Throwing Fluffy Words Around With Reckless Abandon

I just read a list of things that allegedly happen after you have a baby.  They’re all smarmy crap and they pissed me off a bit, so here I am, writing my rant.

There’s a rather significantly sized part of my inner self that truly (I always spell that wrong the first try) and deeply (and yes, madly) wishes there was a corporeal representation of pop-culture and all its propaganda that I could see in person and punch in the face.  Society, as a whole, has so much to answer for by way of destroying the environment – both physical, but also spiritual and whatever the all-encompassing word for feelings and mental state smushed together would be – that I find myself increasingly incensed by whatever the latest spout of nonsense is spewing forth not only on the fully formed, but on the emerging youth of this world.  I recognize that the whole is made up of parts, but some of those parts..and it’s always the most obnoxious and unbalanced that banshee scream the loudest…really are screwing us all over.  Generally I like to warm up to loaded statements, but again…pissed off.

Tonight, it’s the crap that’s being presented to women bearing children.  The fact that there are at least four television shows to my knowledge, and quite likely more that aren’t quite so prominent, glorifying teen pregnancy is appalling to me.  Sure, they show the turmoil these girls go through, but they also glorify the drama by giving it mass quantities of attention – something every teenager I’ve ever met has begged for in one way or another.  With the older crowd, there is such emphasis on this tiny bundle of baby that women are kind of subtly encouraged to forget the dude that helped them procreate in the first place and focus their entire being on their spawn.  Again…loaded statement…but I just read a list of “42 things you discover about life after having a baby” (with an added 1400+ comments that I have no patience to wade through) and not a single one mentioned the father of said child.  Oh, and my favorite…ready?!

“You now know where the sun comes from.”

Please.  Tell.  Me.  You’re.  Joking.

Alright, yes, I know that children are important and cute and lovely and should absolutely be cherished for the blessing they are.

Yes.

BUT.

THE SUN?  Really?  I’m pretty sure that the sun is a star burning pretty brightly from about 149.6 million kilometers away.  I even looked it up on Wikipedia to make sure, and we all know that Wikipedia makes everything legit.

My point, when it comes to the children thing, is that I can’t be the only mother out there who loves their child but a. still loves their husband more, and b. isn’t going to wax fuzzy googly-eyed nonsense about every little giggle and fart produced by said baby.  (or husband).  Society as a whole has romanticized many things, and motherhood has absolutely fallen victim to this trend.  Teen Mom.  16 And Pregnant.  Secret Life Of The American Teenager.  A Baby Story.  Bringing Home Baby.  Baby’s First Day.  Pregnant In Heels.  I’d love to think that some of these were birthed (PUN!) with the hope of helping someone out there who’s going through the same thing.  I’d love to think that.  Sadly, I think that’s delusional.  On top of them, you have the endless supply of fluffy baby and parenting websites (and their abundance of…informative?…email bulletins) that paint a picture that, to date, has offered few shreds of applicable reality.

At the end of the day these all do a disservice to the average woman who is able and willing to conceive a child.  For those who don’t have a baby, television glamorizes the feat in such a way that I would openly laugh at it if it weren’t for the impending children’s lives at stake here.  It’s almost like a game – something to be giggled about.  Joked about.  Flaunted, even.  It’s as if they’re focused on the matching onesies and baby showers that they’ve lost sight that the cute creature in question is a life long commitment.  It’s a life – a moldable, fragile, and completely helpless life that is at the mercy of whoever’s uterus it happens to fall out of.  As for the women who either are pregnant or who have given birth, the vast majority of information goes quite a few steps beyond appropriately positive and becomes nauseatingly gushy, and in my experience complete nonsense.  They go to such an extreme that they ostracize those of us who don’t fall on drastic ends of the spectrum – we’re neither bat shit insane for flocculent (probably incorrectly used because I ran out of synonyms for “fuzzy” and “fluffy” and looked it up) baby life nor in the pit of postpartum psychosis.  We’re just women with babies who love them and are committed to giving them the best of ourselves in hopes that their life is better for it.

