joy, pores, love, pours

I occasionally pick up work doing Wedding Photography and/or Videography for my neighbor, Josh. It is semi-reglar enough to say that I see a lot of weddings. I had the fortune of working one this past Saturday. First, let me say that Readyville, Tennessee is one of the most beautiful, peaceful places I’ve had the pleasure of spending the day in. That aside, it is interesting to work these weddings because you sometimes get to take a peek into the lives of strangers– on one of their most memorable days in their lives.

src: https://s3.amazonaws.com/images.federalregister.gov/EP28AP10.007/original.gis.

I admit, I was out of it on Saturday. I certainly didn’t say more that a word or two to the bridge and groom of this wedding, but in filming it, I had the task of the close up on the groom’s face during the ceremony. Who knows anything about the lives of those two individuals, or what kind of marriage they will have, but it sure impacted me, sitting there, effectively staring at this guy’s face because it is my job, and just watching the joy continually erupt out of him and every pore, orifice, and expressive muscle in his face. I’ve been to a lot of weddings in my short life, but that guy really expressed the most joy of anyone I’ve seen getting married. May they have an everlasting, happy marriage.

I’ve been writing about insecurities lately, and I have no intention of slowing down. I’m trying to tackle something big. One might think that the last two, on trust and care are big insecurities, but, for me, that is child’s play. I guess there are internal, emotional things that I feel everyone knows are insecurities for me. In a sense, they almost aren’t insecurities, because I am insecure about them, but I’m not insecure about bringing them to light. If I get ballsy, I might tackle 2 tonight.

I’ve always thought of love as something beyond the scope of time. How can I not? How can we not? Many of us are conditioned to. Assuming your parents don’t have any marriage ending issues at any point, then we see marriage as this symbolic extension of deep, affectionate love for another. A binding love that is meant for life. Some use the term soul mates; something that is beyond our concept of time as mortal, physical beings. Or, as someone who is and has been raised in the Christian faith, another example of love everlasting.

Hear that high pitch ringing above your head getting louder? Here it comes.. the insecurity drop.

I struggle to hell and high water with this concept. It was a naive and very low period of my life, but I had a spell where I just didn’t believe in the idea of love at all. I don’t struggle to the same magnitude anymore, but I struggle to believe in our abilities, once again, as mortal, physical beings to always feel that same joy and affection that I clearly saw on that groom’s face this weekend. I see that same struggle all over. I see it in the foundation I was raised on, my parents. I alarmingly hear of it from some of my closest, lifelong friends I’ve ever had. If you walk down a crowded street, you see it. If you turn on the TV, you see it. If you go to church, you see it. If you go to the store, you see it. If you read the news, literature, or the writings on bathroom stalls, you see it. If you talk to anyone outside your faux-comforting bubble of your inner circle, you see it. If you hang around that faux-comforting inner circle long enough, over a lifetime, you experience it.

I’m not trying to come off as pessimistic, because I still believe in this, and I believe that I will attain it within my life, but it simply is a struggle; a weakness; an insecurity. Because sometimes I just feel like we are playing the biggest con of all against ourselves, and that, my friends, is the scariest prospect of all.

an open tunnel

To me, love is just an open tunnel. That tunnel rarely seems to bring anything but pain.

I loved a girl for a few years. First, we were barely more than acquaintances through a mutual friend. There was never a day that I was aware of her existence that I didn’t like her. Then we were friends. For a lon time we were friends. Then I was truly able to take that affection, and close friendship, and care for her. Quite later, that tunnel opened up on her end. Over some more time, I can truly say I loved her.

I loved her for a long time. I loved her more than I ever realized I could love someone. I loved her through harder times than I ever foresaw. Each day, I loved her more and more. I never ran out of love to give, but I was not equipped with enough experience and wisdom in my life to that point to prevent what came. I was strangled; a choke point finally closed and I ran out of that ability to let that love, that care, flow.

Each day, I woke up trying to be renewed, and love would eek out, but I experienced pain in conjunction with that love. Eventually, it was more pain than love, and I made one of the hardest choices in my life to barricade that tunnel until time healed the broken. Not since that choice have I come anywhere remotely close to caring for anyone on that level.

To this day, the one I loved so dear still won’t talk or associate with me. She must still feel the same level of pain I do. It still hurts more, though. Over a year later and I only get one real correspondence; an e-mail, a dream, and part of a letter, and like that it is back to that long forgotten, long abandoned tunnel to eachother’s hearts, eachother’s lives.

A couple months ago, I actually cared for a girl again. I didn’t think I had it in me. We were good friends. I was terrified. It wasn’t much, just care, and a very trusting friendship. I was afraid of the care. I was afraid of ruining a friendship already going through a rough patch. I was probably most afraid of the astronomically long shot odds of actually having a chance to have that care materialize; pebbles of rubble sliding through the cracks, then rocks, then boulders, until that tunnel was open again. I wasn’t looking for that, but it was nice to at least be able to care again.

It turned for the worst. I wanted those feelings out of the way. In a confusing, poorly represented attempt to simplify, I presented myself and my care to her, like a loyal knight approaching the throne revealing a plot to betray the throne he protects. I wanted not to care more, I wanted to just keep my trusted friend, and care a little, on my own, on the side, just to remember myself that I am human, and contrary to my conditioning, love is not pain, but something that can bring life.

