Cheese, sometime last week, started a blog. I had explained to him that my blog is a place where I can get the things out of my head that I need to get out. He thought he would try it.
He challenged me to find it. The other night, I asked for a hint and he gave me the key.
I don't know if I have mentioned that he already found this little slice of internet (to steal a phrase from Miss Britt) and I asked him not to read it. The difference is, that I didn't tell him where I was, he went out and found it. As far as I know, he hasn't read a word.
I found his. I started to read. He briefly asked me to stop then gave me the go ahead. It didn't take me long to finish since he deletes almost as fast as he posts.
What I found there nearly ripped me in two.
I found a man in whose shoes I have walked many, many a time. I have worn them. I have waded in them. I have wallowed and slept and been blistered and scarred by them.
Only this time though, this time was different.
The pain described wasn't from someone in his past, it was me.
I've never really had the opportunity to see myself so clearly through someone elses eyes before. To learn how my confusion leads to hurt and confusion. I always thought I hid it better than that. I read his descriptions of me, and how he defended me against his own words. I heard myself in his voice. So many, many times. All of his posts were about me.
And knew that I have treated him, without meaning to, the way every man who has ever hurt me treated me. I heard the echo of insecurity. The whisper of hoping for more. The ghosts of the ones I don't talk about. The memories of the ones that I do.
It has all left me cracked. And dishing out the treatment that broke me.
I was shocked. And hurt. If I were his friend, I would hate me. If I were a stranger, I would tell him to run away and find someone real and strait forward. I would tell him that there are plenty of nice women out there who will treat him better and with whom he can count on their feelings. If I were a friend or a stranger reading his words, I would think of myself as a person who would treat him better. I would think myself better than me.
But now I see myself in a different light. It is stark. Harsh. Cruel to my imperfections and revealing of my dents and dings. I feel stripped naked. Low for hurting the way I have been hurt. Ripped apart and left pulsating on the sidewalk.
I am not angry at him. I am angry with myself. He, apparently shares my affliction of seeing the good in people. Of seeing how he could be treated if only I were whole.
I thought about both options. About where to take it from there. My first thought was to walk away. To set him free to find someone who will treat him right. Better.
Or I could give it more effort. Stick some bondo in my dents and treat him the way I know I can. Offer him the same courtesy he has given me and try. I know I'm not going to change over night, but I could put in some effort. And, like always, if it doesn't work, I can't say that I didn't try.
But above all else, I want to stop hurting him because I only think of myself. And how life is affecting me. I'm not sure when I became so selfish, but it won't hurt me to stop.
Reading his words gave him a whole new dimention. I am intrigued. And that is a good thing.
The next day, he said that he had reread his postings and decided that it would be better if I didn't read the rest. I let him know that he was too late; that I had already read it all. That I wasn't angry. That it was a good thing.
I definately needed that wake up call.