When I was pregnant, the most useful article I read (and I read A LOT of articles) was the one that talked about the ugliness to be expected post delivery in the first six weeks postpartum.  For those of you who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, either let it go if you’re squeamish, or go look it up.  It’s gross.  There’s a lot of blood and gore involved – something I found quite shocking because they never seem to mention that in any of the baby shows.  Weird.

But how is it possible that amongst this endless supply of “information”, that the most informative is that depicting extreme blood loss and bloating?  And why are we, by what seems to be intentional omission, leaving the fathers by the wayside?

Enter the tangent…just a second, I promise.

As I stated above, the list I read mentioned everything from smelling roses to hugs and kisses with the child, to shoes, lollipops, love at first sight, the meaning of breasts, yourself, yourself, yourself…nothing – NOT ONE – about the father.  I wouldn’t have taken such a keen dislike to this if I wasn’t already primed for it, admittedly, but now that dislike has arms and legs and is ready to throw down.  There are so many dynamics regarding the interactions between men and women, and I understand that.  What I don’t understand is the woman who throws aside her man as soon as a baby is born, with little to no justification.  It’s almost akin to the female that flips a crazy the second she gets an engagement ring on her finger – she’s got the wedding in sight and, oh yeah there’s a guy I guess, but there’s a WEDDING OMG!  Likewise, I’ve witnessed both in article form and in those near and dear to me this type of abandonment of these male counterparts.  Excluding the guys who either aren’t in the picture or who are and shouldn’t be, I must admit a part of me gets lit up when come across this.  Again, excluding something deserving such as abuse or neglect or infidelity, I can’t understand the woman who becomes baby obsessed at the cost of her man.  I don’t get it.  I love our child, but as I said above, I choose to love my husband more.  I fail at times – usually due to getting stuck in my own head, rather than any child interference – but I try.  I see a shocking number that don’t, and considering that it’s not just the relationship but the well-being of a child at stake also (single moms are rock stars, but I don’t know any who wouldn’t agree that the ideal is a healthy two-person relational team)…I just don’t get it.

The fact that the divorce rate is such that it is, is becoming less and less of a mystery.

End tangent, I suppose.

Anyway.  Society.  Media.  Blah blah blah.  I guess I just long for the never-going-to-happen when we stop promoting what’s good for ratings and start producing what’s honest and edifying.  I wish the puffy overly saccharine would fade to the background so that young women quit buying into what’s false and older (and by older, I mean over 20 ish) know they’re not alone in the lack lusterness that can be the day-to-day realities of having a child.  Things I learned after having a baby?

No one’s experience should be a measure by which to compare your own.  What works for some people could be that which you smile and nod and ignore for yourself.  The first six weeks postpartum were enough to make me never want to have another child.  It sucked.  A lot.  For me, having a child is incredibly isolating.  It doesn’t matter that you’re dressed up cute.  It also doesn’t matter that it’s the weekend!  Friends disappear.  You discover the good and sometimes extreme bad of your families.  You learn what you’re capable of and usually it’s more than you thought.  You learn to love someone for more than what they can offer you.

I’ve also learned that our story is somewhat in the minority.  Not all unplanned pregnancies carry with them the completely undeserved blessing of a stable and happy marriage that I am humbled to call home.

Oh, world.  Slow down.  I really don’t want to have to punch anyone in the face.  First of all, I’m actually mostly nonviolent, but I can also get deported and that’s just no good.  I know it’s too much to hope that the media will tone it down, but could we maybe get out of line to buy into it?

 

The Blog That Reeks Of Humanity

On several occasions, I’ve given a disclaimer at the beginning of a blog.  Some warn that what follows will be an overshare, or that there’s a chance of strong language, or that I know sense will no be made follows in what, or that the subject matter may be such a bummer that the reader be advised to remove all sharp objects or strong drugs from immediate reach, or the latest previous disclaimer that I know what I going to write be wrote bad.  Like woah.