The worst happened. I wasn’t rejected. I wasn’t accepted. I still don’t know what that means. I wish that she had the guts to have rejected me. In my gut, I wanted that. In my heart, I guess I wished she had the crazinness to accept me, I only wished for it when my mind was away.

Now, we don’t talk at all. There is no communication. I don’t get to represent myself. I don’t get to represent my trampled feelings. I don’t get a chance to be understanding. I don’t get to be friends, at all. I’m the square root of a negative number.

Someone I consider a best friend asked her on a date. They went on a date. It was some of the sharpest, most venomous pain that ever coursed through me. I care not, to the best of my abilities, to know anything beyond that one thing I found out. I try to live beyond it, but more often than I like it creeps in my bed at night, and forces itself upon me. I feel terrible those nights and converted mornings.

A date? A date? A date?? I never even got a friendship. I don’t even know if I get to apologize for the stress I put her under. I don’t expect anyone will ever apologize to me, or not when it will hold any relevancy to my feelings.

I see my friends. Some are married. They were stronger than me. They didn’t burn out; or maybe it was they weren’t extinguished.

I see my friends. They still get to talk to their ex’s. They get to drift apart a little more naturally with someone wth whom they literally shared their life with. They have things fall in place. They find new people they get to mutually care for.

For me, any distant relative of love has just been further conditioned to be, to me, associated with pain, with hurting, with tears. Care, trust, companionship, friendship, these things aren’t even love, but they all have tracked in the broken glass fragments from my concept of love, and likewise, even a step can, at random, cause me pain.

It is another insecurity I have to carry around now. I’m not looking for any pity or anything. I’m sick enough of feeling bad for myself; last thing I want is anyone else doing the same. I’m simply bringing another insecurity to the table.

This way, nobody can say anything to me sometimes see sawing from functioning, well, and to not ok.

Sometimes I’m going to not be ok. Just let me at least not be ok sometimes, I don’t ask for much anymore. This is not too much to ask. If I ever warn you about getting too close to me, please know I’m just trying to keep that tunnel blocked off as long as I can. It is all I can do to keep moving on in life. Just stay barricaded. Keep moving on.

brain trust

I am going to talk about trust today. Before I get ahead of myself, let me say that it felt good to write something a bit more uplifting than usual last time. Unfortunately, I don’t have much of that in the tank right now, just an assortment of junk. I’m just going to reach into this pack and sort through more. I just wanted to apologize for anyone who got to see a glimmering, hopeful perspective of life last time, and is ‘rewarded’ with the colder reality of blues, grays, and dreariness that is my life.

Trust. I’ve lost faith in the concept. Maybe it is because I’ve been ever so slightly off my emotional axis today, but when I just think about trust, trusting people, and having my trust blown out of the water like fishing with dynamite, I just feel very weak. The overarching problem is that while I have lost faith in trust(ing people), I still give away my trust like suckers at the dentist. I still have copious amounts of trust vested in close vessels (people) of my personal life. Heck, I flip-flop from internally removing all trust from people who have stripped themselves their right to my trust, to feeling comfortable with the idea of fully giving it away again. That’s the overarching problem, though. There is another, smaller one that really bugs me.

Maybe it is my elitist nature, but I look at other people, other friends, and see who they are trusting, contrast it to my own life and just get upset. I am me, for Pete and Repeat’s sake!– out of what I have around me, I choose the best, brightest, and most loyal to put my trust in! And when I see other people I have in my trust bubble, and some of the straight up bimbos they have in theirs, often at a greater level than they trust me, I just get– ¬†upset.

Or that is my reasoning, at least, in all it’s fallacious, narcissistic glory. I can’t help it! After letting myself get burned so often and so easily, I sometimes only really trust myself, and the way I see it is: why wouldn’t you want to trust me over anyone else? It is me! Me, me, me. You’ll have to excuse me, I just can’t help it sometimes. I mean, I am pretty rad, afterall. Oh, and considerate!

What exactly is trust, though? I am not pondering that cognizantly, but rather the pure emotional sense. What is the feeling of trust?

The way I see it, it is the complete lack of feeling. Distrust itself is the feeling. It is an anxiety, a worm that rests in your gut; slithering and pilfering around; consuming everything within until it swells and expands the lining of your intestines to the point that any movement causes your stomach to place the rest of your body on red alert. When I am with someone I trust, I feel nothing at all. I feel comfortable saying whatever I might say. I feel comfortable being affiliated with their individual actions. I have a total lack of concern for how they will consider my emotional or physical well-being.

It is just a feeling, or lack thereof. That’s my simplified, flawed view of it, but it seems to fit.

Because when you have that protective barrier of trust ripped out, like a skinless body, you feel every single sensation, and it hurts like the dickens.

Like I said, just baggage I have to sort through. Nothing eloquent this time, nothing poignant, probably a waste of reading; maybe even a waste of me writing it, but I am just trying to put things in light and hopefully get something out of it, internally.

As much as I continue to hurt, and continue to hide myself from reality, I am not distrusting enough.