So, I will.

Most of my life, I have been very successful at avoiding those things I am not good at doing, such as playing basketball or studying foreign languages. In the wonderful world of dating, however, when it comes to expending my energies into useless, failing and sub-par relationships, I cannot seem to get enough. The truth - my truth, my avoidance of the wrong thing - is suffocated by such a heavy blanket of dishonesty. And for what purpose?

Driving home from my rained-out tennis game last night, I received an unexpected correspondence from one of the few men who has ever measured up. We spent an hour, catching up on the previous months of silence and I listened intently as he talked about the month-long Alaskan fishing excursion he is planning, the band he is managing, the art he is having commissioned for his home. We traded words about living and I explained how my anxiety problems have greatly improved since I recently discovered I don't need to rely on anyone.

He told me that after eight years, I am still the only person he can write about and I begrudgingly admitted the same. I read him the lyrics of a song I wrote last week -- each line a metaphor for what we once were -- and we both laughed.

He was right when he said that every man I've involved myself with since him has made him look bad for having dated me previously, as if I'm not worth better or my standards are so appallingly low that one might assume he has a place among those people. I do not know why I don't love him; he is everything I want.

Perhaps it's because there is a sad, commitment-terrified part of me that needs to be the stronger, better, more interesting one of a pair in order to attain some semblance of control and independence. I have made a habit of sinking to the level of the company I often keep to attain one such position, and in this dumbing-down process, I forget who I really am. The needy, desperate, gender-role-obsessed woman in me eventually shows through as I drag each and every unnecessary relationship into its grave; and when I resurface alone, 6-12 months later, I am continually perplexed that this man who wasn't good enough in the beginning isn't good enough in the end. I find myself so angry that a quality I regard above all others - consistency - was one he maintained.


Nothing has ever compelled me to move like a command beginning with, "so," and ending with an action verb. "So, change," my father once said after a long, exhausting conversation concerning my seeming inability to get things right. And I did. "So, paint," my professors said when I expressed frustrations for other mediums. I did that, too; and I still do. "So, let me go," a boy said when I finally determined I was forcing something. I did, and I didn't look back.


Two weeks into therapy and my therapist dismissed me, saying I do not really need weekly sessions. I think I expected some magical formula as a solution to my problems, like a therapist could fix all the things I was unwilling to change. We talked about my lack of honesty - both with myself and other people - how this is a pattern throughout my entire life, sprinkled with perpetual cheating and consistent resentment toward others for decisions I allowed them to make on my behalf.


She told me I needed to practice behaviors of honesty in my life, like speaking my mind and listening to my instincts. I subtly pestered her for ten minutes, begging for tips on how to achieve such practices and making claims I couldn't do it on my own; but I knew there were no secret actions other than just doing it and with raised eyebrows, she peered into the sloppiest parts of my exposed, soggy soul and silently said, "so...do it."

In the end, it really is that simple. And, so, I will.