I'm 23 years old. I live a life of luxury—as far as a child is concerned, at least: free to do as I wish, see whom I wish, eat what I wish; play and dance with little material worry. In truth I am...
I'm 23 years old. I live a life of luxury—as far as a child is concerned, at least: free to do as I wish, see whom I wish, eat what I wish; play and dance with little material worry. In truth I am rather serious, far from carefree, and not landed or established, but I have designed my life for ease. As I said: a child's dream.
I seem to feel myself slipping. I have regrets now. Several. I believe I have eroded my ethos, my morality; whether consciously or not, I am not exactly sure. I think I am losing something of myself but I don't know what or how. It is as if every day I forget who I am and transform, an atom at a time, into a man I once specifically sought not to become: someone careless, distant, and self-centered.
An outside observer would say that I have had a generally profitable and worthwhile year, and I can't dispute that. However, I think I am spiritually lost, or emotionally lost, and certainly romantically lost, though I have never not been romantically lost. I'm writing now because I am ill, literally and physically but mostly interpersonally, and I have failed to make an appearance in my social circles for the better part of a month, excepting for a few disasters. I do have a professional counselor, but we haven't spoken in weeks. I've reached the point where I've lost both motivation and literal energy to do even the simplest exercise, I cannot cook anything beyond the absolute bare minimum, I feel my work has suffered, I have been almost bedridden for several days, my purpose seems unclear. I am very lovely when I have visitors, but it has strained me recently, and unfortunately I will have more very soon. I am as lovely as I can be when I must leave my home. I will also have to reappear socially in less than a day, which I am dreading.
I can only really talk about my emotions if I lay them out in anecdotes, real experiences but their form taking whatever mood I am in, so here are a few. What do I do here?
In the summer I was whisked to a faraway place, somewhere I had never been. Greener, quieter, hillier, more remote. By the sea; a place with history, but not mine. I was a guest, well-honored, and I found the fine gentlemen and ladies of the court—as it were—to take great interest in me. Flattered, complimented, pampered, invited, smiled upon, oh! So young in this society of elders, so lauded, so respected: I was golden, awash in warmth and welcome, though ego also. I smiled back, I laughed courteously, I bowed politely and nodded, I danced when it was suitable, and I dined and drank respectably.
Many friends though I had, none were there; though some there were those I knew, none were friends; a rare few came close, still they were strangers yet. But ha! My reputation preceded me! A young man I had met once, my equal (and, now, as I know, my greater), learning of my arrival, took it upon himself to show me the ropes of the ship and keep me in good company of her officers and crew, especially those as young as me. We chatted of fine things, snickered of less fine things; we drank very much, we toiled in our work at court; and, oh, I had made a dear friend. A gentleman truly; gentle indeed, kind, thoughtful; soft-spoken, a voice calming and delightful, a presence safe and trustworthy. An angel of this land I strayed into, though he reserved that term for another (he, too, is an angel). Surely I would have survived without his guidance, but he made it worthwhile.
One eve in society I espied a young woman about my age. She too was a guest, well-honored, and found that all the fine gentlemen and ladies of the court were pleased with her. But how could this be? I had been introduced to everyone in the palace. I knew of my contemporaries, their kingdoms and lands, their titles and pedigree and accolades! Who was this woman, unknown but clearly so skillful? I watched as she entertained the whole attendance, laser-focused, dexterous and determined. I was in awe.
Hair almost black as night with perfectly rounded brows; smiling always, brightly expressive: a face so beautiful you could not contain yourself. She dressed quaintly but boldly, observing tradition but disregarding convention. Upon her bronze cheeks there lay the most intense dimples I had ever seen. O Father in Heaven! A gift to me! She was uncommonly striking, and not just because she was a stranger. I was surprised; I restrained my infatuation. I must speak to her, I thought. I would like another friend.
- I, nobly: "You were wonderful tonight. I enjoyed watching you before the court."
- She, politely: "I enjoyed watching you as well."
We stood in the earshot of her appointed guides, and within that of mine, and so we knew to keep our spark civil. For now.
