My novel
There are many things I've started in my life. Many things lay unfinished on the floor of my feeble mind, little snippets scattered about as if by a capricious wind. About 20 years ago, I rediscovered one of those unfinished things. My novel. But why am I bringing this up now?
Y'all are going to think I'm making this up. The story was that of a man who was trying to put his life back together after the girl of his dreams broke his heart. When I started writing it, I do not know. Obviously, I wrote it after a heartbreak, but which one? I was in the loft of my downtown apartment when I discovered it, got angry with it, and threw it away. It was written on large sheets of yellow legal paper (I started writing on legal paper when I was in high school), and I was about 30 pages deep in it.
I wish I had kept that truncated story. It would have been a valuable clue to understanding what went wrong in those early years. It could have stood as a time capsule of sorts. Or I could have finished it. It is, after all, the story of my life. My "love life" is such a misnomer, it isn't even funny. Call it something else.
I've endured a ridiculous amount of rejection in 41 years. I expect it from strangers, but those closest to me have been the most diligent enemies. Maybe I'm just a big baby. Yeah, that's probably it. The worst part is I wholeheartedly agree with people when they reject me. I expect it. I may even create scenarios that lead to it. It's almost like I need it because that's how I perceive myself. I wouldn't know what to do if someone didn't reject me. I would wonder what's wrong with them. Why don't they see what everyone else sees?
A note about rejection: Rejection, like any other emotion, is determined by an often complex personal algorithm. The rules that determine what is rejection and what isn't are personal and internal, though we can all agree on many of them. There is some ambiguity, though I don't think the rejection I've faced is ambiguous. There are times when someone will disagree with an emotional reaction someone has had, which is a strange concept when you think about it. I guess I would liken it to a person walking into a roomful of people and telling a joke. The intention is to make everyone laugh, however, humor is a personal thing, and not all agree on what is humorous. Let's say someone in the room thought the joke was offensive. It's not entirely inconceivable, is it? My point is, who is to say that person is wrong when they thought the joke was offensive, maybe even hurtful? It's their own reaction, their own emotional takeaway. The person who told the joke didn't want to hurt them, yet they did. In the same way, I can see that those who rejected me often didn't want to hurt me. They just did what they did, often without any thought to how I would feel. Still, my reaction — my feeling rejected — is valid. Hurt is hurt, regardless of intent.
My book, though. There was more to the story, as I recall. The shifting point came with the addition of a different girl — the one who would set things right. I think after rereading it and getting to that point, I became angry. There was no other girl. It was up to me to set things right. Only I didn't set anything right. I wallowed in my misery for another million years. I gave up. Hardcore.
It's strange the things you think about when you've been through something big. I don't know if the mind is grasping at straws or what, but it's pretty revealing. There is the obvious plot of survival. Then there's the subplot of actually living. I've found myself at the same point I was all those years ago. I tried to find a shortcut. I tried to cheat the system. I told myself I could divorce a woman without experiencing the horror of it. As it turns out, I not only had to feel that, but I felt the sting of losing two women. At once. Serves me right, if I must say so myself. Still, ouch.
Yeah, don't feel sorry for me. I don't deserve that. I had an affair with a woman. I'm glad it was her, of course. She's the woman of my dreams. In the flesh. But losing her was a fitting end to what I was trying to do. I had to go through the whole grieving process. No cheating. All the way to the end. It's hard. I've done the hardest part. I've had some rest, some time to recuperate. Now it's time to finish the story.
So, here I am, with those same pages I threw away all those years ago still in my hand. Touche, whoever did this. Someone out there has a sense of humor. Maybe instead of a romance novella, I was actually writing a comedy.
It's funny, though. The things you get stuck on with God and walk away from in frustration are the things He puts in your hands when you come back to Him. You don't get to pass the grade without doing all the assignments. You don't get to move on to the next hard thing without figuring out the hard thing you have right now. It's like mathematics; everything builds upon what you've already learned. You can't go on until you master what you're working on now. Concepts are laid down precept upon precept. We may call so-and-so the father of mathematics, but God created this world and the underlying rules. He is, after all, a brilliant mathematician. We've simply (and imperfectly) discovered what He has perfectly laid down.
It was unfair of me to try to swing from a burning ship into the arms of a woman who was herself in a burning ship. I've cried myself to sleep so many nights with that thought on my mind. I hope she knows how sorry I am. I should have penned her on those pages with more care, maybe written a different role for her, perhaps a different book even. She deserved my best attempt. Instead, she got a drunk hack at a keyboard belligerently hammering away, concerned only with himself. In retrospect, I'm almost glad I lost her. Because that's when I really saw how amazing she is.
Not all girls are the same. The most beautiful flowers are the hardest to grow. To write about one of them, great care must be given. To hold one of them, one must be masterful. I did none of those things, and I wonder why she wilted in my hands.
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