Today, it’s a disclaimer that what follows is likely to be overly honest, overly personal, and probably not too uplifting.  That said…

I’ve held off on writing anything that means anything for a while because to be perfectly candid, life hasn’t been so great.  I realize that in the wake of the Haiti Earthquake, my problems really are quite pitiful compared to the gravity of their situation.  Still.  Being able to see that someone is struggling in ways that I can’t even comprehend doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.  Knowing that the hurt and devastation they are going through certainly far trumps my own, doesn’t make mine cease to be.  With few other outlets, this is the one I usually turn to when things go pear shaped.  I’ve avoided writing because things have been messed up under the surface, even when the surface has appeared happy.  I’ve avoided writing because I’m afraid of talking about being happy and having it taken away.  I’ve avoided writing because my pride exists and this need to appear put together and polished still exists too.  Today, I’m writing because regardless of the surface or whats underneath, or happiness, or pride, or needs, or whatever – I’ve always valued honesty above all things.  So, in all honesty, here it is. 

I’ve been in an odd limbo with the guy I’m currently with since we officially broke up back in September.  We were really only apart for a week, then were together occasionally, did REALLY badly during October and when I left for my trip to Minnesota that same month I sincerely thought I wouldn’t talk to him again.  He went on his own trip to South Carolina the day I returned from mine…and when he got back…things were different.  Things were awesome.  In truth, they’ve been awesome ever since.  There’s been moments of hurt and frustration, but for the most part – he’s been amazing.  All that said, we haven’t officially been back “together” since the original break.  We’ve been heading in that direction, but haven’t put a title on it for one reason or another…reasons on both my side and his. 

That’s a brief (and incredibly edited and abridged) overview of Us.  Now flash back a few years and we’re back to a younger, dumber me.  This topic is probably going to seem a bit from left field, but it’ll all come full circle and make sense shortly, so bear with me.  Back then when I met a guy and he was spoken for, I didn’t purposely persue him, but I didn’t do anything to prevent it either.  Yes, it bothered me to be in morally questionable and socially unacceptable (though, it breaks my heart to see how near-acceptable these things are becoming) circumstances, but it was usually the result of my over empathizing with some guy’s sob story that got me hooked and then stuck.  I found myself often listening to men talk about how unhappy they were in their relationships and how they weren’t appreciated, and were nagged, and didn’t love the girl they were with, and this and that and whatever, and each time I saw something redeeming in one of them, I automatically looked down on the supposedly at-fault-female and sided with the guy.  On two occasions, this sort of misguided affection led to relationships with men who I had no right to call my own.  One was married.  One was not.  I was clearly at fault along with them, and there are no words adequate enough to express my remorse and sorrow over the pain I know I caused all involved. 

At the time, once I woke up and saw the guy for the selfish douche he really was, I was out and done with contact.  When I heard that the women stayed with or went back to these guys, I looked down on them and often saw them as fools for staying with men who didn’t value them enough to stay faithful.  Like I said…one was married and had no excuse.  The other, he pursued me while in the relationship and then things reached their height when he and the girl were “on a break”.  Both, I left.  Both women I resented for their attitude towards me, feeling that their anger should have been aimed more at the asshats that put them through hell in the first place.  And both men I was bitter at for “getting away with it” and seeming to still win in the overall picture. 

Over two years ago for one, and a year and three months later for the other…and my feelings are rather different – because now I get to be one of those women. 