Time passed and we continued to meet, always visible, always on good behavior. She was from my home country, a beacon in this foreign land, metropolitan in taste like me but rather a country girl at heart. She was older than me, by several years, but I was unbothered. One evening, my dear friend the young man proposed an airing throughout the gardens and toward the new wharf, where there were no fishermen (long gone) but still many things of note. His suggestion was amenable to our whole party, all of whom were eager to feel the salt air and, in the case of moi et ma chère, speak beyond the confines of the court, where we would be free.
- I, intimately: "You might find yourself welcome in my quarters after our reprieve."
- She, dutifully: "Kind sir, that I might, but we have matters to attend to, no? We are here, well-honored, for a purpose."
- I, reassuringly: "Of course, ma chère, we are obliged. But after your performance, after my speech, there is a haven. Our time here comes to an end soon and watchful eyes will look away."
- She, demurely: "If so you say, mon cher. I must see to my education, you know, and my career; it is this world, this court. You can escape petty politics by your good manners, your network, your renown; but I cannot draw on such repute. You come here on wide recommendation and accomplishment, I on determination and fortune."
My friend the young man said later to me: "What of ta chère, my friend? What is she to you, and you to her? Your time dwindles." I said to him, "I have hope. What of yours, dear friend? Your angel; he awaits your beckon as well." We talked as good friends do, and in our brotherhood found solidarity in the nature of our respective romances. I was empowered, and he too, for our lives were brighter when we had such unerring and unassailable friendship.
On the evening before our departure she came to our soirée, which had grown half-private beyond our cohort to include those members of society we deemed engaging, and any who stumbled across us. Across the room she placed herself, our eyes locking every now and then, not too often as to be noticed by others, though I'm sure my friend the young man observed all. Silently transmitting suggestive looks, open-ended messages, we grew more restless, until an excuse was made for her to depart. Some minutes later, oh, by coincidence, I must as well. Ta!
It was all I had hoped and more. This woman was unbelievably attractive in character and feature. We had a chemistry I had rarely seen. She confided in me beforehand her reluctance because I was young. But she was young too! I thought her my peer. It's not like this was new to me. She had found me the object of her desires this whole season, obsessed just as I had, but on her better judgment refrained just as I had from exhibiting too much outward favoritism. I assured her that I wanted her and only her in this moment; she reiterated the same. She had been withholding an intense physical attraction. She wanted me and only me in this moment; she was ravenous, all but insatiable, full of life and love, and wanted me to control her. We were a pair; it was exhilarating, ecstatic, exhausting; dynamic and visceral and incredible. She was very gratified by the end, I too. But then it was over and we returned to our home castles.
Not many weeks after our goodbye, we had occasion to say hello again, fleetingly and unexpectedly. It was just as before: she was so beautiful; we were enraptured. I bought us a room and we slept together: she gave me a gift. I was touched and felt ashamed that I had not thought to bring her one. I resolved to purchase an equal trinket for her, a fine necklace to match her earrings. I have since obtained her gift.
But what did I find myself doing? Nothing. Very little contact; incapable of making my true feelings known, I have made little effort to connect. She was from my home country, yes, but it is a large place, and we could not possibly see each other except when nature or fortune brings us near. At least that is what I have told myself. Is that true? Either way, now I think it is too late. Just days ago I reached out, hoping that we could arrange a visit, but I had done few favors for myself. Though apparently excited to talk to me, she found reason for this to be impossible. I am no fool. If she had wanted it to happen, she knew that I would go to great lengths; and she could too. After our flings I think she sees me as just that: a fling. I worry that I can no longer give her my gift, the necklace, which was not just a trinket but a thank-you and an object of remembrance. But it seems that I am the one left now with remembrance, or at least with the object; two such objects and not one. Soon I fear she will forget me, and perhaps I will forget her, piece by piece until there is nothing left but a wisp of a memory. That would pain me.
In the springtime I had taken to a western retreat, a cabin in a woodland far from my home, by a small lake. I was with others, in society of a kind, but with much privacy.
