12:01 PM - Tuesday, Aug. 03, 2004
What's love got to do with it?
Today is my Grandma's 75th birthday. I'm going to be partying it up like it's 1935. Well, actually, no I'm not. The family's just having dinner together.
I babysat the kids yesterday. We had a balloon fight. They had me blow up about 5 balloons and we knocked them around, smacking them into each other. Why is it so easy to entertain children? Heck, why is it so easy to entertain me?
I got to work this morning and did some Geological Well filing. Now I have a grease marking along my pale green T-shirt. It's directly under my right breast. Such is my luck! If I were a klutz, I'd understand my ability to find myself in situations of this kind... but I'm not a klutz. I'm me! ME! Jessica.
I forgot to come in here yesterday and finish up with my deep thoughts. Now I don't even remember what in the world they were. So much for deep thinking.
Cory called me last night and woke me up. I don't even remember what we talked about. I just remember hearing his voice in my ear, and how good it felt to hear it.
I did read my book a little bit yesterday. One chapter stuck out. In it, the main character is a psychologist. She was talking to one of her patients. Her patient felt as if she was in love because her emotions were out of control. Anyhow, the psychiatrist said something about the patient being in transference. This part stuck out at me the most:
Love requires knowing at least something about the other person. All transference requires is that you imagine you know something. Longing for Daddy? Why not just transfer all that long-buried emotion to some new authority figure.... - On the Couch by Alisa Kwitney.
So my question is, were all my experiences with "love" actually transference? I do have the habit of building people up in my mind, making them seem better than what they actually are. I do this mostly with my romantic interests. Then, when reality hits, I wake up and think, "What in the world did I see in him?" or "How is it possible I lasted this long with him?" Then, if they break my heart, I experience a broken heart as if I were actually in love with them, when in reality, I never loved them to begin with. Not completely, anyhow. Perhaps I admired the qualities in them I was aware of, but would I lay my life down for them? No. Does that make me selfish? No. Perhaps I would lay my life down for them just because I do value human life, but I'm talking in regards to love. Sometimes I ask myself, "If, by some strange set of circumstances, I was forced to choose between the life of my father or the life of the man I'm intimate with, whose life would I choose to save?" In every single scenario, I have chosen my father. Is that proof enough that I never loved the men in my life? Does that make me sound like an uncaring bitch? I did care about the men, and maybe I did love them to an extent... but I was NEVER in love with them. I wasn't willing to pull away from my parents, from the people who have always told me what to do with my life, and make a path of my own for any of them. And while I'm more apt to follow my own path today, there's a part of me that's still basking in the security of the known, and taking advantage of this security. I know, if I were to ever fall in love and actually know what love is, I'd never question moving from the house that I love (knowing full well that a family makes a home, rather than the actual dwelling), and I'd be willing to move away from my family.
I don't even think I know what love is. I have love for my family. I have love for some of my friends. I know what that kind of love is. But I have no idea what intimate romantic love is. I don't think I was ready to know. Am I ready know? Well, moreso than I was before.
Lee sent me an e-mail yesterday about the story I'm working on that's featured on my homepage. Of course, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the story is basically my life as I recall it. Not every single event is featured. Some things I remember I didn't put into the story because I didn't think they were significant. But anyhow, he went off on the III part and it's relevance to relationships. The entire e-mail was him just releasing his opinions and thoughts on the subject, but towards the end he said something that didn't settle well with me at all. I can't remember his exact words, but he did ask me questions about whether I was seeking sympathy and attention from these stories. All I can reply is, NO.
I don't know what made me start writing my story. I can't remember if it was inspiration from the Styx song, or something that I felt just had to be done. Now, I question myself. I'm not seeking attention from it. Nor am I seeking sympathy. I'm laying it all out on the line. This was my life. This is how I remember it. This is what made me into who I am today. And, strangely enough, I am proud of the woman I am. I like myself. And if it hadn't been for these experiences, I would never have become the person I look at in the mirror every morning.
I chose to write the story in third person, never mentioning the main character's name, because I wanted to keep myself at a distance from it. I wanted people to read it as a story, and not as a portrayal of my life through my mind's eye. It's for those who don't know me, so they can have a chance to actually know who I am. And it's for those who do know me and want to know me on a deep level, so they can see my life laid out for them like a book. And when I come to the ending, they'll see that not all my experiences were painful. And those that were? Well, they were worth it in the end (As bad as that sounds....).
Anyhow, it's now 1:00 PM and I need to go buy my Grandma's birthday present. I'll let this entry end here.