Ever since I walked away from that sort of stupidity, I’ve feared for any relationship I may enter in the future.  I’ve felt like karma (because “you reap what you sow” is more wordy, not because I actually believe in “karma”) was lying in wait to kick me in the ass.  Do I deserve it?  To some extent, probably.  Did I expect it?  Yep.  But did I think better of this guy and hope he wasn’t just like them…yeah.  I did.  As it turns out, I’m the girl who’s guy went gallivanting while we were technically broken up.  Of course, he had the right to do whatever he wanted – of that I’m not arguing.  That doesn’t change the fact that this feels shitty.  It also doesn’t change the fact that he lied about it…and that’s the big issue. 

A friend of mine told me about his actions, and as a result I felt it necessary to have a conversation about it and right the heck now.  That was Monday.  We talked about it.  We talked about us.  In the end, we finished the conversation as something we haven’t officially been since September – Us. 

Yes, I’m that girl that still stays with the guy.  Whether it’s misguided or foolish or not, it is what it is.  If the last few months of awesome hadn’t happened, there’s no way in hell I’d have stayed.  I hate that it took going through the same thing to understand her – but the girl I looked down on – I get it.  I understand not wanting to give someone up simply because they proved to be human.  I understand loving someone enough to forgive (even when the wrong really wasn’t directed at you) and move forward.  I understand the kind of love that looks at the good in someone and sees it as worth holding out for.  Girl I met once who understandably hated me – I get it. 

So here we are, full circle.  I’m in an odd place with this, really, and it shifts from hour to hour.  I know I’m quieter.  I know a large part of me is sad.  It’s another part of humanity that I hoped was less consistent across the spectrum of men and women.  The neat thing about this is something that I know few will understand…and that’s simply understanding.  Seeing another facet of life, going through something that grows and changes you as a person, and something that has completely lifted any lingering (of which there was little, really, but knowing what it was at the time…) animosity towards those people from my past…I’m almost glad.  I’m not glad for what he did, but I’m glad for the timing of finding out.  If I had known immediately, then I’m quite certain he would no longer be in my life.  If I had found out even a month or two ago…probably the same thing.  Now, in this time, with everything as it is – it’s different. 

Sometime it takes horrible things in life to understand the people around us – to understand life.  And sometimes it takes horrible things to realize another level of love – the kind that lets go of the past, and embraces the future.  I don’t know what tomorrow looks like, and a part of me is scared.  God is still God.  We’re still here.  And somehow, things won’t always feel this way.

The Blog With Sandra B

“I think most of us are raised with preconceived notions of the choices we’re supposed to make. We waste so much time making decisions based on someone else’s idea of our happiness, what will make you a good citizen or a good wife or daughter or actress. Nobody says, ‘Just be happy, go be a cobbler or go live with goats.’” – Sandra Bullock

I’ve been trying to narrow down the pool of potential thoughts to expand upon to something less than excessive for a while now.  I stumbled upon this quote a moment ago and felt it pretty much summed up the common denominator of most of my thoughts lately.  No, I haven’t been thinking “Gosh, my parents raised me with preconceived notions”.

I was raised by God fearing, honest, conservative, and overall idyllic parents.  I was disciplined, not spoiled, taught manners and morality and grew up loving both them and the God they served with every waking (and probably sleeping) moment.  My parents were supportive and understanding without being pushovers.  I’m well aware that I wasn’t the easiest teenager to deal with, but still they did nothing but love.  That said, they did manage to do what I think all parents do – they pre-programmed me with a set of ideals and expectations that life as of this moment has not lived up to.

When I was sixteen, I thought I’d be married by 22, 23 at the latest and have kids by 25.  I figured I’d be with one man, one perfect catch who my parents would love and my closest friends would envy.  I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about careers or anything silly like that because I’d stay at home with the family and love every moment of every Pleasantville day.  There’d be God, love, family, and nothing to regret because I couldn’t even imagine doing anything that was morally corrupt or socially unacceptable.

Then I did.  Both.

And then I did again.

