. . .I know myself through observations and experiences and my writing.
Writing is sometimes the only means through which I can express myself, for I found that, being a listener, I usually help people more than they do me. I perhaps begin, but more often than not, I fail to say what I set out to say. I wonder if this makes good relationships...all ear and no mouth. (But) I feel better giving than receiving.
...One must be receptive, or the relationship cannot last.
...The amount one discloses about (him) self is oftentimes parallel to the amount of attention given (to him) by the partner. If one listens with the intensity of a brick wall, it naturally follows that the other will be less likely to express feelings in other situations...he feels shut out.
...He is the chief voice in the relationship. (He) says he will listen to me, but unless I talk in an unending flow until I"m finished, he breaks in with a response and continues to elaborate upon it until I have virtually forgotten my thoughts. I have found short, powerful phrases the only means to convey my beliefs at times...or reading my personal essays and poems to him. Sometimes I feel small . . . I am unable to make myself heard.
Feb. 1981... Although a relationship is composed of a great deal of sharing and companionship, the need for privacy must be respected.
Each individual needs to maintain a firmly established sense of ident.i.ty to fully give of that self. Grow side by side and learn from each other...two vines cannot grow on one tree lest they strangle their support and eventually, each other.
...I find it most exciting to discover someone and watch him grow in his understanding of life. I could not live with myself if I felt I was purposely attempting to mold another individual to fit my perception of the "ideal mate." I once told (my boyfriend) that I would rather break up with him than change him, for propensities which I found disturbing would be virtually non-existent to someone else. He has as much of a right to live and love in his own way as I have.
...The friendship which (he) and I share is invaluable and irreplaceable. Perhaps it is because I place no supreme importance on romanticism that our friendship is my deepest gratification.
In another composition, I wrote these words:
I look not for the ideal because idealistic individuals are often quite disappointed when their "key" is ultimately bigger than the "lock."
Instead I give my best and accept life as it comes. My concept of happiness consists of satisfying the mind to achieve emotional stability. I try to look to each day as another chance to grow in knowing myself and my world. My "ideal" would include a total acceptance of life and a perfection of love.
During that period of time, I also expressed with morbid cynicism my inability to dissuade a friend from his use of marijuana. The poem, although somewhat disturbing, projects my hostility toward a habit which claimed sufficient importance that it continued despite my open concern.
1981
Is life (for you) So dull and meaningless....
Is it so necessary to escape, To drift from reality, To pull away From summer"s soft and fragrant breeze, And mold into a being Which is not yourself But rather, Some distorted orb of existence...
If you so desire To kill yourself, Draw your plans...
Burn the gra.s.s...
Blow your charred breath Into the baggy...
And pop it.
Be daring.
Your loss of life Seems so indifferent.
Why not go out with a roar, Like the coming of March, Instead of this infernal, Everlasting, Torture.
The suspense is killing me, And I"m ready for a good show.
I"ll applaud...
I"m a good and experienced audience.
I"ll be intent (as you) On your motive.
Can"t you get it over So I can go home, As usual, And take off my clothes And my make-up And roll my hair...
So I can play Bozo Tomorrow Tomorrow In the great show Called Life That never ends Except for you, my friend.
It was evident in my writing that I harbored discontent. Perhaps this was because I had recognized the elements and images of good relationships. In my written kaleidoscope, I contrasted generalizations with personal experiences; I was aware of what I wanted in a relationship of romantic nature and knew that my current relationship did not have the capacity to fulfill those characteristics. I had been trying to forcibly extract romantic inclinations from within myself and adhere them to primarily platonic feelings. I was not blind; in the brilliant sunlight, I had seen reality, but rather than facing the light or turning my back, I had simply chosen to wear sun-gla.s.ses to cut down the glare. For a time it had been the easiest solution; now, with a certain degree of fear, I knew I could no longer deflect the truth.
For several months I continued to drift along, contemplating life"s moments and my reactions to them. I had been letting life "happen"
without becoming involved in the decisions that were at least partially mine; self-confidence had withered, robbing me of my voice and my ability to decide how my time would be spent.
Toward the end of spring, my personal a.n.a.lysis bloomed; although the flowers, my conclusions, were not delicate things of beauty. I found I had transformed into someone who I disliked, feeding on a tremendous wall of resentment. Since I was not strong enough to simply discontinue the romance, I began to create areas of conflict, tempting him to argue or basting him with his faults. Knowing that he generally avoided disagreements at all costs, I tactfully asked questions for the purpose of testing his genuiness of character and individualism. I tried to induce friction to see when and if he would take a stand, yet he never would. I began to wonder if he possessed any opinions of his own.
Needless to say, the time we spent together was not joyous for either of us. I grew irritated at little eccentricities and habits, sometimes with good reason, and on other occasions, without. Even simple companionship, which I had once valued, became a victim of the blighted romance; as he sought to do everything in his power to maintain the romance, stressing that our problems would pa.s.s, I strained violently against his intentions with the hope that our relationship could deflate to the status of friendship. It was a battle that neither wished to lose and blazed ever more intensely through the days because nothing was lost or gained. I was unable to walk away and he refused to shake my hand. There was no room for compromise.
