I've been wondering how I'd discuss this piece of my life.
It's a very large chunk containing critical importance, and yet it makes me think of those lines in America's "Ventura Highway”:
Chewing on a piece of grass
Walking down the road
Tell me, how long are you gonna stay here Joe?
Some people say this town don’t look good in snow.
You don't care, I know…
’Cause the free wind is blowin' through your hair
And the days surround your daylight there
Seasons crying no despair…
When I look at those lines, I think about how funny it is that you can't see life lived as you live it. I did know I was going to give this part of my life short shrift even while its importance is, well, pretty significant. Looking back, though, I only know this is the point in my life in which I was so empty inside I didn't notice much beyond what was right in front of my eyes. Even then, if I were to recite an account of whatever my eyes observed literally with every intention of being completely honest, the account was likely to come out in complete opposition to reality. I said “literally” for this reason: I know I don't have solid memories from that dark time. I can definitely say I didn't notice the subtleties and nuances of life happening around me, either. That's really sad, considering that subtleties and nuances paint the most beautiful portraits - Monet, anyone?
You'd think my life had hit flat bottom if I were to tell you about the times I went trolling for strangers, and then again if I were to tell you about my pickiness regarding the stranger I'd eventually pick up. Flat bottom doesn't come for several years, though, and if you were to read my Father's Day post, then you’d be reading about me hitting flat bottom. Still, and this is of the utmost importance, Cheryl isn't my cause and effect with respect to my actions. If you were to think that, I'd be insulted. If you were to say that out loud, well, I'd hit you repeatedly until you gasped through the gurgling for your last breath! Was I in love with the woman I asked to marry me and who was presently my wife? Sadly, I wasn't "in love" with her, but I loved her. Maybe I wasn't so multidimensional at this time. Maybe I was just the quintessential plebeian man. Maybe I lied to myself thinking I'd washed up before I presented myself to Cheryl.
I think that's why I searched through Dan Hill’s song, “Sometimes When We Touch.” I searched mercilessly and tirelessly with complete and utter honesty. As I would reflect on what I'd become, I'm not sure how or why this happened, but these words always stuck:
You ask me if I love you
And I choke on my reply
I'd rather hurt you honestly
Than mislead you with a lie
And who am I to judge you
On what you say or do?
I'm only just beginning to see the real you…
Romance and all its strategy
Leaves me battling with my pride
But through the insecurity
Some tenderness survives
I'm just another writer
Still trapped within my truth
A hesitant prize fighter
Still trapped within my youth…
At times I understand you
And I know how hard you’ve tried
I've watched while love commands you
And I've watched love pass you by
At times I think we're drifters
Still searching for a friend
A brother or a sister
But then the passion flares again
And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide…
I wasn't in love with Cheryl, but I loved her like she was my sister, or maybe better, a best friend with whom I could really talk. Yet even in that, I couldn't ever be transparently real. I couldn’t reveal to her the person I really was, nor allow her to see the mud-caked all over me. I was an awful person. When Cheryl was crying because she felt like less than a woman - something she was honestly and tenderly willing to reveal to me - and when she realized our baby wasn't colicky but just hungry because God didn't allow Cheryl to produce enough milk, well, I was going to clubs spending money to pay women to remove their clothes. You see, I always found a way to wallow in the mud.
I wanted something more, but at the same time, I'd given up on this life I was living. There was something real in front of me, something preciously tangible, but I had become like a ghost unable to sense or feel what's genuinely real. Years would pass, and the web would give me a chance to have no feelings at all. It went beyond where someone might feel bad for me. I acted in a way that was horribly broken, dead, and, well, insipid! You might say I was even an emotional criminal. And don't let anyone kid you - there wasn't anyone left victimless in my crimes. Maybe Dan Hill was only an affect found in a song, but Dan Hill was a million miles ahead of me. Said another way, in the end, at least that affect was something. Turns out, well, I had turned myself into nobody important, lacking any ability to understand anything about love.
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