Manifesto (or) Man - ifesto
Hello, Internets.
I have a manifesto for you.
It seems that recently my world has divided into two camps. And no, before you ask, it's not Cylon and Human. It's people who think I should be in a relationship, and... me.
As many of you know, I've been single since August of 2009. I've been happy with my choice. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my friends, my colleagues, my family, or even strangers I meet on the street. Everyone is amazed, befuddled, concerned - even downright belligerent - about the fact that I'm not dating anyone.
I've tried shouting directly at people about my choice to be alone, but since that doesn't seem to be effective, and Valentine's Day is just around the corner, I thought I'd try shouting into the ether about it.
When it comes right down to it, I suppose the best way to summarize it is in a conversation I have never had with myself. Here is a transcript:
A Conversation I Have Never Had With Myself
Me: I really like this person, both personally and romantically.
Me too: Yes.
Me: I like them more than I like being by myself.
Me too: Yes.
Me: We are sexually, socially, and spiritually compatible.
Me too: You bet we are!
Me: When I am around this person, I feel comfortable and at-ease.
Me too: Yes! It's wonderful.
Me: There aren't any points when I become so tired of this person that I want to be totally away from them - both now, and quite possibly, forever.
Me too: Nope. I am comfortable spending the rest of my life with this person.
Me: Or even just six months?
Me too: Yes! Even just six months.
Hear that? That's the conversation I've never had.
Now I know that many of you who have known me for a long time are protesting - "but you've dated people for far longer than six months!"
And yes, it's true, I have. I've kept boyfriends longer than seven-year-olds keep hamsters. But what made those relationships continue - however nonfunctional they became - was the element of friendship that they contained. Friendship is something I can understand and succeed at. Friendship is something I have, in fact, succeeded at, for any number of years. Relationships? Not so much. Never so much. And recently, the thought of intimacy, whenever it descends from mere speculation into the realms of the possible, makes my palms sweat and my head ache.
I was recently re-reading some of old essays and journal entries, and I came across a paragraph that I think may help explain this trait. Here it is:
Part of being like Hal* - of being like me, I guess, for lack of a better descriptor - is learning to look outside the self. To find ways to self-abnegate and self-erase that aren't permanent, that aren't destructive. To run until the brain turns into a pound and a half of gray useless neural jell-o. To write until words are the only focus, the sound of crisp alliteration and the twining of parallel sentences an end and focus all their own. To read, to create. To hide from the self - and, in a process bleak but seemingly necessary for social functioning, to hide the self from others. The analytical self - the relentless self - this is the self you have to, have to shut up. You have to shut it up on dates, out to dinner, in the grocery line. You have to shut it up on the train and you certainly need to keep it quiet and in-line when you're out for coffee with recent acquaintances. This is the ravening zombie madness of the analytical mind - always-active, never-sleeping. The anti-Zen.
By twenty-four, I'd like to think that I have a pretty good handle on strangling the little bastard. That when I tell people I live alone, because living with myself is a full-time job, the wry little grin that accompanies that statement isn't too pained.
*Hal Incandenza, neurotic hero of David Foster Wallace's groundbreaking novel Infinite Jest.
I don't mean for this to be depressing. I like being who I am. I am proud of the journey I have taken to become that person. That person is someone I value, someone I respect, someone I appreciate. On a daily basis.
But as I go about the care and feeding of my crazed inner life, I have never, not once, found a niche where I could put someone and have them permanently fit. And what I have experienced of my life with other people tells me this: while such a niche can be made - while I can force someone into the most intimate recesses of my life, and try to keep them there - it cannot be made to last.
And until I find a person who fits there, it is easier to leave it empty, to admire its emptiness, to savor the stillness of the negative space that is not having a romantic partner in my life. This is what I choose.
Am I lonely? Sure, occasionally. Do I miss cuddling, or dates, or romantical-type bedroom evenings? Do I look at pair-bonded friends with envy? Sure, from time to time.
But those times are so few compared to the times when I go home and and shout to my empty walls, dance in my empty shower, sprawl in my empty bed.
There are unfilled niches in my life. That's the way it is. Sometimes, a person just needs the space.
