It’s a pointless question, as most questions are… but I continue to ask it. I am a thinker; I process. And no matter the number of times someone tells me to stop thinking about something, to stop obsessing, I can pretend to bring this mind-numbing process to a screeching halt, but that’s not how I work. I am told time and again to “be myself.” But when I am told to be myself, it’s veiled in a don’t-be-yourself-and-be-the-relaxed-person-I-want-you-to-be mentality. I overthink and I beat a point into the ground. I ruminate. I am vigilant, hyper-ly so… to a fault. Those are my flaws and they are simply a part of the package that is me. But in everyone else’s defense, they have a point. In trying to win affection, I do everything in my power to be someone I am not. I adopt new attitudes, new coping strategies for people’s inability to handle my level of flawed awesome. Flawesome. And since I am so flawesome, I push and push until they call me impossible. I question their logic; I convince them that I am too attached to meaning to be integrated into their lives. I force them to be the villain, all the while I get to play the docile victim.
Well! Guess what, fuckers… flawesome gets you nowhere (except engaged, married, and divorced, all in the short span of a month) and I am not the victim.
I am the perpetrator.
I have never pretended to be an expert at relationships, but I sure have pretended that I was ready for a relationship and that I have no hang-ups or ghosts of relationships’ past following me around. If only that were the case; alas I don’t just have a ghost, I have a cemetery of lost souls following me– and they’re all mine.
The personalities I created in order to convince the homme du jour that I was absolutely perfect for him– those personalities are the lost souls I am referring to– the ones who follow me around. Whether it is the easy-breezy workout buddy with whom you sometimes have no-strings-relations, or the unattached-go-with-flow-nothing-means-anything person I thought he wanted me to be– among myriad others. But those people are not me, and yet, I still surprise myself every time I create a new shell of a man with fabricated innards. After having years upon decades of practicing the greatest disappearing act of all time, it makes one wonder, Is the fake me actually the real me? How do I discern the fictional characters from the walking autobiography? And then I wonder what parts, however miniscule, of the flawesome NayKenstein are genuine. That is to say that we all have some natural way of living– we are to act a certain way, otherwise it’s deemed disingenuous. We are all products of our environment, socially constructed, even when we believe that we have discovered some true essence of humanity– that is at its core, a self-constructed belief. Whatever intention we create, it is nothing more than exactly what we want to hear at that moment. Spiritual belief systems have been showing us this for years– allowing the mind to buy into an idea that there is something greater than what is right now– some cosmic purpose of being, a reason for living– creating spaces for comfort and divine intervention, but producing no tangible theories or ideas that make sense of the chaos in the world, and instead, only excuses and scapegoats for irrational, impractical actions and thoughts. Similarly, daily practices that reject definition and concept are nothing more than another construct in response to the constant need to identify what and why something is occurring. These anti-systems of thought are buying into the framework of a belief system, simply by acknowledging it and acting against it. So, when I am told I am too literal, impossible, or that I am hyper-vigilant, I am not buying into an idea any more than someone who rejects identification and systems. So again, I ask…
What the hell just happened?
When he told me he wasn’t there, I pretended to understand and convinced myself that I was okay with this information. Really, I guess I was okay with it since I didn’t know what the hell he meant. But it was that day that I fell in love. I fell in love with the man I wanted to see, and I refused to acknowledge the package he presented. I liked the man who sat in front of me, talking softly to me and regaling me with stories of his amazing accomplishments. He was and is a remarkable man, whom I refused to see at face value. I wanted to be a part of a greater story, one that couldn’t contain my self-indulgent story of passion and woe. Turns out, I played myself and by creating a narrative that existed outside of ourselves, I fast-tracked my relationship to Endsville. That is not to say I did it alone– I truly believed that when we exchanged ideas of marriage, as flawed as the institution is, that we were earnestly and honestly making plans. I did not think there were limits to how we were to share with the world what crazy plan was in store for us. I announced the upcoming nuptials, and THAT, that is when the best-laid plans soured. We proceeded crazily and quickly. And just as rapidly as we became symbolically married in front of perfectly strange acquaintances, our love fizzled and no longer was the wedding planned. Much to my confusion and after many attempts to breathe into the uncertainty of the situation, I broke. And it was my own fault. So…
What the hell just happened?
Nothing spectacular. I got married. I panicked. The marriage ended. And I pushed someone away who had the potential to be a beautiful addition to my life. I created another tale of despair, woe, and unrequited love. When someone tells you who they are, listen to them. When someone tells you that they are not available because they believe that they are not there romantically, regardless of how much you like them or want to understand them, trust that they know better than you what is going on in their head and heart. And when you have to ask yourself repeatedly, what the hell is happening?— odds are something is not falling into place. Listen to yourself. Learn.
I don’t believe I am a tragic character, even now. I remain a hopeless romantic. My heart has been pulverized, time and time again (often self-inflicted), but like the Phoenix, my rebel heart will rise from the ashes and ready itself for the next potential heartache.
Fuck it. This is happening.