Holding my heart securely inside

I had to drop off my dog at the Dove's house for the weekend. Seeing her always makes me feel incredibly guilty. I wish I could make myself love her the way she loves me, because she deserves so much to be happy. If I could make my own happiness, I would have my passions directed towards the Dove, not the Swan. 

Of course, I could say, well, I'm going to be selfless and put aside my own concerns for the happiness of another. But no. See, I've already been through a marriage. I know what marriage is like. *IF* I ever get married again, I intend to spend the rest of my productive life on this planet putting my family — my wife and hopefully my kids — first, in ever conceivable way. Now, if I am going to take that step — and I would very much like to take that step, because I think it is the only true path to human happiness — I am *DAMN* sure going to be selfish about the person I choose to do it with.

In many ways, I believe my first marriage failed because I wasn't selfish enough — at least at the beginning. You can't be selfish in a marriage if you want it to work, but I see no ethical problem with being as choosy as possible when picking the person to be by your side during the long decades of work and disappointment that characterize even the best marriages. Given the stakes involved, I am quite convinced of the prudence of absolute selfishness on this point.

I intend for my choice of marriage partner to be the last completely and utterly selfish decision I make in my life. After that, I will subsume myself completely to caring for and protecting my family. So if it's my last shot, I will NOT be settling for anything less than the best I could reasonably hope for.

But you know what? I am inclined to blame the Swan for this whole sorry state of affairs. You see, after my divorce, I was a completely broken man. Even as the other things in my life began to improve, I still felt utterly defeated.

Had the Dove come into my life then, she would have been everything I could have hoped for and more. I would spend the rest of my life loving her and treating her like a queen.

But instead, you know who DID come into my life then? The Swan. Again, of course — she'd already torn me up years before, and I'd spent many, many long years trying to heal that wound. And now, instead of the Dove, the Swan was the one who came tearing back into my life — convincing me that I was somebody she genuinely cared for and indeed, loved.

Doing that — giving me that taste, once again, then stealing it away — was the most horrible thing she has ever done. Because it hurt me. Here's how:

First of all, there was the obvious emotional toll of losing her AGAIN. That was very severe, of course. But secondly, somewhere in that mysterious fog that conceals the innerworkings of my mind, she fucking flipped a switch or changed a gear or — something...

The result was that she completely reset my irrational expectations. I had worked hard and long to resolve myself to never having another girl like her — and then she came along and fucked it all up. And now my restless damn soul is once again, desperately hungry for another taste of her — or something very close, at least. Meaning I am stuck once again apparently wanting something I can never, ever have...

Fuck, Swan. I mean, Jesus. I hope the man that ends up with you really fucking appreciates you. I mean he ought to litter the ground in front of your feet with rose petals everywhere you go. Because otherwise, it makes a total mockery of all the suffering I've endured on your behalf.

Are you worth it? I am utterly convinced you are — at least my bastard heart is convinced. Please know that — and please, if you don't take me, don't trade your gifts away for anything less than what I would have given you. I would walk a thousand miles for you; please don't give your heart to any man who wouldn't walk at least two thousand.

Shit. I can't take this. I can't take it, just can't take it. Something will eventually have to give. I am very, very strong, and I've made a commitment here to hold out for a very long time. But eventually, the thing that is going to give will be me and my worthless excuse for a life...

At the casino

Well I'm at the casino. God, I love beautiful women. I wish I knew what you had to do to get one. I'm kind of drowning in female beauty here...all these hot chicks dressed in nightclub outfits.

Sigh. At the same time, it reminds me: I am destined to die alone. I am the loneliest person in the goddamn world. I go out in crowds and I shrink from interacting with people because I am so intimidated, both by the men and the women.

But especially the women, the beautiful, beautiful women. How did a woman like the Swan ever notice I was even alive?

It's not all bad. I won $200 playing slots. I just went up, fed in a $5 bill, pressed a button, and boom: $200 richer. I immediately cashed out and walked away.

Yeah, nice, but I need that kind of luck in real life, not in a casino. I need it with women; I need it with my job. Sigh...maybe tomorrow...

Or maybe never.

Workout log I suppose...

Well, for Friday, the stats were:

60 x 2 crunches, 10 lb weight

30 x 2 pushups

10 x 2 arm curls, 25 lbs.

