Disappointed For No Reason

Ladies and Gentlemen.

I don't remember the last time I posted something. It's been a while, and yes, I've been yelled at enough, ok, I get it. So here it is, an update. Or actually, I know the reason why I'm blogging, and it's less an update and more a trip down memory lane—a lane that leads to the yonder years of my emo-ness.

I just finished having a serious convo with C. We're officially just friends now, both of us have signed away our possibility with each other. And although this is the outcome I was hoping for, I'm oddly devastated. There's a part of me that is angry/sad/defeated/confused. My longest "serious" relationship lasted a month and a half, and it was hardly a relationship, in the contrived sense that you associate with the word. That boy did something to me; he was able to get me to open up. I did things with him, I never imagined I'd be comfortable enough to do with a man, after so short a time. Of my current friends, only 3 of them have seen me cry over my family, another saw me drunkenly cry over a man who was representative of my social positioning in the hierarchy of the Gays, and only a handful have any idea of the horrors I had to live with as a child. This man, this boy, he saw it all. I showed him all. Well, not all, but I gave him insights to those things that no one ever gets. My friends haven't learned about me because I chose to inform them. They saw it because they happened to be with me at the moment I cracked. Obviously, the amount of time I spend with them allowed for that to happen, it was only a matter of time, but a month and a half? And he didn't think I was opening up enough for him. I poured my heart and soul out to him, and he repaid me by criticizing me for being uncomfortable hearing about his baggage with his ex-boyfriend after only a month. Ridiculous, really. How dare he? And I'm here, made out to be emotionally incapable of a relationship, when really I'm the one that's emotionally mature beyond his years, but full of so much emotion, you'd never realize it.

Yes, this is what I wanted, for us to be friends, so where is the nexus of this blast disappointment? I don't care anymore. I just don't care. I'm not a creature made for dating. My heart belongs to too many for me to give out anymore. So, instead, I'm going to sleep—sleep some human sleep—and pray for God to give me another heart.

-T

Madre.

OK, quickly before I start reading my Queer Theory:

I've just left my Motherhood in the [Latin@] Community experiential learning class, and I'm dripping with thought. Today, we tried (unsuccessfully, I think) to define what "motherhood" is. Adjectives such as Loving, Caring, Guiding, Nurturing were quickly fired, but how is that specific to Motherhood? Is a father not loving? Caring? Guiding? Nurturing? I raised this question, and was rebutted with the word Creation. A mother gives birth. Again, I raised "What about women who are unable to conceive?" What about those women who adopt, are they not Mothers?

I was then giving a very confused ramble about how the "creation" isn't only physical, but one of bonds; a mother creates the dynamic of a child's love. OK, fine, but how is that any different from what a man does when he adopts.

I'm trying to pinpoint the locus of Motherhood; it's vital to my work and conception of the women around me. I'm not trying to be misogynist by any means, quite the contrary: I don't think there's a bigger feminist who was born equipped with a penis, than me. I'm simply trying to locate the root of what it means to be a mother. I can define it in context to the oppressive patriarchal society that I live in, but not its core; not the heart of what Motherhood is, or stems from. What defines it from Fatherhood, other than the presence of two x chromosomes?

And why does my conception of women rely so heavily on this? I think, because somewhere in the dark shadows of my soul, is this need to be a Mother. Or not to be one, but to have a child love me with the passion that is given to a Mother, in particular to the mothers in my Latin@ community. I want my child to be, not a part or continuation of my world, but I want her to BE my world, and through her, I will discover myself. I will realize what it means to be alive: to proliferate love--make it eternal. Is it possible? Does my phallis undo any possible chance I have at being loved to that extreme?

Oh, this penis of mine: it hinders me so. Priveligdged, I am, but not internally. I'm proud of being "man" but I can't help but notice how much harder it is to understand my female sisters. I wanted to volunteer for an orginization that empowers highschool latin@ women, an orginization that sparks ideas of feminism in these young women who have no idea how to verbalize their oppresion. But, I was denied, because I'm a man. I'm horribly saddened over the loss of growth I could have had through these women who were wholly different than me.

What is a Mother?

Not me, at least not yet.

-T

Almost…

Ok, here it is: my first honest to God blog of the month.

This past month has been pathetic. I found myself enjoying, obsessing, and writhing—all because of a boy. Yes, I did it once again, only this time there was something different: the boy was genuinely interested. He was a "good catch" so to speak, on paper at least. He's the type of person anyone can force themselves to get along with, with ease, but on the same token, he's the boy who distracts you long enough for you to realize you've wasted too much time. And so here I am, two months later, and realizing I'm still not ready for a relationship. I'm 21 years old, and I've never had a serious relationship. I question myself: constantly: rigorously: unfairly. And for what? To appease some weird desire to be coupled? To fit in with the mainstream? Do I need to prove to my friends that Yes! even I can be loved by a man!

"I love you," he says, "but I feel sorry for the man who falls in love with you…"

How encouraging my friends are, brutally honest with a belt in hand, ready to whip the sense back into me. But I don't feel sorry for that man; a choice is needed, and his would be respected. I would never force someone to stay. Go, it would be easier for the both of us, but the choice is his. His feet will follow his brain or his heart. Both will be painful, but I can't pity a man who does what he thinks is right.

Ok, fuck this controlled ramble. Here's the truth: I'm fucked up, in the head. And I'm highly aware of how fucked up I am. The truth is that I would LOVE to find my soul mate, but honestly, I'm scared. I'm scared that when I find him, he will not be able to handle my neurosis. My fears and phobias, my disorders and complexes will be too much for him, and he'll run. He'll walk backwards as fast as he can, until he stumbles off the curb and is smashed by a CTA bus. And so, I rationalize being alone, it's best for me. Here I am martyring myself for a man I don't even know yet. Typical, T, typical indeed.

A few more updates before I sign off for the night:

My sister hasn't spoken to me in about a month. She reminds me so much of me. She will be everything I'm not, and can't be—she will be Great.

School is overwhelming: my workload is the densest it's ever been.

I can't find the time to write anymore. I'm getting scared that my dream of writing is going to spit in my face and laugh at me with blood-shot eyes.

I now have two pillows on my bed, the irony is unsettling.

-T