How To Disappear Completely

Identity and Pain

Reader's caveat: this entry is somewhat personal, but it is my way of clarifying the muddledness in my head. I'll probably delete the entry tomorrow. But you are welcome to read it while it's here.

Why do I let my heart attach itself to unattainable people? Wasted emotion, wasted time, where did a portion of my life go? Not to speak of the pain. Rationally, I realize that no basis for hope ever existed. But hope persists anyway. And I realize that I have limited my horizons: interest ceases in anyone else, unless he can superhumanly surpass the one who infuriatingly has my heart captive. And maybe not even then. For superhuman people intimidate me. I shrink from the Boy Scout. I am too small. [This is my way of controlling my world. Only imperfect people are allowed in. I call this grace, but really I fear the standard perfection would bring. I am imperfect, and would not wish to exclude myself from my own world.] Lazy, I stop striving for the heights. I scoff at Idealism. My way is Practical. I am removing the possibility of disappointment. But pain comes anyway, because imperfect people hurt others. He is his own person; he can choose whom he wants. Besides, he never knew I liked him. We were only friends. At one point in my life, I would have tried to change into what he wanted. I would have tried very hard if but futilely. But now I know that depression is the only dead end to that road. So I go my way. But not without a wistful regret. Why did I waste time hoping for him? Should I erase him from memory? Shall I strive for the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?

In the end, I must answer no. There were good qualities that made me like him. I cherish the joy those memories bring. Conversely, the pain taught me something. I cannot wish it undone. I would be different if I had not hurt. Somehow I would lose part of myself if I lost either the joy or the hurt. So I welcome the hurt. Is what I am, then, because of another human? One should hardly identity form this way: shouldn't we be shaped only by the Potter's hand? Well, His hand holds many tools. Sometimes those tools are even our own mistakes.

In the end, though, holding onto pain and joy might only be self-protection. Orienting my vision toward the future will remind me that I am not at the end of my identity forming path. Hope of an unshakably certain kind awaits.