I love people. I trust them and think–almost without exception–that they are good at their core.
I have always been this way, and most of the time–recognizing that naivete, and perhaps even foolishness, are characteristics that can describe this trust–I don’t want to change.
But when the trust throws me, it throws me far because I do it with my whole heart; when people show themselves to be ugly inside or unworthy, I feel doubly affronted because I–though thankfully less so than in my more youthful youth–connect deeply with friends, new or old, without thinking twice.
In recent history, such a betrayal occurred. I try not to tell myself I was asking for it. But sometimes I wonder if maybe the excuse to be sad sack and weepy for a bit is something I crave enough to put myself into positions where I befriend and finally adore difficult/nutty/damaged people.
The peculiar severity of this misfortune was brought to light earlier this evening, and leaves me feeling now like the 7th grade me who tried to change the names in a story I wrote as I read it out loud to the class because I was upset with the girls I wrote it about. I feel the same kind of disoriented, but tricked, too.
Sweet Fella tried to cuddle me enough to make me feel better, but I need to cry. I need to pity myself for a few moments before I can shake it off.
Even though I am a confident and competent and kind grown up, I have enough lingering protestant guilt that these kinds of things always, always leave me doubting myself–giving power to my life’s villains by missing sleep, and by feeling an exaggerated sense of loss.
I’ll live, I know. And each time the process is a little less sorrowful. It’s like the pain of early breakups, but with dull edges and a slower burn.
Another friend told me a few months back, “April, you have to stick up for yourself!” And she’s right! It’s a dreadfully fine line between being effectively assertive and being a door mat, though. And I prefer to err on the side of doormat. I like to think of it as the low high road.
And in this case, sticking up for myself means that I abandon an activity I really enjoy, experience social awkwardness at another activity I really enjoy, and have no recourse about the damage to my reputation with one friend and several particular strangers. The only way to get recourse is to behave pettily and desperately, and I am too ego-maniacal and stubborn for that.
So there it is. Vaguest blog post in the history of the world. No, I will not dish details. I just needed to get it off my chest. I tried to write it in such a way that you might get something out of it too, I mean, I put in some laffs, but really I did it for me. Which is a rule I don’t generally break: my blog is not my diary. But people look at my blog when I use it like my diary. You seem to love it when I get personal. It’s a thing I’m going to try to do more of, actually.
Stay tuned for a post on the birth of my only child. It’s going to be riveting.