The Curse of the Swan

This blog is supposed to accurately reflect me, and since I assume that nobody is reading it, I might as well attempt to be as candid as possible.

Look, there's just no way you can really understand me unless you know about the Swan.

"The Swan" is ... well, a reasonable person would say that the Swan is a girl I have an unreasonable obsession with. And a reasonable person might very well be right.

Fortunately, I happen to be hyper-analytical (I'm the son of an engineer), and I recognize unreason when I see it, even in myself. The problem is that it's, well, in myself. Like my depression, I can't reason myself out of it. It exists and I have to deal with it.

Being a hyper-analytical person, though, does mean that I deal with it better than most folks — well, I "deal with it better" in the sense that I am better able to conform my outward behavior to societal expectations. I can coolly and calmly step back and imagine how things would appear to a disinterested person. True, I do have a certain tendency to undertake bold or startling actions, but they're always preceded by a sober reflection about the costs and possible outcomes. I take Patton's counsel: "Act boldly. That is quite different from being rash."

I also like to think I have a bit of character and old-fashioned morality. At any rate, the point is, I'm a controlled, self-disciplined person, and there is no danger that I will be driven into madness or menace by my damnable, damnable Judas of a heart.

At the same time, I need an outlet for these things. I cannot keep them sealed inside me, known only to myself. For whatever reason — vanity, self-aggrandizement, pathetic self-pity — I am driven to communicate my pain to others. Writing is a way for me to do that, a sort of therapy. The best way I can explain it is: I get lonely here inside my own head. I need to share it with other people.

I realize that "sharing" via an anonymous blog that I make no attempt to publicize is rather abstract. This is functionally no different than a private diary. Yet for some reason, I find it impossible to keep a private diary, because writing — oh, how did John Cheever put it? Let me look it up. Okay. He said: "I can't write without a reader. It's precisely like a kiss — you can't do it alone." That describes me exactly. I need at least a theoretical "reader," or I can't write. Writing done for myself, privately, doesn't seem real to me, partly because I always wonder if I'm lying to myself — and yes, like most intellectual types, I have a quite fearsome ability to lie to myself. At least if I lie to a reader, I can keep the lies more or less straight in my head. If I lie to you, maybe you won't know the truth — but I will, and for a person who at least strives to be as good and honest as my crooked timber will allow, that's the important part.

But back to the Swan.

The Swan — I'm not going to use anybody's real name here — is a girl I've known for many, many years, and I am very infatuated with her, perhaps to a fatal degree. There is no really good reason for me to feel so strongly about her, but I do. If she were to call me right this second and beckon me to come see her, I would do so. I would drop whatever else I was doing and go to her. Hell, I'd even take her over my dog, and my dog has probably done more for me with her love and affection than any human woman could ever do, even to the end of time.

I really, really, really shouldn't like this woman. She's actually done a lot of damage to me — well, she personally hasn't done it. It's the crazed, confused emotions she summons up in me that have taken a wrecking ball to everything. And make no mistake: Wrecking ball is the right word. The massive damage it's done to my self-esteem, to my relationships, and even my physical health has been incalculable. Really, I ought to hate her forever.

Ah, but I do love her, intensely. Now, I could wax lyrical here and recite a bunch of romantic bullshit about why that is. And none of it would be a lie or an exaggeration. Every jot of it would be the clear and untaught truth.

But ... ehhh. I know I said I'd be candid on here, but that is a door I am not going to unlock. That's another consequence of her, by the way. I nourish a chilly mistrust of my softer emotions. I've built a wall of self-analytical objectivity around them, and it is heavily patrolled and fiercely guarded. The bulls in the watchtowers have standing orders to shoot escaping poetry on sight.

In short, it's a curse. You know the film "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?" It's about memory, specifically about a process that allows people to wipe out any trace of painful memories from their minds. It's supposed to be sad and tragic, right? And yeah, it's a bit of a tearjerker, but you know what? Every time I see that movie, I wish I could do that. I want the Swan scrubbed clean from my mind forever, to the point I would not recognize her face if she were standing in front of me. That's what my head wants, anyway. My beastly, selfish heart desires her still and won't stop.