And what happened was eight years of self-flogging because I hadn’t lived up to a reality that didn’t even exist except in my mind.  Was it really something I expect of myself because that’s who I was, or was it something my family and my surroundings dictated that I want and have?  At 25, relatively single (in the sense of not being married), and childless (which, at this point is unquestionably a good thing) I feel with every engagement announcement and baby shower an overwhelming sense of sadness.  Maybe it’s me, or maybe it’s the software, but I am finding one thing for sure – I’m not alone.

It seems to me that anyone in my generation who once desired these things and who hasn’t accomplished them by their mid to late twenties does something that we used to only expect from the older, divorced, and balding crowd.  We fracture.  We crack.  We break down ever so slightly and watch in helpless wonder as that which we once held dear in hopes passes by unrealized with each turn of the calendar year.  We have a mid-twenties crisis.  How sad, really, that this sort of expectation should even exist as anything more than a “that’d be nice”, but when raised in a Biblical family with parents who were united at 20 and are still married 31 years later and counting – it’s a hard expectation to not live up to, and still not feel inadequate for doing so.

For me, this realization has come in seasons.  There’s been the supremely unattractive “I’m not married OMG WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!” phase.  There was the “God, why do you hate me?” phase which was quickly followed by the “I hate you God” phase.  The oh-so-glorious “I’m going to hang onto this guy no matter what even though I know it’s wrong and he’s a liar and untrustworthy and I don’t respect him and can’t imagine us together for one second are you kidding me but he loves me so it’s ok, right?” moment that lasted a few months more than a moment technically, but who’s counting.  And of course, each of these were bookended with either the rational side of me saying “Get over it” or the rebellious side of me saying “Fuck it” but either side being completely unsatisfied with whatever state of single or taken I happened to be in.

Getting to the point where men truely did not matter, and a life with myself and God was just fine with me was a scary point indeed as it was so damn unfamiliar.  Once achieved, it was short lived in its original incarnation, and metamorhpasized to something far more frightening but we don’t need to get into that at the moment.  The point isn’t my own personal wrestle with the subject of men and relationships (so incredibly sick of that word, by the way).  It’s more about the beautiful awfulness that is growing up to a life unscripted.

Whether it’s finding that counterpoint in another person, or scaling the walls of fame, or being a CEO by 30, we all grew up with something of an idol in ourselves.  There’s that illusive Grown Up person that we all picture and then one day turn around to find staring us in the face.  Sometimes we recognize it and, as in my case, sometimes we don’t.  The person staring back at me may hold my mother’s smile, my father’s eyes, and the blood, sweat and tears of love poured out by both upon every particle of my being – but she’s not what I thought she’d be.  Her life isn’t the one I dreamed up, and I’m sometimes unsure if it’s the one God dreamed up either.

Setting aside a preconcieved notion is difficult, but looking back on the years that were, I’m not so sure it’s a bad idea.  Clinging so desperatedly to an idea that simply isn’t means living somewhere other than now.  Now is what we’re given.  Who knows what not yet could hold.  Sounds epic and cliche, but maybe there’s some truth to it.  Still, leaving it there sends my mind into a tail spin – still searching for answers, always looking for a bottom line, and ceaselessly seeking something of a certainty to rest within.

I’m not sure where the story goes from here and I lack anything that doesn’t sound pretentious, however unintentional, to throw in here at the finale of this post.  How about another quote.

“Growing up is never easy.  You hold on to things that were.  You wonder what’s to come.  But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be.  Other days.  New days.  Days to come.  The thing is, we didn’t have to hate each other for getting older.  We just had to forgive ourselves…for growing up.”

The Blog About Rocks

Last night was a rather nerve wracking experience for me.  It was one of those moments where I sat there (well, lay there is far more appropriate…but ironically that makes it sound inappropriate.  It wasn’t.) fidgeting and finding crass remarks to add to just about anything to pass the achingly painful moments of silence that passed while my company completed the task at hand.  As we lay there together (appropriately), I’d flit from one thing to the next in random spurts of speaking, while making the mouse on the computer screen bounce spastically around for no apparent reason – other than occasionally moving the visible portion of the Firefox window down to reveal new material.  I continued this nonsense until he put one hand over mine and said “STOP!  Every time you do that, my ADD kicks in and I have to watch the mouse have a seizure and then I lose my place!”

