He had trouble accepting that I wanted him. That I wanted him in my life. Of the many things I’d conjured questions about, his lack of belief confused me the most.
I’d spent many days eating and drinking wine wanting to bury that confusion; still, it called to me through the pain of physical discomfort from overeating. The question refused to take leave, so it joined me in my attempts to disconnect from myself, and it mocked me until I looked it in the eye and said, “Fuck You,” I already know the answer.
A self-effacing “Fuck You” to the ego apparently does a body and mind good.
I tapped into my own wee childhood and reflected upon my gold medal achievements in the abandonment category. Counselors and psychologists don’t refer to them as awards, they refer to them as trauma. But if in your mind you’ve got a gold medal under your belt, it doesn’t really matter what words anyone uses to identify your albatross, cause you know what a base metal is, but more than this, you know it’s something you alone earned.
Earned. Trauma. A gold medal.
I got to wondering how many adults live in shame over their unexpected victories, how many bury their medals and instead pursue sports and business with the thought that they should win, because at least once during their life, they were gold.
Not the honors trained for in the Olympics but the awards that don’t look like gold, the kind that without a discerning eye you might just think is another black rock to be piled up amongst the rubble.
It dawned on me that maybe I’d felt like this about myself, and then it dawned on me that perhaps he felt this way about himself too.
Suddenly, the question that haunted me took its leave. I no longer needed the answer because I’d determined that I was the actual question.
An alchemized heart. Created. Gold.
Someday he would see and believe because he was more like me than he knew. And he did.
See and believe.
When anyone in the world invests time to vacation on the island of your heart and further, takes the initiative to utilize the gift of foresight to conjure ways of bringing you sustenance, by abnormal means no less, you can rest assured they love you. They love you so much that they extend themselves outwards past you, and into those things and people you love because they don’t set boundaries on how far-reaching their love for you has been planted.
When you observe life closely enough, you come to realize that most of us must be guarded and often can’t present the most authentic representation of who we are, or who we believe ourselves to be. Life teaches us that many don’t understand what loyalty and trust genuinely are, according to our own standards. So we attempt to instruct life that we are impenetrable as if our lives depended on it. Sometimes it does.
But we’re not impenetrable. We’re the opposite of this. By design.
Our love can’t always be a soft place to land, it must sometimes present like armor, to determine who dares to approach and fight for a heart we work a lifetime to shelter and hide in shame of what we perceive are its weaknesses.
When our final hour arrives there will be less than a handful of fighters who will have stood toe to toe with us. Should any of them be there on that day, or any day before, we will meet with them in an effort to honor their heart in gratitude, by removing our armor and extending our hand in love.
Farming for armor is not just a game. It’s also a cryptanalysis way to decode a sometimes brutally quantum life.
“The only victory that counts is the one over yourself”
~ Jesse Owens ~