(If I make it)

I'm not sure what compelled me to say something after eighteen months of silence, but I said what I meant to an unattentive audience, and I felt nothing after saying it. The day before, I was instructed not to do something as it would be "tacky," only to realize that his version of "tact" is not the same as my own; if I had followed through on the plans I originally had, I might not have felt so screwed. So I sent him a message. I told him that I will never fully heal, but every day I'm trying. I wanted him to know that I wish him well, regardless. I wanted to say, "i fight a battle to forgive you every day of my life. I have to remember that every man is not the enemy - every man is not you - but I am searching the darkest parts of myself to find and extract any ill feelings so that, in the end, I can love you." Love is a never-ending challenge. When someone once told me I was the hardest person in the world to love, I took offense. But now I know it has something to do with how closed I really am. Yesterday, I heard someone say, "if I make it, we make it," as an answer to why he moves forward with his life. He was talking about community - about the effect that loving one person has on the rest of the world. I feel I've done nothing of value recently, and with every day that passes, time is running out. If I build my life on an "I will make it" philosophy without first considering what my presence can do to reward those around me, then I am building a house on sand. I woke up this morning to the pouring rain and there was sand in my sheets. I don't mind the sand but I've been disturbed by my dreams lately. I can't help but note the implication that the sand came from somewhere. I am building this house. My recent decisions are pulling me in a direction that is so opposite of where I'm meant to go, but life is racing by at a pace that causes me to overlook it all. The list has been revised. The goals are simpler now, but more direct. I will, in fact, follow through. Because if I make it, we make it.

Onions.

I like chopping things. It's probably my favorite part of cooking, and it's very important to have sharp knives. The preparation that goes into a creation is, to me, more enjoyable than the finished product. So, when I'm making dinner, I line up several bowls and cutting boards to chop, then separate. I used to help my mom in her kitchen as a kid, and I was far less interested in cooking than I was in washing lettuce and peeling carrots. That, I reasoned, was the really fun part. 

I believe in the thrill of creating something. Every day at work, it's another exciting project and intense deadline; and when I don't have time to eat lunch, I don't care because I am so involved in my creation. It's interesting that I rarely care to see the finished products when they come in for approval and subsequently hit stores. The creative process is designing the product. That, I reason, is the really fun part. 


I usually like planning trips more than taking the actual vacations. I like writing songs that no one will hear. I prefer dating to serious relationships; and I wonder if my zeal for excitement is simply overshadowed by the idea that I might be disappointed in the result of all the prepping. Or perhaps it doesn't matter either way. 


But when he suggested some 'onion' theory, I remembered how I love chopping things - I will chop anything and everything - WITH the exception of onions. A pair of useless corneas and bad allergies make it nearly impossible to for me to get past the first layer without crying my eyes out. So, fearing the next layer, it's easier to avoid onions altogether. This is sad, as they enhance the flavor of most everything. Occasionally, I'll close my eyes tightly and recklessly chop as much as possible before running to the bathroom for some eye drops. It's a disastrous situation, really. I'm so afraid of something so good that I'm willing to sabotage it or lose it completely.


I don't know how to respect the inner layers. 


I talked to one of my most influential friends today, and he told me to consider if I was even ready to be respected. I said I was, but I have to wonder if I'm being honest; if my frail outer shell is one that can be removed without wounding the one who wanted to see inside. 


Lately, I can't seem to take a joke, and my expectations are so unrealistic that I know they will not be met. Although there are so many I'd like to blame for my disposition, I'm the only culprit. 


So. The New Year's Rez. Loving people. Wow. It's tough...particularly when I hate myself this much.