For those that know me and those that only know me slightly (or not at all), I'm going through a hard time.
"The Writer," my long term on-again/off-again boyfriend, has a brain tumor that has returned for the third time in the past year. His moods are irregular and vary from fearful to angry to confused and frustrated. He is a basketcase of emotions and highly eccentric. Sometimes I want to avoid him or run away forever, and sometimes I want to hug him and never let go. He is an incredibly beautiful person with a propensity towards isolation and depression, who has somehow, some way, allowed me into his world during the scariest time of his life. Throughout the time that we have known each other he has shared his life with me, shown me great love and compassion, taken care of me when I've been ill, cheered me up when nothing else would, takes me to beautiful restaurants, invites me as his +1 to exclusive events, teaches me more about world history and human behavior than any college professor, and has shared so many jokes and silly times with me that I seriously can't imagine my life without him. He is complicated and yet thoughtful, has manners and charm. He has also said some terrible things to me and has treated me poorly... really, really poorly. His shortcomings and the rude things he has done to me often weigh on my mind, and I wonder why I continue to stay with someone who is often unpredictable and will not "commit" to me and give me the security of exclusivity, marriage, and children despite my proven loyalty and love. He is also very ill with a brain tumor on his pituitary gland.
I cannot walk away.
I love him deeply, I love him blindly, and I love him unconditionally.
No one is perfect.
The Writer is seriously imperfect. So am I. I have confided in him more thoroughly than any other boyfriend I've ever had, and the honesty between us is perhaps the most genuine part of our relationship. It doesn't make it easier to handle his lack of commitment and the insecurity of no future plans, however. And here we are, dealing with brain tumor #3.
Complexities of relationships are not unique, and when I see any married couple, I wonder if they will become part of the 50% that stays together or the 50% that doesn't, and of that 50% that does, how happy they will be in their marriage regardless of "sticking it out." As nothing in life is certain and commitment certainly is not (vows or no vows), I dwell on the imperfect and whether honesty is more important than the pipe dream of "happily ever after." Perhaps there is no such thing, and the fairy tale we are all fed from childhood on must finally be exposed by the reality of what truly exists. Am I better off knowing the Writer won't marry me (or likely anyone)? Knowing he is honest in wanting to be with me right now (and has for the past 5 years)? Or am I under the spell of dreams and denial, wishing and hoping that he will eventually change his mind?
It's all true.
As he goes through the mental anguish of his failing health and the suffering of perhaps never being able to live without health insurance and a stable job again, I muse over my own role in his life as well as my entire purpose of being. He currently plays an integral role in my own mental health for better or for worse, my own constant struggle for clarity in a fucked up world that consistently seems to disappoint me (perhaps I should not have expectations at all in life, but it is awfully human to have some). My health is also failing; it is most likely Fibromyalgia, which is also complicated and hard to describe. I wake up in chronic pain and wearily do my best to cope with migraines and the unlikelihood of every playing derby again, and I fear being alone and suffering, alone. I am afraid of waking up without anyone caring if I come to see them, without needing me in their life. My anxiety sometimes keeps me awake all night, fearing a lonely demise into the autumn of existence, and a cold winter. I am not young anymore, and my indecisiveness in having children is starting to decide for me. I am plagued by depressing thoughts on being a failure to myself, of not realizing my full potential. I wonder how much I truly have to give to anyone at this point and in this state, and I am grateful that I have the Writer to call on me. I hate how sick he is and that he is suffering, but I am grateful that he needs me.
When my aunt died, I secretly vowed to do right by myself and not hold back from that I wished to do and see and be, and now I am heavily critical on how well I'm doing at that. Have I let myself down? Am I living for myself, or for other people and their expectations for me? Am I happy? I have no idea anymore. I would like to be authentic. That's all I know.
I do know that life is a flash. I know that at any moment it's over. I am grateful I've had this many years, and hopefully I'll have at least as many more. But whose life is this? How do I know what I am supposed to be doing with myself? How do any of us know? Will I some day feel content with what I have, or is it human nature to always want more and never feel complete?
The Writer goes into surgery again soon to have the tumor removed again. I do not know if it will come back, or if he will ever be rid of it. I do not know if I will ever feel safe. I do not know if I will ever be comfortable with that.
