Hard.

This might be the first time in my life that it has felt more natural to use a keyboard rather than a pen.
I have this thing about writing in pen. Black pen. Not blue. I tried writing in purple for a brief moment in time when I was exceptionally happy, but that, along with the ink, ran out. But right now, typing feels good. It feels truer to the story I have to tell. I think it has something to do with how remote everything feels at the moment. I live at the end of the world. Quite literally. In actuality, I live on the fringe of the end of the end of the world. Even when I lived at the cultural epicenter of the world, I was still on the fringe. This is becoming a commonality in my life. Always on the fringe.
Recently, I was accused of being novice at love. I have been reviewing that observation over and over again in my head, and I am finally starting to make heads and tails of it. First, I need to consider the source of said accusation. I did love. I think I currently love. I know I will love this man in the future. In whatever tense, he hurt/hurts/hurt me. There is a tautology in that. One can only know pain when coupled with love. Acknowledgement is another facet of hurt. Children fall, and often fall hard. They have yet to learn how to fall forward, so they fall backward; back to the ground, softest part of the skull connecting to the pavement. The most fascinating part comes in whether or not anyone sees it. Without the appropriate response from someone older and more experienced in the ways of falling, they will simply continue on their way, unaware and unscathed.
I’m not sure how many more times I will allow myself to fall. A dear friend recently discovered the closest approximation to love I’ve seen in awhile. She’s struggled with relationships in the past, moving from one to another utilizing her sex as a weapon rather than a tool. Several months into her current partnership, realizing for myself that this was not a test but rather an examination of true love, I asked her how lucky she felt. She promptly explained to me that there was no luck in any of it. Instead, she plainly retorted, “I’ve finally made enough mistakes to deserve this.”
In my short history, I have made many mistakes. To assuage myself I have often told myself that in making them I learn more about myself, and consequently how not to repeat them. Then why do I keep making the same fucking mistakes? I have loved two men, one woman, and an arsenal of friends. The woman might be the only one who has ever reciprocated my love, and we are designed to love others in conjunction with our love. A former employer of mine told me that while I might be programmed to be physically compatible with men, my truest sensuality is most closely realized with women. At first I thought her to be bat-shit crazy. Then, I thought about it. She might be on to something.
Throughout the course of my life I have known many mothers, most notably my own and her best friend. I have a father, too, whom I love. But my mothers have fostered in me a sense of self-worth that is unparalleled. Around Eileen and Janice, I like myself the most. Their choosing me makes me choose myself. When I need to be reigned in, they bring me back to me, reminding me that I am enough. Moreover, I am brilliant. I shine, brighter than the darkness I often harbor. Thinking on it now, I find it strange that I had to move to a place with so many god damn lighthouses to realize that I am beacon enough. I illuminate. And perhaps that is where the paradox lies: while I spend my life casting light on the shadows of other people’s trajectories, I can’t free myself the tower. I am endless accolades for others, yet I refuse to give myself a superlative. When I was in high school, I was offered the choice of “Most Likely to Succeed” or “Most Talkative.” I accepted the latter, but I knew the former to be true. And sitting here steps from the ocean, sun gently warming my feet, I know I have been successful in love. Maybe not in loving another, but at the very least myself.