 

I was letting him read my Blog.  More specifically, I was letting him read the Blogs about HIM. 

 

I say “Let”, and I’m immediately aware of how obviously strange that word usage is.  This Blog is clearly open for the world to see.  If he felt so inclined, he could look at it whenever he’s able and peruse the mind of yours truly without my self-conscious antics to divert his attention.  Why, then, do I turn into a four-year-old when he’s viewing something which random strangers are given unspoken and unquestioning permission (Hello, random readers) to read? 

 

I suppose it’s for the same reason we still have yet to define the relationship.  It’s that moment where you made a very crucial and potentially risky decision: do you fold or do you show your cards and let the chips land where they may?  It’s that moment where you find out who’s been bluffing, who’s been hiding the winning hand, or whatever other card-related metaphor which could apply to two people having a “let’s cut the bull shit” interaction.  For me, showing him my mind laid bare on the subject of him was one of those moments.  Granted, it wasn’t up to the moment bare, as the entry in question was written over a month ago.  Since then, things have changed.

 

A lot has changed, actually.  I looked back at the entries from last year when I mentioned the inevitable end to our relationship.  At the time, I felt like writing it may make it more of a reality that I could follow through on.  As it turns out, time hasn’t really proven faithful to my predisposed assumptions.  Someone I thought I could discard if forced to by rules and whatnot is now someone I have no desire to part with.  Someone who I thought I wouldn’t let myself get attached to is now one who’s company I find comfort in, and whose friendship I trust more and more as the days go by.   I have no presumptions for the future, on either end of the spectrum.  I stopped assuming the fate of just about anything relationship related a little while ago, and taking things as they come is far more exciting than living a secondary life of imagined future bliss in the confines of my head. 

 

Being vulnerable is something I have never enjoyed.  Learning to live and love as such – well, that’s proving to have far more enjoyable dividends than living life as a rock.  A really polished and shiny rock, but at the end of the day a rock is a rock – and no one wants to snuggle a rock.  Do they? 

 

The Blog About Last Night

Last night I went to a Post Holiday Party with B at TAPS in Brea.  A trivial fact of the restaurant industry is that Holiday Parties are seldom during the holidays…it’s the busiest time of the year and hardly a good idea to take an evening out from making money to hang out at the restaurants (further) expense.  I got to play the part of the hot date, something I rather enjoy, and over all it was a pretty fun night.  Dinner, dancing, drinks, and mingling with people from his work.  I used to work at the sister restaurant to TAPS (The Catch, formerly located in Anaheim across from Angel Stadium) so there were a few familiar faces for me also.  Somewhere near the end of the evening is when things took a turn.  Not necessarily for the worse, but certainly a turn.

One thing about our relationship is that it is made one only by actions, and not by distinguished title.  That may sound odd and/or confusing.  We’ve never had the DTR, or Define The Relationship, discussion.  If you’ve read my previous posts, I think I mentioned that we met years and years ago, and things have gradually progressed to what they are now.  Since things are as such, we haven’t ever declared each other to be significant others – though, in reality, we are likely more significant that either has admitted up until now.  I’m not sure how the conversation started and especially how it got to the point it did, but we ended up having a Cut The Bull Shit conversation which was far more honest and meaningful than the majority of ours prior.

I must have been aprehensive about saying something or other, and he said to me “…Yeah, lets cut the bull shit.  What do you want?”.  This was a direct and very well aimed shot right to the heart of the issue.  My reply: “I don’t want to fall for something I can’t have, but I think I already have”.

“Well, then we’re in the same boat.”

