Almosts and Maybes

I think that he is my almost. While the thought has existed in the labyrinth of my mind for the last fifteen minutes, it pains me in a very physical way to write it out. Maybe he is almost my great love. Almost the man I had a child with. Almost my partner in crime, the adventure of my life. And yes, he most certainly was the adventure of my early twenties. Of all the men I have been with, he is the only one I can see next to me as I imagine my future. But what I cannot imagine is the details of it. Where, or how. Mostly how. And while I am quite confident that there will be other men, other lovers, intense conversationalists with strong hands and witty words, I have a strong feeling that none of them will be the person I give my life to. I am terrified, see, that I will end up like my mother, or his. Or any mother I know. In one of my favorite books, Francesa speaks of the choice made when a woman becomes a mother. About one life beginning, and the other ending. And by the time children leave, you have forgotten what moves you. I do not think that I can be that kind of mother. The kind my mother was, dedicating her every second to her family, to her children. Staying because of us. I am not that selfless, nor that brave. Although I am not facing any immediate decisions right now, I am somehow torn between the life I would lead if I followed all the rules or the path I could take if I made my own. My girlfriends follow rules. They have savings accounts and good credit, renter’s insurance and fiances. And for being so much like them, there is a constricting feeling I experience when I think of me, like them. My bookshelf, it actually says a lot about me. Anna Karenina. The Bridges of Madison County. Madame Bovary. I am, for some reason, fascinated by a good woman’s infidelity. Not the tacky kind, the cheating that provides a cheap thrill. It is the immense passion that drives a spirited woman to take that leap, from stable, good wife and mother, to lover, beautiful and mysterious. It is the self-loathing that these women feel for allowing themselves to submit to their desires that intrigues me. I know self-loathing. I know not allowing yourself to look away or to blink back tears. I know the lingering feeling of pain deep inside, the pain you know you caused yourself. I wonder if this is the same loathing these women must have felt, these women and the many more who have either submitted to, or denied themselves of, true passion. My fascination with this frightens me. In one thought, I see myself as a doctor, coming home to a man that adores me and children for whom I would give my life. In the next, I see myself in England, in Singapore, in Spain, feeling life in every ounce of my body, not being tied to any one person or worrying about children. I wonder how many thousands of women have tried to find the perfect balance of independence and dependence, giving themselves to their family without losing who they really are.
I’m not sure I want him to be my almost. If I could engineer my world to make it ideal, I would take him, infuse him with passion and just the right amount of emotion, keep him strong and classy, make him well-read and conversational. I would keep his broad shoulders and his strong arms, and the way I can always, always depend on him. I would make him love debates, and have him always know when to stop. I would put some innocence back into our relationship and I would take away all of our family issues. I would make it whole, and beautiful, and always passionate, and then maybe I wouldn’t be scared that he is my almost. Maybe then I would know that I wouldn’t be sacrificing an ounce of who I am for someone else. But there is also the distinct possibility, that maybe there is no perfect, or even perfect for each other. Maybe there is just me, just me that I must truly love and accept before I can be happy with anyone else.

Innocence

Innocence is not ours forever. Maybe it leaves us when we first hurt another person intentionally, on a playground during a recess. Or maybe some time in high school, when we learn all too soon that boys can't be trusted. By college, innocence is usually a fading memory. I remember how powerful I felt, knowing I had something that someone else wanted. And after I didn't have that anymore, I still felt powerful, knowing that I was in control of my own pleasure. I may have overdosed on that power. I cheated. I lied. I rationalized it to myself. And if there was a shred of innocence left in me when I became pregnant, I lost in when I chose not to keep the baby. And now, regardless of what anyone tells me, or of what I tell myself, I feel used and spoiled. There will never be pure happiness, pure unadultered joy in starting a family. I am all about feminism and conquering the world, but when all else falls away, I am small and hurting and angry at myself. And this, this typing, this is my therapy. This is what I can do that no one will see, no one will know, how truly weak I can be. Innocence may be a beautiful thing, but it is gone for me forever.