Post Mortem

I am writing today to identify the cause of death of my most recent demi-relationship. I feel like I should acknowledge several things before I get started:

1. Specific members of police forces have gotten away with murdering black people.

2. Systemic racism continues, and most white people are more or less clueless about how to help.

3. There are protests and riots in all 50 states and in several countries outside the US.

4. Coronavirus is still a thing, although my town is in denial pretty heavily.

5. It's rude to talk about somebody else online.

Despite all of these things (and because of, in the case of #4), I am going to PM this thing. My life right now is full of a disturbing level of change and worry, and I have been struggling to process emotions. Yes, I could just write it and not publish it. But I also need someone to listen to me. I hope that if he finds out, and if this bothers him, he is able to forgive me.

Friends, I really like him. I enjoyed his company, and wanted more of it. But he seemed reluctant to share anything inside of himself, and that caused me pain and frustration for most of the duration of our occasional dating. Sure, we talked about all of the (genuinely vast amounts of) things we had superficially in common: television, movies, books, gaming, theater, and a sense of humor. That part was almost disturbing. But I have always believed that when you want to build a bridge to somebody else, you do so with pieces of yourself. You tell your stories. You admit your thoughts.

No, I don't think you have to spill everything at once. I do tend to over-share. But in my bridge metaphor, even a suspension bridge needs ground to push against. Anything permanent needs something solid to hold onto. There are so many fantasy images of islands in the air, of things that fly, but wind erodes more quickly than you'd think. And rain. And it would crumble.

It did. It crumbled.

Sometimes my conversations with my dad are like that. He talks about the lawn, or books, or what he's going to watch on television, but doesn't talk about his heart problems, or his faith, or how he feels about my mother.

It's a risk. If you are rejected after sharing something real, then it's more difficult to bounce back, because the rejection reaches deeper. Being rejected because you watch trashy television, for instance, allows you the leverage to accuse the other person of being shallow. But being rejected because your last relationship makes you look like a fool is more difficult to roll with. Because what if you really ARE a fool? And if you can't face that, then you don't dare share.

And if you think you're going to wait until a contract is signed before you tell some stories, because you need that added security before you feel safe, you're invalidating the contract. No contract, no partnership can or should eliminate a person's agency to simply walk away. Jesus knows this. Our Heavenly Father binds us to him with covenants because he wants to bless us, but we are always free to walk away. There are consequences, but there is choice.

When you get to that place in the conversation, tell the stories. If it doesn't come up naturally, then make the decision yourself: bridges that last don't grow themselves. Lay the brick down and make it part of the structure. The bridge will be stronger for it. Even a known weakness is better than a hidden flaw.

Maybe this demi-relationship died not because it was starved, but because I overfed it. I tend to overfeed things. I overwater my plants, I give the chickens too many treats. Maybe I shared too many of my stories too quickly. Oversharing is material to work with, but the building should be evenly paced, should be methodical. That involves planning together, and that risks deciding to abandon the project.

What I have now in front of me on the autopsy table is the half of the bridge that I built, and a few glimpses of a structure on the other side of the river that are not a bridge. Whatever it is over there, it's cool-looking. There are crenelated turrets and interesting stonework inlaid with Shakespeare and Gilbert & Sullivan. Some wrought iron, and even the beginnings of a drawbridge on the portcullis. I want to be there very badly. But a drawbridge is not long enough, was not built quickly enough, to keep me out of the river.

I guess. . . a bridge that goes halfway is at least a pier. Maybe I should just go fishing. 😆