then the best is unkind

So I have solidly rejoined the ranks of the single. In a sense it was voluntary, and amicable (though no one told me, and I lacked the experience to know, that even amicable breakups have unpleasant internal repercussions well into the wee hours of the morning), and in the concrete I rest in the peace of a rational being.

But I live in the abstract, and in the abstract last night was rough. According to the Myers-Briggs test, my temperament (or one of them; I’m actually two, an even divide, and don’t think the split personality jokes haven’t been running through my head since I rediscovered this over the weekend with Hill, who has the book) has the hardest time finding a mate, and while I find in that a certain sense of relief – I’m not doing something wrong; it’s supposed to be difficult – last night it came with a bitterness, too.

I hate dating, but it’s the only system we have, and so I try. Other people have fun with it, other people enjoy its casual nature and can walk away from an unsuccessful attempt cheerily. I’m not a casual person; I’m only relaxed in accepting others as they are. So dating is never casual for me unless I work extremely hard to maintain an attitude of indifference; it’s much easier for me to make friends. But the guys are never casual about me in the beginning, either, which kind of undermines my attempts at nonchalance. Every time I try this thing, which can often be as uncomfortable as dancing in public, a guy comes along and gets really excited about knowing me, and then with the progression of (not much) time his interest evaporates and he disappears and I never know why.

So then I have a couple of bad days, all the worse because I know that, because I’m an idiot and an optimist and a romantic and a dreamer, however much I’ve learned to balance these traits with a steady ballast of reason, and because I love people, love almost everyone, I know that, idiotically, I’ll always try again, because I believe that one day it will all fall into place, and I’ll know what it means “just to love, and be loved in return.”

But last night I kept wondering, in the self-pitying way we do when things disappoint, why God made this difficulty a part of my nature, a part of my being. I’m sure the answer has something to do with learning lessons and with the compensation of my greater gifts and strengths, depth of feeling and sensitivity to beauty and horror and poetic expression and compassion (my personality type also believes innately that all pleasure must be bought with pain). At the same time that’s pretty damn cold comfort.

I derive a certain justification and distraction from being useful – thankfully I worked at the bookstore last night, and was able to help and make happy some very tired and discouraged people, so I know in the eternal run I’m not a total loss. And an elderly gentleman of the charismatic persuasion arrived with his wife in tow, asking to find a book that apparently did not exist, but as I searched he and I began discussing matters of faith and the church and society and judgmentality and people and love, and he said suddenly, “Boy, you’re precious,” and added a few encouraging words that caught me by surprise so that I had to blink quickly to clear a sudden glaze of tears.

It seems that when things really suck, God sends these strangers to tell me that He loves me. Mom said this morning as I discussed all and sundry of yesterday’s experiences with her that God does that a lot, for me. I surmised that it’s because I don’t publicize to my friends and family when I’m in pain and need love and encouragement; I keep it to myself, or put it on the blog for mostly strangers to read. Mom told me that she has to read my blog to find out how I’m really doing, because even though I talk with her on a daily basis, I never tell her.

Why is it so much easier to bear the kindness of strangers? Is it because I don’t know them and probably won’t ever see them again and therefore cannot be a burden to them, and further won’t feel ashamed of my moment of weakness in needing human help? Is it because most people mistake my need of comfort and encouragement for a need of unsolicited advice, which I hate because I trust my own judgment better and ask for advice only when I want it?

I love communion with other souls, long for it, rejoice in it; I can bear any burden of knowledge that others whisper in my ear or weep onto my shoulder; but I seem to be severely handicapped in whispering into others’ ears or weeping onto others’ shoulders. The people with whom I feel the most free even to go so far as to admit, “I’m sad,” are Hillori, Eigh Ann, Meg and John, and it's taken years to reach that point (I've known Hill for twenty years, Leigh Ann for fourteen, Meg for four and John for seven).

Possibly that explains the compulsion to blog. If someone out there gets it, even if I never know who he or she is, then in a Jungian collective unconscious sense I’m not alone.

Of course I’m looking for the same thing as everyone else: someone who will see through all my smoke and mirrors and love me anyway, with God’s love as well as with his own passion. I just can’t understand why that’s so difficult. I love pretty easily. I know I’m unique, extraordinary in some ways, blah blah blah, but why does that make being known and loved so arduous? (“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?”)

I’m not a needy person. I never will be. It would be nice, though, to have a companion. Someone I can tell, “I’m having a bad day,” who won’t make me talk about it, but who will let me lean on his shoulder (literally) and just sit there for a minute drawing peace from the warmth of human skin. (I’m sure that’s naïve and romantic of me, but it’s what I want.) Maybe I’m not so good at articulating most of the struggles that rage in me almost constantly, but it really soothes the waters to know that I’m loved. Other people’s love, which is to me both their love and God’s love through them, no matter who they are, gives me strength – increases my armor and my arsenal. Otherwise I’m kind of a dry tank. (In large mixing bowl combine metaphors. Beat with wire whisk until blended.)

Since I don’t believe that love is something I should solicit, though, I never ask for it from anyone but God. Maybe that’s unbalanced, too; probably the love which my loved ones have for me would express itself more quickly and readily if I only told them some of the stuff that bothers me.

I’ve spent so much of my life alone. Some of that is in my nature; some of that has been reinforced by injury and disappointment; some of that stems from my otherness from the general population (neither of my personality types accounts for more than one percent of the human race). Most of the time I can deal. I always mind, but I can deal. It’s enough to be able to understand others and love them and rejoice in who they are, enough to have thoughts upon which to reflect and philosophize, enough to have one or two people whose love I have come to trust as unconditional.

Sometimes, though, it really, really sucks not to be understood. And for reasons that I suppose are understandable, it sucks worse when that misunderstanding comes from a guy – because, unlike my female friends, whose presence I can always assume in some capacity, guys seem very intense about me for a short while, enough to persuade my hopes to rise in spite of my better judgment, because they say and do wonderful things, and then they leave, as if knowing me better lends itself to liking me less. But I’m always me. I can’t dissemble; I don’t pretend. And my friends are good friends, people I’ve known for years, who only love me more with the passing of time.

I don’t get it. But since cynicism and despair don’t actually sit well on me for long (I’m already feeling better about it, momentarily at least), I know I’ll keep hoping. Stupidly, perhaps, but inevitably. I believe in love. I believe in the Love that makes all love possible. Someday it will all come to pass, however much it puzzles and hurts and enrages me now. At least I’m well suited to being alone, having grown so used to it; and now that I’m officially free and my weekends are clear, perhaps I can start doing some objective good, benefit others in some way, share the love of God in how I deal with people. And maybe in so doing I can ignore the little rawnesses that come from being treated indifferently or as expendable by people I love who happen to be male. Maybe I’ll learn not to care, find a sort of saintly serenity in learning to give love without receiving it. (Yeah, right. God didn’t build us that way. That’s why we’re supposed to live in community.)

So yeah, that Josh Ritter song, “The Best for the Best,” strikes a chord today. Life in all of its vastness and beauty is supposed to be shared.

“How can one keep warm alone?” And what do I do with the impulse, upon seeing something beautiful, to grab someone’s hand and look with him? When “surprised by joy – impatient as the wind / I turned to share the transport – oh! with whom”?

That was sort of rhetorical. I’ll keep on going. “For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.”