I met someone there, unexpectedly. She dressed in complicated colors and dyed her hair; her demeanor a startling departure from the personalities I had expected here. She was interesting to me. I could not classify her; but she seemed to know my friends. First I overheard, then we talked: she had been a performer, a teacher, smart and industrious, but here was a learner. So was I. She knew her cocktails and wines and liquors and obscure beers, her philosophy, her history, and all the great works. I admitted a certain attraction to her unusual mannerisms; her unabashed, refreshing brusqueness, her contentedness with whom she was as a human being; that she was simply unlike any person I had known, and different from me as well. Yet despite that difference I felt that we could commune. She was older—I could not tell exactly by how much from her person, though it was significant, and from her preferred company I guessed ten or fifteen years. (I did not dare to ask.) One night we looked out at the stars, at the water, and made a connection. We brought it back to the sanctuary of the interior and from then on were linked.
She revealed very soon after in passing that she was autistic. The way she said it suggested she thought I already knew. That possibility had not even entered my mind. I am generally not unobservant. This was a surprise. I almost didn't believe her. I thought, "How? Why consider such things, use such categories? You are just the way you are. I don't care." But I did not say that. I said, "Oh."
Next I saw her, she had expectations. I did not expect anything, at least not romantically, though not for any fault of hers. Not intending to bother anyone in particular, I sought out the romances I desired and accepted the ones I found agreeable, and at the moment we ran into each other, ours was not one of them. I failed, completely and utterly, to communicate my transient and impermanent and superficial nature; my intentions with another woman or more than one. Not only this, but it was obvious; I was not being subtle, for I was drunk on the affection of a particularly sharp woman whom I respected, or I was literally drunk. It was a stark and awkward difference from our interactions before. I was aware of this the whole time but somehow did not detect, or did not care (I am not sure: as I say, I am losing myself) that a boundary had been crossed. One day, as we stood in a field by the mountains, she became very emotional, not contemptuous but upset and extremely critical for reasons I had not anticipated (being so caught up in my own endeavors) but immediately recognized and understood. For an hour, maybe two hours, perhaps more, she explained to me how she was not mad but disappointed, how communication in relationships should work; interrogated me on my behavior and my tendencies; and reminded me what begets trauma. I felt that I was being lectured.
If I am being uncharitable with my phrasing, I ought to reiterate: I deserved a dressing-down. But I did apologize, several times, and I did mean it, resolving to do better, to not seek out such complications among my friends, and to graciously rebuff hopes of complications from others. But I have since failed to do even that; I have only managed to entrap myself in further relationships, further emotional turmoil, and it has all been my fault.
I cannot describe this anecdote. It's not painful (well, not to me), it's just so hopelessly strange, absurd, surreal, ridiculous, narcissistic, and maybe even misogynistic that I can't explain the details. It involves three separate women whom I admire very much and who are also undeniably beautiful, and a lot more emotions than I was prepared for. My role was cartoonishly hedonistic, and I would typically consider it out of character, but after some of what has happened this year... is it out of character anymore? Or am I a different person now?
I don't even know what I'm asking. I just seem to fall into relationship and relationship, none of them ever serious; in some cases I really do try to take it seriously, then it doesn't work out, and I become disillusioned and give up on love again. It's worse in the case (and there are many) that I am the one left behind, rather than it being a truly mutual feeling. I will always respect the wishes of my partner, but wow, does being dumped, ignored, or de-prioritized ever reinforce my tendency toward superficial flings. Where I'm at right now, it just seems so hopeless to consider these things. I am still functional—this is not a cloud of depression that prevents me from cleaning my home or going to work—but the broader reason for cultivating and maintaining relationships has begun to disintegrate.
I see the obvious hypocrisy in wishing for commitment and refusing to provide it myself. As I say, I am slowly turning into a person I despise. This is not supposed to be a whiny thread, and I am not bitter about not getting something I "deserve" (for I deserve nothing), but I am sad that despite all the great fun I can have for a couple days, or even a couple weeks, I cannot create a meaningful lasting romance. What I regret the most is not that things do not work for me, but that I leave a wake of destruction for others as I sail across the water. Every time I engage with someone, they seem to acquire some of my problems, and that makes me feel terrible.