The title for today’s blog post is a quote by Ernest Hemingway. He was a brilliant writer. His style was concise, he advocated use of one-syllable words wherever possible. But his prose packed a punch and conveyed realistic messages and images. I am not Hemingway though I value his sense of adventure. Like Hemingway, I’m not immune to my own demons but will refrain from an exit such as his.
In an effort to spring clean my subconscious thoughts, I choose to confront some in the hope they will turn to vapor and dissipate. Though I present as a stoic individual with a good sense of humor, my facade hides so much more…both positive and negative. One thing I have I accepted is I am a highly sensitive individual. Due to my “uber” sensitivity, I feel things at far greater levels than many individuals. In addition, I feel your pain and hurt as if it was mine.
I stopped going to the movie theater more than twenty years ago. Because I hate crowds? No. Because it caused me real pain. The ever-increasing levels of sound and the flashing of lights made the experience physically painful for me. And some thought I avoided theaters because it wasn’t cool for us, as adults, to fling jujubes and junior mints across the rows of seats at one another. I never wasted a junior mint. If I caught one, I ate it. BTW, Milk Duds are the best for slinging, due to their heft. I liked them, though, so never tossed them.
Back to sensitivity…Being ultra-sensitive may also lead, as it did for me, to super-sensitive reactions to rejection. It’s a two-way street, though. I feel other’s rejections in addition to my own, but mine are soul stopping. I’m able to cope with them much more effectively now that I’m mature. Not so when I was younger.
This post is really about unsuccessful relationships. Bet you didn’t see that coming. I’ve never married, through my own choice. I’ve had opportunities. Bottom line, in truth, is I never wanted to have to “share” my true self with someone else. I felt damaged beyond any hope of normalcy and did not want to inflict that on another individual. My friendships were guarded, my intimate relationships were guarded. My emotions transcend depths that few feel. While that may be euphoric at times, it’s also devastating at times. We all go through this to different degrees.
Though I was an attractive young person, I had few dates. Raised at a time when nice boys weren’t supposed to take liberties, sometimes they did and I learned that could be fun. Also influenced by my Catholic upbringing, I was well aware that becoming pregnant just wasn’t something that was going to happen. What I also didn’t realize at this young age was I was asserting my own independence in refusing certain activities.
What I didn’t know, due to gross naïveté on my part, was I was creating a bit of a negative reputation for myself. I was considered a tease. Say what? I wasn’t sophisticated enough to even conjure up an idea like that. But I guess I was. Fueled by beer, and wanting to be “accepted,” there were some brief dalliances at parties. So thrilled to be an object of interest from a cute boy, things changed at warp speed when I put on the brakes. Worse was being ignored by said boy in school in the ensuing days.
I admit to being ignorant as to how that whole romance ritual was conducted. I was too much of a reader and thought things would be nice and sweet as I’d read in books. Yeah, no, that’s not the way it worked. And the really, really silly thing is I still feel that hurt fifty years later. It gnaws at me sometimes like a bad toothache. I doubt the boys could even recall it.
In a lighthearted effort to banish my blues recently, I put some words to paper. Though they desecrate the lovely tune “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” my apologies to Willie and Julio, my words convey some of my thoughts. Here is my flawed rendition called “To All the Boys I’ve Kissed in Life.”
To all the boys I’ve kissed in life/Who caused me hurt and endless strife
They thought they were so great/But I can clearly state
I’m glad I’m not your wife.
To all the boys I once acquiesced/Who merely wanted to grope my chest
Due to my naïveté/I became a rude cliché
And just another conquest
The rules of love are fraught with fraud/The boys walked out the door
The rules of love count for naught/Most of you were boors.
There were a few decent sorts. And there were a few I should have treated more kindly. I went on a date with a boy a year older because his sister kept bugging me to do so. He was nice but I did not have a romantic interest. He may have come to my house and rung the doorbell. I may have hidden on my basement stairs despite my best friend’s car being in the driveway. It may have hurt his feelings. I hope he would accept my apology for me being a dumb teenager.
Trust me when I tell you my actual poetry is world’s better than my attempt at lyrics. Sometimes I’m still in 9th grade mode…you know…when we made up stuff like “Yellow River” by I.P. Daily.
There you have it, Mr. Hemingway. Not at all as mellifluous as your prose. But it’s genuine and from a personal place. It may always hurt but I am also able to see it from a more lighthearted point of view.
Stories Are For Eternity 