Was it ever really love, and therefore is any love lost?

The end of another relationship. One of the more tulmutuous ones. I think I had a lot to do with its tumultousness. I wanted particular kinds of love, particular kinds of future-orientation, particular kinds of...well, security (a false idea I know, but hey, I wanted it anyway). And there were moments when he seemed to promise this great love potential. The oddest part was that he would declare how wonderful I am to his geographically-distant family, but when it came to the everyday friends, I felt effaced. I could never figure out how truly serious he was about me. And in ending (again, and again, and again), he claimed I had only needed to ask for certain things, or to have asked him to wait while I figured out what I wanted. But I think I did -- as much as I could knowing that there were certain things that were non-negotiable. It seems like it was a bit of a double bind. I was supposed to ask, but for what? What was ever up for asking? I wasn't in love with him, and I'm not sure I ever could have been, but it seems, at the same time, that things were foreclosed before they could ever begin. As though we lived in a state of indeterminacy and paralysis before even knowing if something else were possible.

But even worse, I have a tendency to want to be really done with someone once I (or we or he) end the relationship. I don't want to stay friends, because I find it too painful a reminder. And I find the intimate knowledges uncomfortable after the intimacy is gone. But I wonder if that's just strange and neurotic. Why do I feel so unnerved by the fact that someone once had a particular kind of knowledge and access to me? What difference does it make? And I am so hurt if he does not seem to pine or think of me -- I want to be irreplaceable but also distant. And I think that distance only really ends up hurting me in the end. I end up feeling isolated and awkward and lonely and unmoored. Yet, is it not me who has set up the terms to be this way?

Striving toward the present

Where have I been for the last few weeks? I seem to have somewhat regular bouts of...shall we call it melancholia? Where it really does seem my life is an abject failure. Objectively, even when in the midst of such melancholy, I know this is not true. But it seems my friendships all feel tenuous and not meaningful, and that I am directly responsible for their imminent demise. Such anxiety then, of course, seems to feed back into itself, creating more anxiety and more insecurities, and then it's more of a wait-it-out state than anything that I can do that is actually productive. I like tangible concrete problems (not that this has ever been my line of work in any real sense) -- but I like seeking the solutions, the methodical steps that can produce a satisfying resolution. Life seems to be non-compliant on this measure. And somehow, I have the strange fantasy that there will be a moment at which I will come out on top, where it will be a vast plain of manageable emotions, problems, circumstances. As if.

Why do I persist in preserving this mythology? It obviously does nothing but make me feel anxious about its never being attained. I suppose this is a bit like why I am skeptical of religions that promise some higher afterlife. I mean, you never can fully disprove that it could happen or could exist, but the idea of living in some suspended anticipation seems a bit futile. I have an old friend who is determined to be president some day. So much of his life is about planning to do the right thing that will secure his path to ascendancy. It's so odd to me, because it has started to seem to me (as we hobble toward our thirties), that this life is a means to an end, rather than an end in itself. Somewhere along my philosophy studies, I realized I am far less interested in the former. Life ought to be an end in and of itself. If there is some greater reward at the end (whether while still alive or after), I really feel that it's pretty irrelevant. Sure, this could slip into total hedonism and self-interest (which it has at moments), but it is a lot more present-minded.

The irony is, after all this proclamation of a particular life philosophy, I clearly don't live this way. So I guess that's sort of my goal. It's what yoga has been teaching me. It's part of what I talk about in therapy. And yet it's so damn difficult.

The next step...finally coming to pass

Grant #1 just came through. Unlike the subsequent grants I submitted, this one was done with no assistance from anyone. My sociopathic advisor was conveniently unavailable as I was trying to pull this together. I don't think she even read it. But of course, now that I've gotten the money, it looks good for her -- not that she needs the recognition. As numerous people from whom I have sought counsel when the sociopath was too much to bear have pointed out, the sociopath is a STAR. So, given that I don't have a lot of alternatives, I stick with it, even though working with her feels like a bipolar nightmare of ups and downs and regular emotional thrashings. She tends to operate on the passive aggressive neglectful approach, until moments like now, when suddenly my ideas are legitimated by external funding sources. Wait...where was I? RIGHT...my accomplishments.

The great thing is that now I can leave this mid-sized east coast city a lot sooner than I had thought. It's scary. It means I really am going to do this research thing. It also means that after living here longer than anywhere else since childhood, I am going to leave. It's both liberating and terribly frightening. It's like a return to the real world. I feel like I've been on hiatus for the last half decade, even though I've tried not to think of it that way. Real life is happening all the time.