May 30, 1981... West Lake. Doubtful...thought (he) and I might break up. We just sat on the blanket in silence, and then I went over and picked a wild rose and brought it back. I showed it to him. "It has thorns," he said. "Some of the prettiest things have thorns," I replied. "I know." He squeezed my hand.
When summer came I felt the relief of having no obligations. Time was my own, logically, but I had to laugh at the thought. "Who are you fooling?" a voice cackled from somewhere. I mused for a second and then became annoyed. "You don"t refuse him calls and dates, because you are afraid of hurting him, yet, when you are together, you display few loving qualities!"
By harboring such hostility, I was hurting both of us. I began to realize more damage was done through seeing him than if I would collect myself and entirely pull away from the relationship.
He did not want to let go, that was a given. I needed more time; that too was a given. In one last attempt to stress my needs, I asked him to grant me three days of complete solitude, during which time he would not call or visit; after some argument, he agreed.
Time was a gift, and the first and second days were marvelous. I was alone and it felt wonderful. The third day, however, brought duress via the mail; unable to let go, he sent me a letter. I was decidedly angry, considering the letter a breach of promise. After all I had not asked for much. Three days. It had not seemed an unfair request.
Disappointed, I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.
Some things in life seemed so impossible. It was ironic that, through various ways of caring, people could hurt each other so badly.
The following events changed my outlook on life toward the positive, which at the time meant an improved self-image. My parents had noted my lack of confidence and perceived it was a marked impediment.
Without an agreeable opinion of oneself a person cannot hope to lead a full life; fear of failure precedes and echoes every step, eventually leading to emotional immobilization.
Out of exasperation for my warped self-image, Mom took matters into her hands and enrolled me in a charm cla.s.s, acting upon the theory that a woman"s confidence was directly related to her appearance. I objected, but Mom insisted that I go. Thus, with reluctant steps and an uneasy stomach, I drove to my first cla.s.s.
Students were challenged to enhance unique features with which they were born. Rather than criticizing oneself, the emphasis was on improvement. This involved a thorough evaluation wherein one"s traits were honestly viewed, after which a commentary was meticulously written for the instructor. Every student was given an individual make-up consultation, and as a weekly a.s.signment, we were to come to cla.s.s wearing make-up and proper attire. We learned the correct way to walk, sit and gesture, and were instructed concerning hair care, manicures, diets and exercise.
The most beneficial aspect of the cla.s.s from my point of view was learning. . .or perhaps simply remembering. . . that no one was perfect. Moreover, vanity in carefully measured doses was not frivolous; beauty dealt more with the ability to project one"s inner self than painting and displaying the surface characteristics. Though it may sound shallow, the compliments which I received in cla.s.s by my instructor were the stimuli I needed to reinforce the image reflected in my mirror. For the first time in months, I felt good about who I was on the inside, even though I had to begin my "renovation" on the outside.
Toward the middle of July I was able to escape in every sense of the word when Norm and I took our second vacation together. I knew the week would grant me time and distance required to objectively view my troubled "romance." The trip meant a chance for both fun and reflection.
We stayed, once again, in the bas.e.m.e.nt level unit of last year"s motel.
Upon entering, we quickly noted that no changes had been made. The same relic radio still graced the dresser, and the same avocado crushed velvet bedspread sagged drearily to meet the worn carpets covering the floor. It was somehow a pleasant sight, albeit the fact that the place desperately needed attention; I guess it was like a worn out pair of tennis shoes, ugly yet be-loved for the sake of the mileage and memories which they represented.
The following morning, as we strode toward the car, we truly felt at home when we noticed the s.a.d.i.s.tic mailman of the previous year busily engaged with Marion. We looked on with amazement. The one undesirable factor of last year"s vacation had reappeared!
Hoping to escape recognition, we quietly loaded the car while he jawed away, absorbed in his story of the hour. We might have slipped from the parking lot had it not been for Marion"s eyes flicking repeatedly from him to us. We both had one leg in the car when a huge bellow resounded from his direction.
"Hey! Weren"t you the folks with the Dart?"
We felt as if responding with a "yes" would be an admission of guilt for some heinous crime. "We were the ones!" Norm replied, pulling himself into the protection of the car and starting the engine. My brother was artfully combining politeness with perpetual motion.
A brief exchange ensued as the car rolled slowly backward from its parking s.p.a.ce, then a shift into low gear signaled that the conversation had ended.
"Catch ya later," the man yelled after us. He never did.
Five days dissolved, one into the next, until the week"s peaceful interlude came to an end. The time had allowed my emotions to rest and my mind to clear. Questions which I feared to answer now appeared to have lost their malignancy, and I had gathered the courage to enact the unsavory business of breaking up. Nothing would dissuade me; my decision had been made and its certainty felt like the cool breezes in which it had been developed.