7 x 2 arm curls, 30 lbs.

4 x 2 arm curls, 35 lbs.

44 minutes on the elliptical machine

It's been a hellish week at work, but luckily the weekend should be good. Going to Miami for the first time, with my Dad. Gonna visit the Hard Rock Casino. It should be fun.

Maybe I'll be able to write more, too...

I'll try to get in workout time while I'm there; we'll see how that works out.

Faith and responsibility...

I like C.S. Lewis and all, but I have to admit, on the subject of suffering, he really could be a bit of an ass. I came across this Lewis quote today:

The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and pose an obstacle to our return to God ... Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.

This reminds me of John Kenneth Galbraith's observation that "the conspicuously wealthy always turn up urging the character-building values of the privation of the poor." You know, fuck off, C.S. Lewis. Seriously, go eat a bag of dicks. I know some Christians are called to a life of suffering, but I burn with an inner conviction that I am not one of those so called. I really can't apologize for the fact that I am made of weak stuff, and if God loves me, He will understand that.

My understanding is that God is not supposed to saddle us with a burden we cannot carry, and if He wants us to perform beyond our capability, He must stand willing to lend a hand. I do not shrink from hardship: "Batter my heart, three-person'd God," as John Donne wrote. But he ended the sonnet thusly:

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

They call our relationship with God a covenant, right? A covenant involves two parties, and imposes obligations on both. I am angry and hurt enough that I've got the damn nerve to ask you, God: Are you holding up your end of the bargain? 

Catching up, etc...

I have not posted in several days...sorry.

Shit, who am I even apologizing to? It's not like anybody's reading this. Maybe I've anthropomorphized my daily diary — like Anne Frank's "Kitty." Fuck.

Fuck it all. Anyway, I'm not going to go through the rigamarole of recounting my daily workouts for the past few days, so here's today's totals:

55 x 2 crunches, 10 lb. weight

30 x 4 pushups

10 x 2 arm curls, 25 lbs.

7 x 2 arm curls, 30 lbs.

3 x 2 arm curls, 35 lbs.

44 minutes on the elliptical machine.

Wow, it's kind of amazing that I could barely do 3 arm curls at 30 lbs. when I started. Maybe I am making progress.

My Dad is visiting this weekend. Not sure what we're going to do. I am feeling so crushed right now. Read the Swan's Facebook page...I know, just self-torture, right? Read another ex's Facebook page — she is happily involved with a new love. And I am alone, except for the Dove.

Oh, the Dove is keeping my dog this weekend. Is that wrong? It probably is, but I can't afford to board my dog while me and my Dad go on a road trip...the Dove will take care of her, and I will selfishly take advantage of her.

I am a miserable excuse for a human being. I want to DIE. I want to DIE. Please, God, I am begging you right now: Strike me with a horrible terminal disease. Give me fucking cancer or whatever. Spare some other poor soul with a spouse and kids and just dump it all on me. I beg to carry that burden, because it would finally free me.

Fuck. I'll probably live 'til I'm 99. And God will make every single second of it unbearable.

Words cannot express my self-hatred right now. I am a worthless piece of garbage. I wish the universe would destroy me.

Sigh. Great wish, huh? Shit, the microwave is beeping. Dinner is ready. On to another hopeless night, and hopeless day, ad infinitum...

Daily workout log

Saturday:

12 x 2 arm curls, 20 lbs.

8 x 2 arm curls, 25 lbs.

4 x 2 arm curls, 30 lbs.

30 x 4 pushups

50 x 2 crunches, 10 lb. weight

44 minutes on the elliptical machine.

For Sunday: 

50 x 2 crunches, 10 lb. weight

44 minutes x 2 on the elliptical machine.

Feeling like shit right now. Want to commit suicide...

The cold and dreary cell

God. Feeling so bad today.

Watching a movie right now — there's a quiet scene with a husband and his wife. They are just lying together on a bed. He's still dressed in a suit from work, he's just gotten home. They are just whispering to each other. It's touching, soft, intimate...

It makes me sad. That's the kind of scene I always imagined with the Swan. God...

