Revelation Through Selfishness

I think at this point it's safe to say this blog is clearly no longer "tech-centric."

I am not entirely proud of it, but I have been called selfish at various points in my life. However, I think I am in the upper class of selfish people, because unlike the runts below me I recognize this quality in myself whereas everyone else is completely blind to this glaring shortcoming of their personality. Given this last sentence, I must also admit that I have been called arrogant at times as well.

When it does so, my brand of selfishness manifests itself in my dealings with those that are not all that important to me, and is otherwise held in check—to the best of my abilities—vis-à-vis those I truly love and care for. However, despite being called arrogant, I am not delusional enough think myself perfect and therefore will slip on occasion and expose my selfish nature even to those that are near and dear to me. I usually do not mean to be that way, but at times it can be a bit of a reflex action; something I do not realize until after the act has already occurred, the offense made, and the damage done.

This post is about one such recent act of selfishness that I had perpetrated against the one I love most, and my emotionally-draining, -exhausting, -difficult attempt to make amends. By performing the nominal act of repentance, which I describe below, I exposed my rawest of nerves, explored aspects of my character whose nature, when encountered, felt completely foreign and counter to what I knew about myself (or at least thought I knew), but after which my love for this wonderful person that is now the premier source of my happiness and whose happiness is premier, will have become more complete, more deep, and more plentiful. With this act I lifted the self-imposed blindfold I was donning prior to my going through with this experience and was able to accept and gain a deeper understanding of my one, my everything, completely, and without reservation.

With so much preamble (near the point of filibuster) one would think that I must have had to perform some Herculean task as penance for some unforgivable transgression. In reality, the truth—to some—may seem laughable, but to me was anything but.

The crime: Failing to read my girlfriend's blog archives.
The punishment: Reading said archives.

My girl is an incredibly talented writer. Although my opinion may be biased, I know it is shared by hundreds of readers who frequent her blog and leave glowing comments and reviews after every post. I knew of its existence before we started dating. Its archives date back to a pre-us era. A period of time that, for her, consisted of constant highs and lows (but don't take my word for it, go read the archives!). The writing is vivid, clever, imaginative, and just plain spectacular.

In the not-too-distant past my girlfriend, rightly, pointed out the odd fact that I never went back to read all her old blog posts. She—once again rightly—said that had I had a body of work out there somewhere, she would stay up all day and night until she had absorbed every word of it.

I must admit I was rather shocked at myself, because this clearly was a terrible omission on my part. Why wasn't I interested enough to go and read all those posts that had been born out of my love's past experiences, and crafted by her superior literary skill? I really had no answer. All I could offer was a mea culpa and a promise to read them all in the near future. It was just after this promise was made that she warned me that I might run into mentions of previous men in her life as, again, these writings were from a time before we were dating. The comment was innocent enough but it certainly had an effect, and it lodged itself in my brain as I—with zero hesitation—navigated to her blog (this was happening while I was at work) and began randomly clicking on archive links seeking out these mentions that she had warned me about. I cannot say what led me to do this. Some base curiosity, I suppose. Even as a rush of anxiety and panic swept through me, I continued to click. I came up nearly empty-handed, finding only a fleeting mention here and there, but my search was definitely not exhaustive.

Following that day I let sleeping dogs lie and avoided that blog like the plague. I never thought myself so weak and pathetic and yet there I was, cowering, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Days went by and I had forgotten all about it.

As a side note, I am not as completely naïve as I sound. I am fully aware that I was not the first man in my love's life. I have heard her recount—with a fair amount of detail—past almost-relationships and not-almost-heartaches. It was tough to hear, but I dealt with it in a rational and mature manner. Of course there is something inherently different between hearing her tell these stories now that we are together, and reading about them in these flowing, poetic, and tragic descriptions, which were written at a time not-far-removed from the events that they describe, without the aid of filters or omissions to blunt the blow.

No, just the raw...honest...brutal...and emotional truth.

This was my act of selfishness. I was a total coward. Nothing more than an insecure boy unable and unwilling to face the truth. Unable and unwilling to frame it in its proper context, which would have been the rational and mature response. I refused to drown myself in my love's gift, her talent, her ultimate passion. I stayed away, tail securely between knees.

Two days ago, she brought it up again. It was just a passing comment, but it stung my now guilty conscience. After some labored though I finally made the decision to refuse to let myself be ruled by this despicable cowardice, this wretched selfishness.

That same night I began to read. Going all the way back to the beginning—two years before our beginning—and continuing to read post after post. A body of work that spanned weeks, months, and years. It took nearly 2 days for me to consume it all, but consume it all I did.

It was difficult. Throughout, my pulse raced, my heart pounded against the inside of my chest. The ever-present lump in my throat, the gut-wrenching anxiety. I had wished I was a nail-biter. Even while reading the "happy" and "silly" posts I felt these extreme emotions in anticipation of what I might learn in the next story. There was a general feeling of melancholy that draped itself over me as I continued to read. It took me some time to analyze it and find its source. It had to do with the fact that I was reading about this girl who was not quite the girl I know now. The girl back then was different. Not better, not worse, just slightly different. I did not know that girl. She did not know me. We were not in each others' lives. This inherent nature of time and cause and effect made my heart ache as I read on. I do not know that it is entirely normal for me to have felt melancholy as I read about and imagined my love's life without me in it. However, in a way, it is a testament to how completely I haven given myself over to her, and for that I am not ashamed.

For obvious reasons the most difficult passages to read were ones that described her own heart aches. Throughout the entries she wrote there is an underlying longing, a desire to have someone special in her life. Her constant having to say good bye to those that are so special and important to her only add to this running theme. The cavalier ways in which people handled her heart were tough to get over, but my sorrow was infinitesimally smaller to what she must have felt.

It felt like one of those nightmares where the one you love is trapped inside some white room, completely unaware that you are on the outside, screaming and banging away at the sound-proof glass that separates the two of you. You can do nothing but watch as some terrible fate befalls your love. That is how it felt reading those passages.

The writing is so vivid, so lucid, it lifted me up and dropped me inside that room, onto that street. It left me there to stand and shout at the top of my lungs, "It's okay! I'm here! I'm here!" Being just a ghost, a disembodied observer, I had not the means to interfere or intervene. I was a helpless spectator as my love was there feeling the worst of pain.

Many times I had to stop to catch my breath and slow down my heart. I would wander into the kitchen or the living room to seek her out. I just wanted to hold her and to thank whatever force (God, Luck, Entropy) that brought her into my life and me into hers. I did just that, trying not to let her see my eyes well up or show how deeply touched I was by what I had just read. Of course she saw it anyway. She saw it on my face, in my eyes, felt it in my embrace.

With her help I got through it.

Reading those incredibly-written pieces I came away feeling immense pride (not pity). I felt so proud of my love, her incredible talent and her unwavering resilience. I saw that she never let her vulnerabilities become weaknesses. Her incredible wit, her inexhaustible enthusiasm, and her boundless ability shine through in every turn of phrase, and in every sentence crafted to perfection.

As for myself, the experience has taught me that I'm far more insecure than I let myself—or others—believe. I hope that this will teach me not to fear tests of emotional muster. I benefited greatly not only from the insights I have gained into her nature, but also it served as an invaluable introspective.

As I draw this to a close, I realize I do not want to end on a paragraph talking about myself. I really want to make this an homage to the only (last?) sexy lady in my life.

Here's to you.

I love you baby.