John's thoughts on cowardice
Created | Updated Jun 30, 2005
Okay. I was gonna write about J Louise and my relationship with her. Now I don't have a clue what's gonna come out of my fingers.
It was gonna be a tribute to her, and a history, with emphasis on my perspective, my actions, my inactions, the things I couldn't do with her that felt like they would have been for her had I done them.
It was gonna be called something like "confessions of a coward."
Now it's been analyzed, dissected, vivisected, and not quite reassembled. And I'm still a coward, because I'm facing the unknown again, instead of a nice, straightforward story. A not history.
I don't have a problem taking physical risks. That's easy. The consequences of failure are understood. I'm even okay with helping other people face down their demons. Mine own personal demons are another matter entirely.
So, why don't I want to do this? Why do I suddenly feel flustered?
Because this is something I haven't done before? No. I'm not generally afraid of doing something new. Am I flustered or frightened? If I'm frightened, why? Tongue-tied.
Somehow, I feel like I'm not qualified to do this. I'm qualified to build things. Big, strong man.
My cowardice let J Louise down more than once. She didn't, couldn't trust me until the very end of her life. Then it was too late.
She pushed me, like she pushed everybody. She didn't understand how any person could not want to meet his or her entire potential, right now. She didn't understand the shaky-kneed, p**s in your pants terror that comes from always being pushed to go further than you have, the unrelenting, never resting, never catching your breath, there's still more to do determination not to stop, ever.
I couldn't keep up. No normal person could. And I'm not normal. I'm a coward. My inability to keep up made me feel like a failure. My sense of failure led to resentment and anger. Who the hell was she to run everybody's life and tell everybody what they should do, what they should feel?
Did being right give her the right?
She didn't understand that I wasn't driven life she was. She'd probably be pretty disgusted with me now, righting this stuff and avoiding real questions.
I loved her, among others. I still love her, among others, even though she's gone. She, in her own way, loved me, among others, to the best of her ability. That's part of why she pushed so hard. She also met resistance with scorn. Because she couldn't let herself love completely, I don't think she understood how much it hurt to be scorned by someone you love. And she pretty much gave any adult who couldn't live up to her expectations her scorn. And pretty much no adult could live up to her expectations. She didn't expect anybody to do anything she couldn't or wouldn't do. There was nothing she couldn't or wouldn't do. Except to love with her whole heart, unconditionally.
Self-examination, self-analysis, self-knowledge. She had no problem with those. I did. I do. Because I'm a coward.
I don't want to know why something makes me feel a certain way. It just does, okay? No. That's not okay. If you're not willing to turn yourself inside out, you're not willing to know yourself. If you don't know yourself, how can you really know somebody else?
It's partly about trust. About not exposing who you really are to another person, because that person can use her or his knowledge of you against you. Why take chances? Or is that another b******t rationalization?
It's partly about fear. It's mostly about fear. Fear of ridicule. Fear of rejection. Fear of self. Fear of others. If I know what I feel and why I feel that way, I'm too close to me. I don't want to be too close to me. I certainly don't want anyone else to be too close to me.
I'm going to share this with at least one other persons. I fear that persons will want to analyze, dissect, vivisect and reassemble this, too. Why did you write THAT part? What did you REALLY mean? Forcing me to go deeper and deeper into myself. I don't want to go deeper and deeper into myself.
Why?
Maybe because I'm afraid that I'll find out that I don't like what's there, what I really am. More likely, because I'm afraid that if I dig through all of the layers, I'll find that there's really nothing there at all, that I'm empty.
The ultimate self-rejection. The ultimate self-loathing. Right now, while my relationship with me is superficial, I can like myself. I'm all right. I can make a pretty good drinking buddy for me. If I get to know me better, that could change. Do I want it to change? Nope. Do I need it to change? Yep.
Why?
Because I'm not hollow. There is something there. But if I don't know what it is, I'm making myself hollow.
Towards the end of her life, J Louise gave me her full trust. I'm still not sure why. She always did see past the "what is" to the "What could be." That's ultimately what killed her. Someone else's "what is" won over that person's "what could be."
