A quite desperation leads me to decisions I probably shouldn’t be making. I’m overpowered by this desire plagues me.If only I was in a different state of mind. I’m so withdrawn from reality. My mind bends reality to justify my choices in the most peculiar fashion. It devises elaborate and far reaching plans to earn even the smallest dose of love.
“She’s not exactly what I want, but I could make it work”. A subtle touch, or even a nervous glance is all that is needed to kickstart my imagination. I disappear into hours of contemplation over our potential next of kin. Deep within I know it’s not her that I’m really after, but rather a dose of oxytocin, and a sense of validation only the opposite sex has even seemed to charge me with. I want to be loved on a level I’ve yet to be able fully to offer myself. I want to be placed on that pedestal that we all unconsciously manufacture for the ones we love. I want to be needed. At this point logic somehow floats into the ether, and my deceit-filled hearts takes control.
For those unlucky ones who have gone a while without a fix, are you still holding your ground? Have your once thought to be rigid high standards slightly faded? Have those once carved into stone criteria for companionship become less pronounced? Do you watch as your lost heart somehow morphs bare minimum expectations, into traits that would now more than suffice? Are you so desperate for connection that even a remote semblance of love causes you to latch onto something that might possibly prove to crush you? That good news is this sort of twists in thinking sadly reveals to us the weakness of the flesh, that we are all guilty of.
At the drop of a hat, we offer up our hearts on a platter, to be served to even the most moderately interested onlooker. We know that this person probably isn’t “the one”, as our twisted thinking surmises their fit to be perfect if only X or Y was changed in their physique and character.
How could I have been so blinded? It’s like the chemicals and hormones in my body mash together in a sequential chain that set me to believe I’ve landed in a Shangri-La, when in reality, it was at best a newly renovated Holiday Inn. My perceived one in a life-time first class adventure to a mystical island slowly reveals itself really be just another last minute deal to Vegas. I went on a trip alright; it was a direct flight to delusion island where many of us seem to extend our stay there far longer than we initially intended.
In this confusion I sometimes ponder who I really am, and what I stand for. If I were to be completely honest, most of the time my answer would be that I’m a total stranger to myself, and to the world around me. Since I can remember, I seem to have always run away from my worries and inadequacies. My inflated ego being the only window of escape. On those days I lost touched with myself, my thoughts temp me with the idea that salvation can be found in the arms of a stranger. The problem of course is that these saviours themselves aren’t not even remotely grounded in truth either. The apostle Paul, in the book of Romans, perfectly summarizes my struggle, “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate”. I’m drawn into these vacuums of connection with people my spirit warns me to steer clear from. After the rollercoaster comes to an end, I’m always left in telling myself I will do it differently next time, but I won’t. Understanding oneself is said to be one of the most complex things you can do in life, a race I don’t know if I will ever come closing to finishing.
For this small fraction of time that I exist, I hope to unearth all that I am. But when it comes to love, it doesn’t matter how well equipped I am for battle, the white flag of defeat always seem to waving. I may have missed the mark on numerous occasions, but choosing the terrifying path of love is the only I will ever pick. When things all come to an end, my scars will be licked, but experience has proved to me that the pain doesn’t have to be permanent. My heart can, and will, love again. The alternative for me is just as painful I’ve found. Often these protective barriers that unconsciously rise to protect my tenderness are shortsighted too. The deceptive monster that is isolation and loneliness ties me to my bed on the weekends, and keeps me distant from social interaction, something we need to thrive, creates a different kind of pain that is just as gruesome and all consuming. When challenged to pick my poison, I hope to always have the courage to choose love.