Tag Archives: love

The Long and Short of Wanting

[A young girl and her father are listening to a song. The song is “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” They really wanted to drive that message home, didn’t they? The Rolling Stones. Look at them, trying to gather no moss! Did they get what they needed? What if they needed moss?]

[Now it is later. The song is not playing. The young girl wants something. The father wants something else. Or does the father just want the young girl not to want the something? The father decides it is a perfect time to sing the song now, or at least the only two lines anyone ever remembers.]

[At some point the girl starts to internalize a different lyric:

You can’t ever get what you want.

She stops wanting anything,

for the most part.]

[Now it is even later. Maybe a lot later. The young girl is a young woman. She doesn’t know what she wants. People are asking her what she wants? What does she say? What does she even need? This starts to cause trouble.]

[The young woman gets older. Not wanting has caused her enough pain. She decides she wants to want. Right now, she is whispering in my ear, telling me to write down that wanting was never the problem…the problem is when someone equates wanting with getting. Like she did. So she is trying wanting on for size. Let’s see how she does…]

This wanting thing is new.

That needing thing is old.

I want to want, and not  j u s t  to need.

We all need something to want…[sung to the tune of “Lean On Me”, until you realize it is not the right number of syllables].

We all need somethingy to want…[cringe]

We all need somebody to want [that doesn’t work either].

We all need somebody to want us [well, that works…but it isn’t the message I want to convey…although it may be true too- but, HEY! These are really bad stage directions! Oh, is that what they are?].

We all want somebody to want us.

I want you.

I want you now,

today,

ahora,

for the present…

In the present, I want you for the future too.

Now is not the future.

I am not from the future, although time travel would be cool, and probably a real mess, so…

I am glad I am not from the future.

I want you now.

I don’t mean sexually, but I do want you sexually… [oh, you know what I mean!]

In the past I didn’t have you.

That would seem to suggest [in a British accent, mind you…Sherlock maybe?],

I must not need you.

That’s good!

I want you now…in the present, and for the future, now…but I don’t need you…because I didn’t always have you…in the past!

Don’t be scared now…

I love you.

I want to love you.

I choose to love you.

But, listen closely, darling,

I don’t need to love you.

[I don’t need to write left justified text either]

[or reserve brackets for stage directions, apparently [sarcastically]]

And, Baby?

          I [don’t] need your loving.

I just don’t got to have it!

But yes,

                    oh yes,

                              oh yeah,

                                        OH HELL YEAH!

…I want your loving.

Give it

or

take it away…

Whatever you want.

Do whatever you want

and

I will do the same

Today, I want to love you

Today, I do love you

But  many other loves didn’t make it till today.

They had their day.

Today is you.

Let’s not pretend we know tomorrow

I can only talk of it today.

Today is you.

So let’s not count the children we don’t have

or count the years until I can’t have them anyway

Today is you.

Today is you and me.

Today is all I want today.


The last word: He said he was leaving. She ignored him.

http://m.theweek.com/article.php?id=99512


Please Hear What I’m Not Saying

http://www.poetrybycharlescfinn.com/pleasehear.html

Please Hear What I’m Not Saying

Don’t be fooled by me.
Don’t be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I’m afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that’s second nature with me,
but don’t be fooled,
for God’s sake don’t be fooled.
I give you the impression that I’m secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me,
within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water’s calm and I’m in command
and that I need no one,
but don’t believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don’t want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That’s why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it’s followed by acceptance,
if it’s followed by love.
It’s the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It’s the only thing that will assure me
of what I can’t assure myself,
that I’m really worth something.
But I don’t tell you this. I don’t dare to, I’m afraid to.
I’m afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I’m afraid you’ll think less of me,
that you’ll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I’m afraid that deep-down I’m nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that’s really nothing,
and nothing of what’s everything,
of what’s crying within me.
So when I’m going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I’m saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I’m not saying,
what I’d like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can’t say.

I don’t like hiding.
I don’t like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you’ve got to help me.
You’ve got to hold out your hand
even when that’s the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you’re kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings–
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator–an honest-to-God creator–
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.

Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me
the blinder I may strike back.
It’s irrational, but despite what the books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.

Charles C. Finn
September 1966


You Are Just What I Needed | Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/you-are-just-what-i-needed/ It is always interesting what happens when I rewrite for Thought Catalog! Here is what came of my latest.


Why It Doesn’t Really Matter Who You Love | Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/why-it-doesnt-really-matter-who-youre-with/


You Need To Go After The Things You Want | Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/you-need-to-go-after-the-things-you-want/


I Don’t Know What I Mean To You | Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2013/i-dont-know-what-i-mean-to-you/ This is my post rewritten and published by Thought Catalog! Whoo Hoo!


Brené Brown: Listening to shame

Shame is an unspoken epidemic, the secret behind many forms of broken behavior. Brené Brown, whose earlier talk on vulnerability became a viral hit, explores what can happen when people confront their shame head-on. Her own humor, humanity and vulnerability shine through every word.


