all objective accounts I am not trustworthy, and I suppose I myself fear that, good intentions (of which I am sure) aside, I am untrustworthy. Untrustworthy. That word is perhaps the sum of all failings. Or, at least, it is to me. There are worse things to which one can be dedicated, I suppose.
And there's the point! I have only the best intentions, and I know it. But isn't it that, in meaning to be trustworthy, cursing its diametric, and yet failing to be so I prove myself all the more lacking?
This has shifted from thoughts about that girl to what looks like the rantings of someone with an inferiority complex. Though I can't very well deny that they are very closely related. It sure makes me glad no one will read this but myself and those I choose (after, perhaps, some editing) -- not while I'm alive, anyway. It's something of a tickling idea that someone would sift through my things after I'm gone. Of course, there's so much on this computer this simple "thoughts.doc" could very easily be overlooked. Hah. This is absurd; let's get on with it.
Ok, so let's not. Let's pop off for a while along this one: People don't like to talk about themselves. For all they do, they don't. I don't. Neither do many I talk to. It is the rare moment when someone really talks about their life. Trust, connection, etc. Many words; it has been worked over many times; let's not discuss it.
Ha, ha…
So, anyway, the difference between the protection and possession drives was interesting, and I noted it.
Actually, a tad earlier than the thoughts-on-holding deal I was thinking about the whole people-don't-share-their-lives thing. Partly in connection with the chai party girl I e-mail now; I was thinking, hey, this girl at church doesn't open up to me; I shouldn't be surprised: I don't exactly open up to her. My mind was already on that line because of thoughts about the chai party girl that I'd had earlier. Her e-mails are generally brief. I used to write rather long e-mails to people (That girl f rom high school comes to mind, as does the girl I e-mailed all summer however many summers ago !Editor's note: This is not as obsessive as it sounds; I had no romantic interest in the second girl.), and I warned her that there might be a few whoppers to come. But, since that single long e-mail (which contained the warning of successors), there have been none. What shall I talk about? I certainly like hearing about others' lives. I don't know why people are afraid. I don't really know why I am afraid -- but I know I am. I suppose I am afraid (at least, I think… it is so much the typical answer I'm not sure I trust it…) that I will be hurt… somehow. I lose focus again there, which is why I mistrust the statement. But, what else is there to fear? Only harm to oneself. Perhaps, if they were to take the close, private, intensely personal and, therefore, important (to me) thoughts and find them of little value, or unimportant, that I would feel insignificant, or at least that they thought me insignificant. And perhaps that is what hurts. But, why, then, does their opinion of me matter so much? That is perhaps a stupid question. But if they think less of me than I do of myself, does it make a difference whether or not they show it? My not sharing, and their lack of disinterest, do not make them care. I suppose it allows me to continue thinking that they might care.
I've somehow shifted to the abstract, general "some person" "me" in my thoughts here; let's go back and personalize it… No, no, I don't really think that denying insignificance grants significance. Not consciously, anyway. Though I suppose that doesn't make it true. Things like self-worth (or, more correctly but ugly in its misuse and overuse, "self-esteem") derive from those dark unconscious places. Denial, abused as it is in pop-psych (which I suppose this little ditty could be considered -- much to my chagrin), is really a saddeningly common thing. Hmph. Perhaps I should go write myself a psych-religion. Certainly there's money to be made.
Sorry about that last part; my thoughts drifted to the offspring of denial contemplation. Poor old Hubbard. Must have been depressing to see his god shackled like that. Alas, the sons of Adam have suffered dearly in their fall.
What is the unmentionable? It is the beginning. He is it. Now he was.
Just let me go.