Father's Day is Sunday. Will I ever be a dad? I doubt it. My life is so meaningless, so hopeless. I am so far below the Swan, I feel so little and insignificant, like a piece of dust to be swept away. I am so small I am invisible to her.

But I wanted to be something to her. I wanted so much to be with her, to make her my wife, to build a family with her. She made me see so far beyond myself. She made me want to do everything, to scale mountains and leap across canyons to provide for her.

Nothing and nobody else seems worth it. Yes, it's early in the morning, and I'm tired and I'm not thinking straight. But damn it all, nothing I've ever written was more true. I would have given everything I had for her, and I have never been able to say that about any other woman.

And yet: I am nothing to her. Or at the very least, a warm and fleeting memory — nothing more. And if I told her how I feel? I would look worse than pathetic. I would not be a man. Because men are never allowed to show these things.

That's the thing that I like about being able to write here: I don't have to pretend to be strong. I don't have to pretend as if nothing affects me. Every day of my life, I have to wear that goddamn mask: I am not allowed to hurt. I am not allowed to cry. I am not allowed to be weak, to feel sadness, to feel damaged and vulnerable, ever. Even though every fiber of my being would love to run to her and collapse in tears and beg her to love me...

Oh, Christ, the image of myself doing that sickens me. I want to vomit out all that weakness. Shit, who the fuck could ever love a man so broken and pathetic?

And yet...Yet there's no way to tell her how I feel. How to tell ANYBODY how I feel. Shit. Listen, posterity, or whoever is reading this: Do you want to know what it feels like to be a man? Or at least, what it feels like to be THIS man? It feels like being locked in a supermax prison, under the constant watch of surly oxen guards. There is a whole life of emotion and feeling churning within you, but it can never — ever — be let out. Every outward motion is a calculated act to please your jailers. The slightest flash of your inner life earns you a stern and hard beat-down. Not a physical beat-down. Just a spiritual one. Just an overwhelming blast of social regard that YOU ARE LESS THAN A MAN. You are not worthy of the attention of any woman who is worth a damn, or the respect of any man of consequence. You are the scraps, and you are to be fed scraps. Some misguided souls might offer you sympathy, but strong and beautiful souls — souls like the Swan — will view with pity, at best, but most likely with just contempt.

So you chain your sorrows. You lock up your tears. You burn your emotions until they are black and cauterized and the only outward signs of feeling you betray are dull, stoic indifference. And in that you find strength. And that will elevate you, right? That will redeem your suffering? There is a final reckoning that will make it all balance out, right? Isn't that true? But even if it isn't: Hard. Cold. DO. NOT. EVER. BREAK.

Especially at the hands of a woman.

I wish you knew, Swan. I wish you knew how hard I have to fight to be nothing to you. This weight is far too much for me to carry, and if I must carry it for much longer, my back will snap and I will collapse. And that will be the end of me.

Oh, do not blame yourself. It will not be your fault. How could you ever know? You can't be responsible for things hidden from you, for worlds that have been carefully concealed and lifted away to avoid ever burdening you. I carried away those burdens from you because, shit...because I was ashamed, of course, but also because I loved you, damn it all. I hope you never read these words, Swan, because I don't ever want you to carry the kind of weight I have had to carry for the Dove. I do not want you to carry any weight at all. I want you to live and die as gossamer as when I first kissed you.

But I must write, Swan, and even if you never read this, I cannot keep these feelings within me. There must be an outlet for me. My wounded heart must scream its pain, and must bawl like a fallen, broken, damaged child. The universe must fucking know! Somewhere out there, some silent observer must be rattled to the very teeth with my suffering, even while my face remains a bar of solid iron!

Damn it, I feel, I cry, I hurt so very much! And I can love with the depth of the world, if only I could find a soul to receive it! But I am locked in darkness with my echoes, and I am growing to hate the sound of my own voice. The knife to slit its throat is yet dull; in days to come, it will be very sharp.

Will others hurt? Yes. But I shall carry this heavy weight no longer, and who knows? On the far shore may live many other Swans, and many other bright days. I don't see them from where I stand now. But there is only one raft to ferry me hence, and the toll jingles louder in my pocket every single day.

Happy Father's Day, Swan. And I hope you have many Happy Mothers Days. I wish to God in Heaven I could be a part of them.