I have a manifesto for you.
It seems that recently my world has divided into two camps. And no, before you ask, it's not Cylon and Human. It's people who think I should be in a relationship, and... me.
As many of you know, I've been single since August of 2009. I've been happy with my choice. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for my friends, my colleagues, my family, or even strangers I meet on the street. Everyone is amazed, befuddled, concerned - even downright belligerent - about the fact that I'm not dating anyone.
I've tried shouting directly at people about my choice to be alone, but since that doesn't seem to be effective, and Valentine's Day is just around the corner, I thought I'd try shouting into the ether about it.
When it comes right down to it, I suppose the best way to summarize it is in a conversation I have never had with myself. Here is a transcript:
A Conversation I Have Never Had With Myself
Me: I really like this person, both personally and romantically.
Me too: Yes.
Me: I like them more than I like being by myself.
Me too: Yes.
Me: We are sexually, socially, and spiritually compatible.
Me too: You bet we are!
Me: When I am around this person, I feel comfortable and at-ease.
Me too: Yes! It's wonderful.
Me: There aren't any points when I become so tired of this person that I want to be totally away from them - both now, and quite possibly, forever.
Me too: Nope. I am comfortable spending the rest of my life with this person.
Me: Or even just six months?
Me too: Yes! Even just six months.
Hear that? That's the conversation I've never had.
Now I know that many of you who have known me for a long time are protesting - "but you've dated people for far longer than six months!"
And yes, it's true, I have. I've kept boyfriends longer than seven-year-olds keep hamsters. But what made those relationships continue - however nonfunctional they became - was the element of friendship that they contained. Friendship is something I can understand and succeed at. Friendship is something I have, in fact, succeeded at, for any number of years. Relationships? Not so much. Never so much. And recently, the thought of intimacy, whenever it descends from mere speculation into the realms of the possible, makes my palms sweat and my head ache.
I was recently re-reading some of old essays and journal entries, and I came across a paragraph that I think may help explain this trait. Here it is:
Part of being like Hal* - of being like me, I guess, for lack of a better descriptor - is learning to look outside the self. To find ways to self-abnegate and self-erase that aren't permanent, that aren't destructive. To run until the brain turns into a pound and a half of gray useless neural jell-o. To write until words are the only focus, the sound of crisp alliteration and the twining of parallel sentences an end and focus all their own. To read, to create. To hide from the self - and, in a process bleak but seemingly necessary for social functioning, to hide the self from others. The analytical self - the relentless self - this is the self you have to, have to shut up. You have to shut it up on dates, out to dinner, in the grocery line. You have to shut it up on the train and you certainly need to keep it quiet and in-line when you're out for coffee with recent acquaintances. This is the ravening zombie madness of the analytical mind - always-active, never-sleeping. The anti-Zen.
By twenty-four, I'd like to think that I have a pretty good handle on strangling the little bastard. That when I tell people I live alone, because living with myself is a full-time job, the wry little grin that accompanies that statement isn't too pained.
*Hal Incandenza, neurotic hero of David Foster Wallace's groundbreaking novel Infinite Jest.
I don't mean for this to be depressing. I like being who I am. I am proud of the journey I have taken to become that person. That person is someone I value, someone I respect, someone I appreciate. On a daily basis.
But as I go about the care and feeding of my crazed inner life, I have never, not once, found a niche where I could put someone and have them permanently fit. And what I have experienced of my life with other people tells me this: while such a niche can be made - while I can force someone into the most intimate recesses of my life, and try to keep them there - it cannot be made to last.
And until I find a person who fits there, it is easier to leave it empty, to admire its emptiness, to savor the stillness of the negative space that is not having a romantic partner in my life. This is what I choose.
Am I lonely? Sure, occasionally. Do I miss cuddling, or dates, or romantical-type bedroom evenings? Do I look at pair-bonded friends with envy? Sure, from time to time.
But those times are so few compared to the times when I go home and and shout to my empty walls, dance in my empty shower, sprawl in my empty bed.
There are unfilled niches in my life. That's the way it is. Sometimes, a person just needs the space.