So, not constantly reaching for, moving towards what could be, being satisfied with what is, being complacent about my own life and level of selfhood, makes me a potential murderer, too. A could-be killer of anyone who loves me. Failure to move forward is stagnation at best. It can and does result it moving backwards. Complacency is inattentiveness. Inattentiveness is always a mistake.
To fail to move forward, to fail to know myself, is to disrespect J Louise, to betray that trust she placed in me during her final days. She's already been betrayed to death. I can't accept the possibility of betraying her memory, too.
I loved her, among others. I still love her, among others. Do I love myself? How can I, if I don't know myself? If I don't love myself, if I don'y know myself, what right do I have to ask or expect anyone else to love me?
So what am I afraid of? I'm afraid of rejection. I'm afraid of humiliation. I'm afraid of ridicule. I'm afraid of being alone. I'm afraid that I'll find that I deserve rejection, humiliation, ridicule and loneliness. Mostly, I'm afraid of my fear.
I'm afraid that if I explore myself too deeply, I'll find something unworthy of love. I know my heart isn't ice. I know that I've felt love, and loved.
Or is it all an act? A show, put on for the benefit of whatever audience happens to be there? Am I that superficial, that artificial? I don't think so, but I don't want to be proven wrong, and I'm terrified that I will be. Superficial is so comfortable.
Inside myself, I'm a child, lost in the dark.
Maybe I just want my mommy to come hold my hand and soothe me and tell me that it's going to be all right. But it's not going to be all right. J Louise is dead, killed by somebody else's cowardice. If I don't go on this voyage, my own cowardice is equal to that person's, and just as dangerous.
I hate doing this, putting these words into memory. My memory. This computer's memory. The memory of anyone else who happens to read it. But then, I'm a coward, aren't I?
No, I'm not. If I were, I wouldn't be sitting here doing this thing that I hate. I'd be doing some other thing. Maybe not something I actually like, but something not actively unpleasant. Allowing time to pass. To the degree that I face my cowardice, I conquer it.
It was gonna be a tribute to her, and a history, with emphasis on my perspective, my actions, my inactions, the things I couldn't do with her that felt like they would have been for her had I done them.
It was gonna be called something like "confessions of a coward."
Now it's been analyzed, dissected, vivisected, and not quite reassembled. And I'm still a coward, because I'm facing the unknown again, instead of a nice, straightforward story. A not history.
I don't have a problem taking physical risks. That's easy. The consequences of failure are understood. I'm even okay with helping other people face down their demons. Mine own personal demons are another matter entirely.
So, why don't I want to do this? Why do I suddenly feel flustered?
Because this is something I haven't done before? No. I'm not generally afraid of doing something new. Am I flustered or frightened? If I'm frightened, why? Tongue-tied.
Somehow, I feel like I'm not qualified to do this. I'm qualified to build things. Big, strong man.
My cowardice let J Louise down more than once. She didn't, couldn't trust me until the very end of her life. Then it was too late.
She pushed me, like she pushed everybody. She didn't understand how any person could not want to meet his or her entire potential, right now. She didn't understand the shaky-kneed, p**s in your pants terror that comes from always being pushed to go further than you have, the unrelenting, never resting, never catching your breath, there's still more to do determination not to stop, ever.
I couldn't keep up. No normal person could. And I'm not normal. I'm a coward. My inability to keep up made me feel like a failure. My sense of failure led to resentment and anger. Who the hell was she to run everybody's life and tell everybody what they should do, what they should feel?
Did being right give her the right?
She didn't understand that I wasn't driven life she was. She'd probably be pretty disgusted with me now, righting this stuff and avoiding real questions.
