Rapport

Is there someone for each of us?

I don’t know.

In the shadow box of my heart I’ve collected memories and moments from a plethora of relationships.  I often complain that I hate people, but what isn’t often realized is that I also adore people.  In my life I’ve been blessed with the friendship of many wonderful individuals.  That word, individual, is often overlooked.  Though we are all unique, we group people together by race, association, creed, age, gender.  We generalize, we stereotype, we classify.  It’s a human trait to find a way to easily categorize the world, to search for patterns where there are none, to attribute motive and thought and meaning to a person’s actions that may or may not be truth.

This is easily demonstrated by observing our interactions in traffic, where we always have a reason to cut someone off, merge late, speed, zip in and out of traffic, nearly run (or run) a red light, etc.–but someone else doing it is usually a dumbass that inspires our shaken fists and venomous ire. We assume something negative, rather than saying, "Hey, maybe that dude has his pregnant wife in the car and is trying to make it to the hospital."

We’ve all heard something wise about none of us really knowing another person’s thoughts.  We can at times approach it. We’ve all had those friends with whom we’ve shared thoughts and moments. Hell, there’s one guy online whom I’m merely acquainted with, yet our humor is so similar that we frequently type the same jokes/responses at the same time.  My dear friend Heather and I can speak volumes with just a look, which comes in handy when we’re discussing library patrons standing near us. 

Rapport is beautiful.

I like that word, even though its spelling makes it none too pretty. At least it’s not an "awkward" or "aplomb".

Despite the fact I’m generally well-liked and popular, I’ve often suffered from misinterpretation, particularly in text. Text robs us of nonverbal response; it steals inflection and inaccurately reflects mood. When I invest words with emotion, there is no guarantee it will transmit itself to the reader. Even words that seem straightforward can be confusing, such as:

I love you.

Sans voice, what does that statement mean? Is it platonic? Romantic? Is it appreciative? Is it wry? Playful? Is it serious? Hesitant? Spoken softly, as if to caress?  Empty and forlorn? Full of rawness and angst, pleading for requital?

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about words over the last few months. Things that were said, clues I might have missed. I’m living proof of the peril of misconstruance.

One of the areas in which I’ve always considered myself semi-retarded is my interpretation of female interest.  Sometimes, I wish that on my deathbed I would be told every person who had a crush on me, or was interested in exploring a relationship.  If I found out earlier, I’d spend too much time filled with regret or loathing, depending on who it was.  Therefore, just a quiet glimpse of the possibilities my life had, immediately preceding the cessation of them all, appeals to me.

You see, I think there’s several someones for each of us. I don’t think we are all so difficult as to only be able to find happiness with one person.  I felt differently when I was 18, but when you pave a road with more failure than success, your perspective tends to change.  The Gang of Three alone represent half of my 20’s: multiple years of deception and bad judgment whose basis lies in my all-too-human inability to discern the meaning behind the words, or see the truth outlying my perception.

However, it’s not merely the negatives that inspired my dichotomy shift.  There were positives as well. There are some people whom circumstance prevented me from having a relationship with, not due to lack of interest on either of our parts.  There were circumstances such as our not being single at the same time, or not realizing the other person was interested until years later. There are also, of course, people with whom I could have succeeded, yet was never given a chance.

It’d be foolish to assume all of these missed opportunities would have been successful, particularly some that didn’t have years of acquaintance as their foundation.  I am confident, however, that with some I would have been fulfilled and content, had a long and loving marriage, and borne children who would be kings.

I always liked that last bit.  Children who were kings, indeed.

I think part of my self-assessed retardation is that I place such a high value on friendship and rapport. I know that seems counterintuitive, but bear with me.

I believe the person you are with–that you love–should blend wonderfully with you, like a Venn diagram.

I’m not a fan of the Two Become One theory of marriage. You are not one person, you are two; you are not two entities, but three. It’s the You, Me, and Us that I’ve mentioned previously. Both people need to nurture and value all three, or the relationship is doomed to failure or dissatisfaction.

I do not cease to have my interests, personality, virtues, or flaws, simply because I love another person. Nor should they.  I have always tried to love people for who they are, not who I want them to be, but innate misinterpretation has caused me to be mistaken, or to be misled–both by them, and by myself in my misperception.

