I can’t wrap my mind around people caring that much about me. ~America Ferrera
I don’t feel lovable. It has been that way for as long as I can remember. I would prefer to think it is because others lack the fortitude to love a person as complicated as the twisted canyons one must navigate to discover the hidden puzzle segments to gather and piece together to gain an understanding of who I am at the core, the David essence, the essential David.
Hidden by who? By me. I once believed I was an open book, believed until an eight-month intimacy ended when I was told she didn’t know much about me other than a superficial layer no thicker than a potato chip. Unlike the chip, my layer was difficult, to her impossible, to crack. My open book belief that my pages were boldly typed and readily available was shut.
Belief? Delusion? What is reality?
Do I push people away because I’m unlovable and fear inevitable loss or am I unlovable so they cut their losses and escape when they realize their investment is fruitless, a drain on their own happiness? This leads to another question. If it is true that I am unlovable is the implication I don’t or can’t love myself?
It seems even I must trudge through countless dead end labyrinths to discover my hidden David. So far, I have fought through three thousand blog posts and uncountable journal entries only to puzzle together enough of the picture to realize I am still an enigma to myself, an enigma dreaming of traveling (escaping?) the intimate world by making superficial human connections in other countries, escaping before the inhabitants realize I am unlovable and reject my sorry existence.