What's Really The Matter

Nearly nine years ago I married a man who asked the best question I'd ever heard before:
"What's really the matter?" What's the real problem?

I was just asked that again by a new, very special friend.
"What's really going on?"

Guilt, more than likely.
Fear, most blinding.

Though I have a tendency to treat others works, speech, inflections and body language like a forensic scientist: ever dissecting, studying each new bit of information like a single cell under a very powerful microscope, I tend to let those go in myself. It's too close for me to see. I need the help of others. I can reason anything in anyone simply because I've allowed myself to feel these things before, and given enough time I can allow these lessons to sink in, freeing me to impart my own brand of wisdom or at least a modicum of empathy. But while immersed in the mire, I can't really see much of anything. Water's too murky. I've dove too far deep and I'm feeling the crushing of too much pressure. If I come up too fast I'll get the bends. Oh, look! An anemone!

Common logic allows that if I like someone I should just go for it. It's not that simple.

When I look around at people in old and new relationships I see a common thread: Beyond compromise, they succumb.

Standard size 4 (in the new size chart as America is now Biggie Sized) Woman: Oooh, that sounds good, but I really shouldn't have it. You don't want any, right? I don't want to get it if I'm the only one having it. Forget it. Nope. No, thank you. That's okay.... Well, what do YOU want? I don't care (have an opinion). I'll have whatever you want to have. Really.

[ deflate ]

Then there is the diametric opposite: The Bitch Princess who flatly refuses to share anything. The world revolves around her. She has to adjust her beret as it keeps flopping into her sauce as she guardedly eats her food, gratingly sliding her teeth against the tines of her fork, taking care not to mingle vermillion M.A.C. lipstick with gorgonzola.

I have been the former, save the opinion part. I can't be the latter. It's not in my genetic make-up. I don't want to be that person again; the person who loses herself.

The first time I got married was when I was 21. It was a mistake. I didn't love him, but for some reason I thought it was a good idea. I was in love with someone else. I carried a torch for that someone else for 10 years. I got married the first time because I didn't want to be alone. For some reason I got it in my head that I'd never find someone else.

21

I barely begun developing the knowledge of the intricacies of wiping my own ass at 21. The marriage lasted exactly 1.463 years. I left because I had to leave. It was killing me. I remember being scared I'd never find anyone ever again.

Again.

At 28, I married the Greatest Love of My Life. Ack. The, now, ex-husband/current best friend. I had been single for 6 months prior to meeting him. We had a marriage that most aspired to having. Most of our friends are still mourning its loss. It was built solidly on respect, understanding, love and friendship. But it wasn't what I wanted.

Or want.
Or need.

Looking out my window, beyond my monitor, I wish to be reincarnated as a squirrel. A grey squirrel. Fluffy, spinning tail. The ability to soar through trees, effortlessly scaling impossible perpendicular angles, making "chuck, chuck, chuck" noises while being in hot pursuit by another squirrel. Taunting dogs.

Freedom.

I long for it. I feel guilt in having it. I hate my inherent shame reflex. It serves no good.

I feel societal pressure every day of my existence. Though I can intellectualise it as wrong, I still feel the shameful pull in behaving a certain way, though I hate to censor.

I was out for dinner with my lovely friend Ryan, visiting my great friend Ian, whom I wrestle with often. Ian works at a neighbouring restaurant. Plates are large; portions are designer small; emphasis on fusion; a bit of a wank. The set they serve are of the Dinosaur Age. Apparently I was saying, "Cock", too loud and got "shushed". Repeatedly. And then got the talk.

I hate restrictions. I hate being "shushed". I hate "the talk".

Everytime I talk to my mother on the phone I have to justify my life to her. I have to make her understand that I am quite possibly the only relatively happy person that came out of our household. I am the only person not propelled by money. Subsequently, I am the only one who has time. I don't see them very often because I simply don't feel like it.

They, and I mean my friends and my family, still instill a sense of guilt in me.
Mom: [leaving a message on my machine] Have you forgotten Mommy's phone number?
Dirty: [good friend, ditto from above] Okay, so have you fallen off the face of the Earth? Or are you mad at me? Have I done something wrong and THAT'S why you haven't called me back?

I just don't feel like it. But why?

Matty said a great thing the other night. To preface, there is a man we work with. Zac. He's straight. He's black(ish). He keeps making "Master" jokes all the time. "Yessss, Massah! I works for you, Massah!" I don't like it. I don't understand his sense of humour and he doesn't understand mine. He takes personal offence to everything I say. So, Matty said, "Zac's humour is stagnant where yours is progressive; it builds."

Ever since I was a kid I'd develop intense relationships with individual people for a duration. We'd spend nearly every day together, honing, developing, creating. Then imperceptibly there seemed to be a lull. A peak reached. It's as if we learned as much as we could about the other person, and it naturally came to a close. We were richer from the process and in the end, in retrospect. A silent acknowledgement agreement was drafted. I still work the same way. Still, the only person I see with any frequency is Ack. I think the only reasons I see him so often is he's very current with new concepts, ideas and knowledge and he knows me very well. He's very versed in my cycles.

In trying to rationalise my non-pursuit in anyone right now, I had a knee-jerk response in thinking I was fearful in getting hurt like I had over the summer. I can't honestly say that now. What happened, simply happened. At the time it didn't fit what my plans were, but in the end it was the best thing that could have happened. I would have just found myself accommodating yet another person. In the end, even if it did fit my plans at the time, I would have eventually left yet another person. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam.

Who knows?

Maybe I'm seeing the end without seeing the potential.
Maybe I'm just fearful of having another dissatified customer served.
Maybe I'm not meant to be in a relationship.
Maybe I'm just needing to be alone still.
Maybe I should just embrace diversification.
Maybe I should stop slathering myself with accusations.
Maybe I shouldn't think so much.
Maybe I should sop up the 3 double espressos I've just had with some breakfast.