I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. ~Haruki Murakami
Beginning with my entrance into the phase of the horny teenager, I’ve spent my life seeking a relationship in which I feel loved enough to be myself without fear of rejection, of not being enough to quench the thirst of my beloved.
This aching desire came long after the horny teen wanted little more than getting into the lace panties of any female with half decent hygiene. Even the drive for sex was predicated upon acceptance that I was worth another human’s emotional investment granting me entry into the sacred, the divine, the pink sacristy.
Penetrating the sacred has been significantly easier than touching the soul which I have glimpsed occasionally, never granted permanent access. It is more elusive than finding a religious zealot willing to invest more in the faith than lip service and an hour on Sunday.
I’m sure…mostly sure…think I should be sure…that I have not been fully accepted because I am a person who is difficult to stomach. A woman absent the constitution of a Billy Goat winds up projectile purging me onto a trash-lined street. And each time I am surprised.
I always thought I was an open book, a person easily bearing my flayed soul to an intimate until a longish relationship ended with the words, “I know almost nothing about you.” And when I meditated on those scorching words, I realized she was right. I know little of myself. If I don’t know myself, how can I expect another to have and hold my heart? The more I plumb my depths the less I seem to know for I find it difficult to determine if the me I’m excavating is the true me or the me I wish I was, a never-ending conundrum.
I am condemned by my own fundamental essence to wander ever seeking to be fully loved, be accepted for who I am. It is my own personal hell.