As I move forward, I’m trying to figure out what I want more than ever. Typically, it all comes back to the same thing: I care about how we relate to each other. A friend. Someone whom I can walk with at my side and feel comfortable with. Someone that also struggles to be Good because they believe in the rightness of doing so. I want to be able to confide. To laugh, often. I want someone who knows what a commitment is, who can do so without subjugating themselves or me, and who is willing to fight to preserve us when things become difficult or dark. Someone who shares some interests, but not necessarily all. Someone who is their own person, with their own hopes and dreams, their own trials, scars, and battles.

I’ve met many women in my life with whom I’ve had that rapport. I didn’t imagine their laughter, or their sharing secrets, or wanting/providing advice or comfort. I didn’t imagine the good times we have together, the long nights of conversation and sharing; I didn’t imagine the love that existed. 

Repeatedly in my youth, I was wrong. I misinterpreted. I misconstrued. My proclivity to seek further relationship development was rebuffed. I was told I was a brother, or a friend, that they were not for me. I’d retreat, confused and hurt, but still would swallow my pride and be understanding. They’d proceed to become involved with someone who was Wrong, while I watched uncomprehendingly.

As a result, I have no trust in my ability to recognize interest. I can’t go by the way they react or treat me, because I’ve been wrong. You’d think that I could have a checklist, like so:

The Ten
1) Enjoys spending significant time with me
2) Feels good/valued around me
3) Have enjoyable conversation with me
4) Able to trust me, confide in me
5) Seeks advice and comfort from me
6) Believes I’m a quality person with morals consistent with theirs
7) Is affectionate to and/or with me
8) Has fun/likes doing things with me
9) Shares the same general life goals (e.g. wants children/doesn’t want children)
10) Shares common interests that we enjoy engaging in together

You’d think that would be a recipe for a relationship. Easy, right?

Nope.

Precisely because I fulfill those criteria, over the years I listened to the complaints and consoled the heartbroken each time they came to me because they were involved with someone who didn’t meet them. I’d help them pick up the pieces. I’d be thanked. Appreciated. Valued. I’d be told I was wonderful, told how important I was, told how I’m their best friend.

Not more, though. Not more.

My adolescence was filled with that rejection, that "no, I like you, but I don’t like you, but I’m going to treat you like we’re bestfriendsforeversoulmates".  There’s only so many times people can tell you how wonderful you are and how they wish they’d meet someone that fulfilled The Ten while you’re standing there blinking going, "Eh? Ok, I hope you meet someone just like me. Wait! You already have!"

I was the forest they did not see.

I want to be married to my best friend. I want us to have a friendship before a romance. I want a foundation, a trust, a shared history. That’s perhaps what makes things difficult for me in meeting new people. I’m not a fast mover. How could I be, with my values being what they are? The times I was rash ended in badness.

Obviously, my life would have been different, I would have been different, if some of those "no ways" had been "yes". If one of them had paused to say, "You know, he and I have [The Ten], that’s really wonderful, isn’t that what I want in my partner?"

Instead, I have been unseen.

It may be something as simple as people always wanting what they do not have. Perhaps the best gift of maturity is learning how to be content, to be thankful for what you have, to make the most out of life. I gave up the "look, it’s shiny and new, it must be better" bullshit years ago. (Ironically, of course, that got me nowhere, as here I am, single despite doing right.

The grass is not always greener. Sometimes, you have everything you’re looking for right in front of you.

There’s a story that goes along with this. It may be broken up into multiple posts, depending on length and mood.  The story, however, isn’t about someone that told me no.

It’s about someone that I told no.
Someone that I loved.
Someone that I wronged because I saw something shiny and new.
Someone that gave me not one chance, but two.

Sometimes, when the blood’s in the water, I fear that was my shot at happiness, and I blew it–and since the fateful November 1995, my life has somehow deviated from what was what supposed to be and steered off the tracks. Derailed.

Now, battered and torn, I wander through the wreckage searching for my another chance, certain I’ve repented enough.  My hands are clenched, and under my breath pours this verbal barrage of reflection and grief. I am praying constantly, silently, with all my heart, that it will come.  

That’s what the name of this diary means.

Perhaps by telling my stories, my petition will be answered.