"The Writer," my long term on-again/off-again boyfriend, has a brain tumor that has returned for the third time in the past year. His moods are irregular and vary from fearful to angry to confused and frustrated. He is a basketcase of emotions and highly eccentric. Sometimes I want to avoid him or run away forever, and sometimes I want to hug him and never let go. He is an incredibly beautiful person with a propensity towards isolation and depression, who has somehow, some way, allowed me into his world during the scariest time of his life. Throughout the time that we have known each other he has shared his life with me, shown me great love and compassion, taken care of me when I've been ill, cheered me up when nothing else would, takes me to beautiful restaurants, invites me as his +1 to exclusive events, teaches me more about world history and human behavior than any college professor, and has shared so many jokes and silly times with me that I seriously can't imagine my life without him. He is complicated and yet thoughtful, has manners and charm. He has also said some terrible things to me and has treated me poorly... really, really poorly. His shortcomings and the rude things he has done to me often weigh on my mind, and I wonder why I continue to stay with someone who is often unpredictable and will not "commit" to me and give me the security of exclusivity, marriage, and children despite my proven loyalty and love. He is also very ill with a brain tumor on his pituitary gland.
I cannot walk away.
I love him deeply, I love him blindly, and I love him unconditionally.
No one is perfect.
The Writer is seriously imperfect. So am I. I have confided in him more thoroughly than any other boyfriend I've ever had, and the honesty between us is perhaps the most genuine part of our relationship. It doesn't make it easier to handle his lack of commitment and the insecurity of no future plans, however. And here we are, dealing with brain tumor #3.
Complexities of relationships are not unique, and when I see any married couple, I wonder if they will become part of the 50% that stays together or the 50% that doesn't, and of that 50% that does, how happy they will be in their marriage regardless of "sticking it out." As nothing in life is certain and commitment certainly is not (vows or no vows), I dwell on the imperfect and whether honesty is more important than the pipe dream of "happily ever after." Perhaps there is no such thing, and the fairy tale we are all fed from childhood on must finally be exposed by the reality of what truly exists. Am I better off knowing the Writer won't marry me (or likely anyone)? Knowing he is honest in wanting to be with me right now (and has for the past 5 years)? Or am I under the spell of dreams and denial, wishing and hoping that he will eventually change his mind?
It's all true.
As he goes through the mental anguish of his failing health and the suffering of perhaps never being able to live without health insurance and a stable job again, I muse over my own role in his life as well as my entire purpose of being. He currently plays an integral role in my own mental health for better or for worse, my own constant struggle for clarity in a fucked up world that consistently seems to disappoint me (perhaps I should not have expectations at all in life, but it is awfully human to have some). My health is also failing; it is most likely Fibromyalgia, which is also complicated and hard to describe. I wake up in chronic pain and wearily do my best to cope with migraines and the unlikelihood of every playing derby again, and I fear being alone and suffering, alone. I am afraid of waking up without anyone caring if I come to see them, without needing me in their life. My anxiety sometimes keeps me awake all night, fearing a lonely demise into the autumn of existence, and a cold winter. I am not young anymore, and my indecisiveness in having children is starting to decide for me. I am plagued by depressing thoughts on being a failure to myself, of not realizing my full potential. I wonder how much I truly have to give to anyone at this point and in this state, and I am grateful that I have the Writer to call on me. I hate how sick he is and that he is suffering, but I am grateful that he needs me.
When my aunt died, I secretly vowed to do right by myself and not hold back from that I wished to do and see and be, and now I am heavily critical on how well I'm doing at that. Have I let myself down? Am I living for myself, or for other people and their expectations for me? Am I happy? I have no idea anymore. I would like to be authentic. That's all I know.
I do know that life is a flash. I know that at any moment it's over. I am grateful I've had this many years, and hopefully I'll have at least as many more. But whose life is this? How do I know what I am supposed to be doing with myself? How do any of us know? Will I some day feel content with what I have, or is it human nature to always want more and never feel complete?
The Writer goes into surgery again soon to have the tumor removed again. I do not know if it will come back, or if he will ever be rid of it. I do not know if I will ever feel safe. I do not know if I will ever be comfortable with that.
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