on success and men

 

This isn't really about success, but this is the antidote to my last post, "on failure and men".  And "successful" was a word used to describe me - by a man - not too long ago.  So let's go with it.

I previously removed, and then recently republished, my last post.  I am aware that it is very negative - against myself, and against men.  But weren't they some clever observations that I made in a clever way?

But today I'm feeling more positive.  And I owe the men an explanation.

Firstly I want to clarify that when I complain about "men", I don't really mean "men"... I don't have a problem with half-the-adult-population.  (I mean sure, as a feminist I do somewhat have a problem with y'all... but that's about power structures and all that horrid stuff.)  When we're talking about PEOPLE, of course I like men.  As family members, colleagues, even as friends.  Some of my favourite people are men don't you know... even some of my greatest champions and wisest counsellors.

What I wanted to quit was of course not a whole section of society, but my own warped attachment to certain members of the group.  By "men"... I mean the humans that I made into sexual-romantic objects.  Which is my doing, not theirs.

Secondly.  Hmmm.  Well first I need to state that I'm still annoyed at all the older women who hear my plea that I have quit men, and dismiss it.  The answer "you'll meet someone" is... infuriating.  I mean, for one thing, you're just ignoring what I am plainly stating that I want.  Which isn't very nice of you.  For another, it does sound a bit like you're siding with the MEN.  Why are you on their side and not mine?!  (Not that it's a battle.  See above.)  But still... aren't we modern feminists who don't need men?  Why do you insist that a man is the answer to my life?

Well... it is because you are romantics.

And so am I.

Yes, ultimately, it is a defence mechanism.  I had vowed off romance because I don't believe it is something that I get to have.

For me finding romantic love is like chasing the end of a rainbow.  There's that rainbow, clear as day, and seemingly so close... and then it vanishes should I ever dare to approach it.

I still don't know anything about anything.  But I wonder if the rainbow could teach me something.  About enjoying beautiful moments while they exist, instead of trying to pin them down.

on failure and men

 

Well, dear reader, I have bad news.  Before the third month of the year had begun, I had already broken my New Year's Resolution... multiple times.  (This is in fact the reason I don't generally make them - most of us mere mortals should be well aware that we can't keep them!)

Against my own strict and clear instructions, I have: messaged specifically forbidden men; looked at others with a hopeful eye; and even been on the verge of (let's pretend anyway, that I was only on the verge of), catching feelings for another (who has of course caught no such feelings for me).

But my experiences have led me back to my resolve.  How sick and tired I am of my emotions, my thoughts, and even my fucking actions, being dictated by men.  By my own desire for men.  By my relentless and hopeless hope that someday, some man, will know me, for everything that I am, and want every single part of me... for his own.

As a child my mother taught me about things men want... words you hear everywhere like "mysterious"... the evocative ideal of a woman who you can see but never fully know, who teases and tests and tricks men into submission.  Wantable women are guarded, wantable women are slow to say yes, wantable women don't fuck around and turn their exploits into a public joke about themselves.

And I was struck by one thought - that if this were even vaguely true, then no man would ever want me.  My mother would have had me (and would still have me) change myself to fit what they want.  But what could be less feminist?  Less true to myself?  And in terms of love - the entire fucking point, surely - less determined to be be a full-blooded, romantic FOOL... who will be loved only for who I am, everything that I am, and everything that I have been and will be?

And yet the men are in agreement with my mother.

So alone it is.

And maybe next time, dear reader, I will have something other than god-damn, fucking MEN to write about.

romantic celibacy

 

I have come to realise that the point of my resolution, and of holding myself to it for at least a year, is to give myself a chance at peace.  A respite.  Not just from the horror that is online dating, but from a lifetime of misguided hopes.

The fact is, I am a romantic.  I have, since as young as I can remember, dreamed of romantic love.  I have longed for it, and in going through life with looking-for-love-tinted spectacles on, I have seen glimpses of its potential in boy after boy after boy.  I only count it as a few times that I have been "in love" (only one of those requited), but crushes, lusts and hopes have been a constant of my existence.

My real life experiences with men have only resulted in disappointment.  My heart is more exhausted than my unfit, middle-aged body; my romantic hopes have been replaced with justified cynicism; even sex has turned from a game, to a base need, to something generally to be avoided.

Reality was always going to disappoint.  For most of my life, the primary occupation of my mind has been to daydream romantic scenarios with my latest object.  I have squandered 42 years in daydreaming, rather than actually achieving anything in life.  And of course, at the same time, no doubt sabotaged relationship possibilities with real life men.

But I don't know that I have ever wanted a real relationship with a real life man.  I have desperately wanted fantasies (and cried my lungs dry when they haven't come true), but I have never particularly desired simple coupledom for the sake of coupledom.

The real reason I get my back up when you tell me I will "meet someone", is self preservation.

YOU mean, that I will almost certainly meet an attractive, decent fellow, who wants to be in an honest, committed relationship with a gal like me.

What my still-beating, still-romantic heart HEARS, is that I will get a real life fairytale.

I need to live in reality.  I am well aware that my stupid heart will surely fall again someday, but I am doing what I can to avoid indulging my over-active imagination.  Hope is a dangerous drug that has hurt me every time; I am going cold turkey.