Every year my family gets together to celebrate the holidays, Christmas and Thanksgiving. And every year they ask someone to say a prayer. This year they asked me. I said no. I was gracious about it, but I said No.
Because how do I say a prayer when it won’t be to their god. How can I say a prayer when it will first be spoken in the language of my prayers then again in their language. How would I explain that we don’t give thanks for what our god gave us but ask what we can do for our god. Not a god of blessings but one of a deeper path. How do I explain an entire lifetime of belief and structure and obligate choices. How do I even this prayer which is orchestrated would be an affront.
I don’t know. Don’t know how to tell them I’m not like them. In how many ways I’m not like them. And even when they grasp my paganism, they think that yule is a good thing, something similar to a celebration instead of a solemn affair.
It’s exhausting to stay quiet. To not broach subjects. To keep quiet on others. And still, there is always more. Lines that can’t be crossed and words that can’t be said.
My god would say, “The work is the work. You have to act before you can know.” And that’s true but how do you tell them that what they presume, even when told repeatedly otherwise, isn’t true.
It’s an odd feeling. To be included but excluded at the same time. To belong to something but not fit into it. There is a pressure and a sadness there.
I know how easy it would be to give in, to shred my self and conform. To lie and mouth their words in petty forgery of faith.
But then who would I be?
When you are feeling particularly shitty and you just can’t stand feeling that way anymore, it feels natural to turn to sex/pleasure or pain. For me it was depression and numbness. I got to the point where feeling something, anything, was better than the numbness I was mired in.
I sunk myself deep in the ministrations of friends of Sara’s. Pain and pleasure became the only thing I wanted. If it hadn’t been for Eric, I would never have come out. I’d still be mired there. He loved me. And while the scene was a part of our relationship, it was the other parts that woke me up. That is something I will always be grateful for.
My family asks at Thanksgiving to write
down what you are thankful for then they share it at Christmas. Well, they don’t know my life. They are SO normal. I just can’t seem to tell them the truth. I’m thankful for Eric. I’m sad that he’s now passed. I have known love, real love, twice in my life. Both times, they saved me. I hope that I did something for them. For Sara, I will always believe I failed her. For Eric, I hope that he was happy in the last years of his life. I know he found love. I hope M knows that he was loved.
I hope that anyone in my life that needs to immerse themselves in pleasure/pain will come to me. I can help. And if, ultimately, talking doesn’t work then I can provide the service Eric did for me. It’s the least I can do for his memory. It’s the least I can do for those I love.
Love is a continuum,
Ranging from as easy as falling to a constant struggle to be understood and accepted. It exists in many forms
All forms requires a leap of faith or an action.
That may be part of my problem. Many of the people I’m interested in want to be friends and then see where it goes. Which is interesting to me because friendship for me is a slow process.
Further, I generally love my friends in an agapic way. So if you don’t want emotional attachment then neither friendship or dating is what is wanted.
What most consider friendship, I consider acquaintance. To me friendship comes with rights and obligations. Acquaintance is no strings. I’ll accept acquaintance from people I work with or share a single activity with.
But for someone interesting? Someone worth getting to know? I cannot understand why anyone would want less than true friendship, complete with agapic love. Why spend the time for less. Take a bloody chance. We are all so cautious with our hearts. We have all been burned. But pain is life. It is necessary for growth. And failing all else, it is experience.
Which is what living is all about. I’m not saying you should accept risks beyond your limits but we all need to have a little more confidence in ourselves and learn what those limits are.
Love, experience, learn, repeat. Life is devastatingly, brutally beautiful.
Risk and chance, chance and risk.
Sometimes it’s as easy as falling, sometimes we must screw up our courage and jump.