Self-Definition and Relationships

Relationships are strange things, aren't they?  The thin, tenuous threads that bind human existence into a delicate, almost nebulous whole, linking every person to another - no man is an island, and all that - they're strange threads, and perhaps the Greeks and Romans had it right.  The three Fates weave us all together, and to pull on one strand of the web is to inevitably disturb strands elsewhere, strands which might not even be immediately linked to that one original strand.  Man is a social creature - who said that? - and even those of us who prefer their own society most (if not all) of the time still have pangs of . . . pangs of . . . something . . . anyway, still have pangs for the company of their own kind.

I've never been particularly comfortable in the company of my own kind - it's almost always awkward, frustrating, painful, difficult, disconcerting, and just downright anxiety-inducing - but there are times when I become acutely aware of how much I sometimes dislike being alone.  Not always, certainly - being alone is often preferable to being with people (see awkward, above) - but there are times when I absolutely crave the company of another person.  Never crowds - more than a few people turn me into a plastic version of myself, all smiles, charm, and extroverted falsity.  And (my apologies in advance to those of you who fall into this category), there must always be something a little off about those people with whom I spend any significant one-on-one time.  I don't mean that they are - or should be - deeply disturbed, but people who skew to normal inculcate feelings of inadequacy and despair in me, because I couldn't be normal if I tried, and I wish - oh, how I sometimes so much wish - I could be normal.  So it follows that if I spend real time with anyone, they must have "issues".

It is ineffably strange to me that people should be so dependent upon each other, and that they allow other people to define who they are to such an enormous extent.  I mean, I completely understand that without other people, one cannot be an individual.  That is, one cannot define oneself as something unique without having something else against which such a definition could exist.  Fine.  But the lengths to which some people go to avoid having to define themselves independently at all never fails to shock and sadden me . . . until I realize that, really, I'm not much better.

I mean, I could go on and on (and do, especially if you put enough beer in me) about how pathetic and stupid people are, allowing themselves to be defined by "the media" and "political and societal pressure" (I become very categorical when drunk), and how they should just "be themselves" (see, for example, the deeply disturbing article in Rolling Stone on fraternities at Dartmouth).  Never mind that I'm ignoring the gaping chasms of insecurity and fear with which most people struggle on a daily basis, or that I'm completely dismissing the need for relationships which aren't tainted by the spoiled-milk, "something off" tendencies I have in my own relationships, or that most people choose not to darken their everyday existence with the probings of diseased minds.  It is a bad habit of mine to examine the relationships of people around me - for the most part, healthy, functioning relationships (and I don't just mean romantic, but friendships, familial - whatever) - and dismiss them as being too "typical" (I'm using lots of quotes today.  At least they're not italics).  And then I look at how I define myself, and shudder.

I do have to give myself a little bit of credit here.  At least, for once, I'm recognizing what the hell I'm doing before I've done it so completely that there's no going back.  My ex-husband used to call me (and still does) "experiential", meaning that I never learn anything just from hearing about it, no matter how many life lectures I attend.  (Although, really, let's be honest here.  I attend just about as many of those voluntarily as I do my actual academic lectures.  I really don't like listening to people tell me what to do - or know.  So stubborn.  Anyway.)  I have to experience it, and if I don't, I won't believe what I've heard.  Stove is hot?  Really?  Still have to touch it to see if it's true, and I can't blame my burnt fingers on anyone but myself.

Anyway, ambling away from the point here.  The point is this: that I'm just as guilty as everyone else for using external methods of self-definition.  For me?  It always has been, and probably always will be (shameful) men.

One might chalk this up to daddy issues, but whatever.  It doesn't matter where they come from, what matters is that I still - after all this time, dammit - do it.  I have recently entered into a relationship where I've discovered that some of how I'm now defining myself is directly attributable to the person I'm dating.  Which is troubling, because I thought I had managed to excise that particular behavior-tumor after my divorce.  Apparently not.

Not that all of it is a bad thing.  This newfound obsession with pool, for example - that's good.  Ditto my renewed determination not to waste any more time, and actually start writing again, for fuck's sake.  But I've also noticed that I'm thinking about things - big things, future things - that I wouldn't be thinking about were it not for this person, and while they aren't bad, I just have to wonder how much of them are coming from me.

So there's my failure.  I use relationships - romantic relationships - to define me.  Not that I'm not my own person - there are things that are me, and me exclusively - but I always take something from each relationship I've been in, and add it to my personality, which is becoming more cluttered with each passing day, and is seriously making it difficult to exist comfortably in my own skin.  Emilie Autumn's "What If" really does exemplify the frustration inherent in one person containing so many damn contradictions, and the fact that she never answers her own question - what if? - indicates that I'm pretty well screwed when it comes to reconciling those contradictions.

Yay!  Hypocrisy revealed!  It doesn't change the fact that I'll still rant and rave about stupid, pathetic people using external methods of self-definition.  But I'm guilty of it, too.  I'm guilty of relying on those delicate bonds between humans, which, some might argue, is really all that makes life worth living.  Perhaps I should stop fighting it, and just give in - give in gloriously - to the intoxicating pull of the chemistry which exists between two people, and enjoy the results as much as I enjoy the results of the fermentation of yeast.