I loved her, among others. I still love her, among others, even though she's gone. She, in her own way, loved me, among others, to the best of her ability. That's part of why she pushed so hard. She also met resistance with scorn. Because she couldn't let herself love completely, I don't think she understood how much it hurt to be scorned by someone you love. And she pretty much gave any adult who couldn't live up to her expectations her scorn. And pretty much no adult could live up to her expectations. She didn't expect anybody to do anything she couldn't or wouldn't do. There was nothing she couldn't or wouldn't do. Except to love with her whole heart, unconditionally.
Self-examination, self-analysis, self-knowledge. She had no problem with those. I did. I do. Because I'm a coward.
I don't want to know why something makes me feel a certain way. It just does, okay? No. That's not okay. If you're not willing to turn yourself inside out, you're not willing to know yourself. If you don't know yourself, how can you really know somebody else?
It's partly about trust. About not exposing who you really are to another person, because that person can use her or his knowledge of you against you. Why take chances? Or is that another b******t rationalization?
It's partly about fear. It's mostly about fear. Fear of ridicule. Fear of rejection. Fear of self. Fear of others. If I know what I feel and why I feel that way, I'm too close to me. I don't want to be too close to me. I certainly don't want anyone else to be too close to me.
I'm going to share this with at least one other persons. I fear that persons will want to analyze, dissect, vivisect and reassemble this, too. Why did you write THAT part? What did you REALLY mean? Forcing me to go deeper and deeper into myself. I don't want to go deeper and deeper into myself.
Why?
Maybe because I'm afraid that I'll find out that I don't like what's there, what I really am. More likely, because I'm afraid that if I dig through all of the layers, I'll find that there's really nothing there at all, that I'm empty.
The ultimate self-rejection. The ultimate self-loathing. Right now, while my relationship with me is superficial, I can like myself. I'm all right. I can make a pretty good drinking buddy for me. If I get to know me better, that could change. Do I want it to change? Nope. Do I need it to change? Yep.
Why?
Because I'm not hollow. There is something there. But if I don't know what it is, I'm making myself hollow.
Towards the end of her life, J Louise gave me her full trust. I'm still not sure why. She always did see past the "what is" to the "What could be." That's ultimately what killed her. Someone else's "what is" won over that person's "what could be."
So, not constantly reaching for, moving towards what could be, being satisfied with what is, being complacent about my own life and level of selfhood, makes me a potential murderer, too. A could-be killer of anyone who loves me. Failure to move forward is stagnation at best. It can and does result it moving backwards. Complacency is inattentiveness. Inattentiveness is always a mistake.
To fail to move forward, to fail to know myself, is to disrespect J Louise, to betray that trust she placed in me during her final days. She's already been betrayed to death. I can't accept the possibility of betraying her memory, too.
I loved her, among others. I still love her, among others. Do I love myself? How can I, if I don't know myself? If I don't love myself, if I don'y know myself, what right do I have to ask or expect anyone else to love me?
So what am I afraid of? I'm afraid of rejection. I'm afraid of humiliation. I'm afraid of ridicule. I'm afraid of being alone. I'm afraid that I'll find that I deserve rejection, humiliation, ridicule and loneliness. Mostly, I'm afraid of my fear.
I'm afraid that if I explore myself too deeply, I'll find something unworthy of love. I know my heart isn't ice. I know that I've felt love, and loved.
Or is it all an act? A show, put on for the benefit of whatever audience happens to be there? Am I that superficial, that artificial? I don't think so, but I don't want to be proven wrong, and I'm terrified that I will be. Superficial is so comfortable.
Inside myself, I'm a child, lost in the dark.
Maybe I just want my mommy to come hold my hand and soothe me and tell me that it's going to be all right. But it's not going to be all right. J Louise is dead, killed by somebody else's cowardice. If I don't go on this voyage, my own cowardice is equal to that person's, and just as dangerous.
I hate doing this, putting these words into memory. My memory. This computer's memory. The memory of anyone else who happens to read it. But then, I'm a coward, aren't I?
No, I'm not. If I were, I wouldn't be sitting here doing this thing that I hate. I'd be doing some other thing. Maybe not something I actually like, but something not actively unpleasant. Allowing time to pass. To the degree that I face my cowardice, I conquer it.