The first verbal admission of affection more than fleeting.  One thing about him, and a recent facet of me, is that we don’t really talk about emotions.  We don’t talk about how we feel about each other or the relationship.  We plan for the future in terms of “What are we doing this weekend”, not, “What will we name our kids?”.  It’s probably the most healthy relationship I can remember being in since I was 19.  I’m used to overly emotional, overshare-friendly, and fall-too-quickly relationships that skip past the reality of knowing someone and right into the fantasy of a life that doesn’t exist.  He’s someone I had on a pedestal at 14, who I had the biggest crush on EVER at 18, and who I first kissed at 22.  Quite a build up to where we are, really.  Three months-ish down the line (nope.  We don’t really have a date to reference for whatever we are) ours could potentially be a neat “Story”.  Could.  As in, also could NOT.  The snag in this little tryst?

We don’t have the same faith, and neither of us is willing to part with our belief system.  Whereas his belief system (which is based on the idea that all religion is the same thing) does not dictate who he should and should not ultimately be with, mine does.  I’ve been raised in a Christian household with the term “unequally yolked” hung over my potential suitors as a final judge and jury.  Obviously, I was aware of this difference at the start.  All I can put this lapse in consideration down to is my own lack of expectations when it came to how he would ultimately feel about me.  When you have someone on a pedestal, and whatever single or taken status the two of you have which prevents anything from materializing finally aligns and you’re both single and interested…the reality of being with that person who you idealized for so long is like dating a celebrity whose movies you’ve seen and who’s iconic persona is one you never would have dreamed would be one to call your own.  A really long sentence to say…the reality of being with him wasn’t something I expected.  It caught me off guard, and now months down the line, I find myself conflicted.  Apparently my struggle wasn’t so hidden from him.  He said something to me which echoed someone from the past and though it may not be so meaningful to anyone else, to me it was a moment which made me catch my breath.

“You’re eyes say so much, even when you don’t say a word”

This exact sentence was said to me when I was 16 by a man who knew me better than just about anyone.  He was someone so very precious and who had a huge role in my life back then.  To hear it out of this one did something to me which I know can’t make sense to anyone else.  It’s not even that profound of a statement, I know.  It was, however, a blatant admission that I wasn’t just some random chick to him.  I wasn’t just someone he sat with during movies, or whose hand he held in public.  I was someone, to him.  I AM someone to him.

What’s interesting about last night was that he attacked a reality which I didn’t expect to be called out on.  I’ve behaved in several fashions in various relationships – everywhere from completely open and available, to walled up and callous.  Both of us are guilty of being guarded in this relationship.  Him, because he knows where I stand on Religion (I HATE that word) and what that ultimately will mean for he an I.  Me, because I don’t trust so easily and am terrified of a repeat of segments of the last 5 years of my life.  The conversation didn’t have a conclusion.  He walked me to my car and we sat there talking for a while.  He doesn’t express his thoughts in a “don’t leave me, I can’t lose you” sort of way, which is something I appreciate.  I can’t respect someone who begs to be held onto when the other isn’t willing.  Why would you persist being with someone who doesn’t want to be with you?  That makes no sense.  Thing is…that’s not the case here.  When it comes to guys that I would want to be with, he’s there.  I can’t fault him in any way except the Faith thing.  Coming from a background where “Christian” guys have been the sole source for everything (discounting nothing) heinous that has been done to me – and the list is ridiculous – I find it hard to discount someone who is amazing simply because of his lack of Faith.  This is where his argument lies.  He can’t understand why I would let someone who genuinely cares about me and who is a honest to God good guy go, in exchange for someone who is less of a good guy, but who claims God.

Part of me doesn’t get it either.

I don’t have an answer as of this moment.  Well, on some levels I do.  In addition, I have parents who like him but don’t approve of a relationship.  I have friends who love him, but who can’t support it either.  And then I have me.  Me, who doesn’t quite know what to think, though I’m told I have no option anyway.

Just as the conversation went, I don’t have a neat conclusion for this either.