I Don’t Know What I Mean to You

I have been feeling guilty about wanting to stop seeing my therapist, mainly on her account. In this context, she asked me if I am very concerned with how I affect other people. Strangely, this innocuous little question knocked me for a loop.

My first reaction was “that doesn’t resonate with me at all.” We both paused, waiting for me to continue.

Magically, in the best way therapy can, this opened up a new avenue into my psyche, one I would not have discovered on my own. I proceeded slowly at first. I related that I am more concerned with how others affect me…but that didn’t sound right. Did that mean I am obviously self-absorbed? Goddess forbid! I wanted to find a shred of evidence that I did care how I affect others.

When I couldn’t immediately, I defensively explored out loud that it seems useless to be concerned about that because it is just guessing then. If someone doesn’t tell me how I have affected him, how can I know? Why be concerned about that? I felt better, almost smugly proud, after making this arguement. Then I backtracked.

Memories of worrying about my negative effect on people started trickling into my awareness. Once I admitted that I do care about my negative impact, I realized that I rarely or never consider how I positively affect people.

Friends, mostly women, have told me how wonderful I am, how happy they are to know me, but oftentimes I barely believe them. I don’t accept the compliment which means I don’t take it personally. My inner self never receives the message. In my philosophy class, my teacher explained that we are active participants in being offended; someone says words but we have to accept them to be truly affected by them…we stab ourselves with those words and feel offended. If I don’t want to do that, why would I want to refuse the positive words, preferring to stab myself with negative words of my own choosing?

I continued to talk out loud in general, even though I was thinking in specifics, namely, my ex-boyfriends. I was getting choked up, realizing I have no clue if any of them were positively affected by me. How do they even remember me, if they do at all?! Something close to panic began to grow inside me. I kept talking to keep it at bay.

My therapist and I are both Scorpios, so it was easy and natural to seque into the following point. In all the love horoscopes I have read for fun, Scorpio women are highly praised. I have read countless times that you will never forget a Scorpio woman, you should hold onto her if you are lucky enough to find one, she is passionate, loyal and worth the ride! This used to bring me pride and confidence, but after a few “failed” relationships, I cannot help but wonder why no one has thought that about me.

I am not proud of that thought, and I am still exploring who I would actually be compatible with. It is becoming clear that I might be falling for the “wrong” kind of man (subject for a future essay). However, this journey had helped me to see that I hope I did positively affect the men I loved, but I doubt I did without any proof. Only one of my exes is someone I talk to, and I don’t think I affected him much if at all.

Looking at my last relationship, I wondered if there was any evidence I even affected him while we were together. Did he change at all to accomodate me? Was our relationship a dialogue or two one-sided monologues? I haven’t looked hard enough yet, but there is one memorable thing which he did differently after he got to know me better. I was pleasantly shocked when he first did it. After we showered, he would wait for me to wipe all the water from my body before handing me a towel. That made me ridiculously happy. This was a sign that he noticed a preference of mine and was willing to do something differently for me! It seems silly even as I write it. I am having trouble thinking of anything further…something that was for me and not just any woman.

After we broke up, for good, I wanted to complete our relationship (along the lines of: http://www.interchangecounseling.com/blog/6-steps-to-completing-relationships/). I doubted he could do it, but I still asked. When he didn’t respond, I accepted it wouldn’t happen. Then when he did ultimately refuse, I pretended to be ok with that. It is just now I can acknowledge how painful it was. By not needing that for himself, he was demonstrating he didn’t care what I needed. So I will never know how I affected him, for good or ill. His lack of communication on this is, in effect, a denial that I did affect him at all. I feel written out of his story, and that is more hurtful than anything.

I want to believe the best relationships are those between people who are mutually affected by each other in positive ways. Perhaps the men I have loved did not want to be impacted by me and we broke up because of this. Maybe this is a red flag I have never looked for…maybe my lesson here is look for people who know how to be affected, who know how to love in dialogue.

(Although I don’t believe this next statement yet…I want to:) I deserve to be in a relationship in which my partner is happy to be changed by me, through me…and so he must truly see me. I am more than a woman; I am my Self, unique and myriad. I am also fluid, willing to be changed, to be affected…I am not rigid and attached to one “right” shape. And while I have no idea what it feels like to be in a love dialogue, I do know it is what I want for my Self, and choose to deserve.


“I Think We Should Just Be Friends.”

Beautiful and amazing post! You can feel the pain.

Thought Catalog

You are lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. It is half past seven on a Sunday evening but you don’t feel like doing anything. All you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry, but the tears don’t come. Your eyes are hot and itchy, but you tell yourself it’s hayfever and carry on staring at the ceiling, the cracks and the blu-tack pockmarks and the falling down posters which you know so well.

You keep thinking back to that time when you lay next to them, and they looked up at the same ceiling as you, and they made jokes about your decor, and you laughed. You can’t seem to shake it, how you felt lying next to them, the feel of skin against skin. You were both naked, but it didn’t seem to matter. You were unabashed and — you are pretty sure…

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