I Wish I Had A River

                Last night, as most people bedded down snugly in their houses, I snuck outside to observe the newest addition to my surroundings: several inches of sparkling, fresh, snow.
It had already been falling steadily when I crept outside at midnight to explore the glowing nascent snow banks. I could not sleep, you see. I lay down somewhere around 1030 but try as I might, the only response I could get from my body was salty tears. Sleep has always been elusive for me. My mind is like a young Wall Street man, unable to put aside the deeds of the day. And yesterday certainly gave me much to ponder.

                Love has always come easily to me, whether it is romantic love, familial love, or the love of a friend. I certainly don’t love everyone; much to the Lord’s chagrin, I do not even like most people. However, when I find someone with whom my body sings a harmony, there is literally nothing I would not do for them, no bridge I wouldn’t cross, no task too great. While this sounds lovely, I am sure, let me tell you, it is most certainly a curse. I can’t personally understand the mechanics of it, as surely it seems like it would be a fantastic thing to have someone who is completely devoted to you, yet at some point, those whom I love inevitably become weary of me. I am a coat that is too heavy, too warm for a spring day, cast away and disregarded, needed and unwanted. Perhaps this is somehow related to the inherent flaw I find in myself. . .I cannot say exactly what it is but there is something within me that eventually repels people. I used to blame my outward appearance: I am not pretty enough, not thin enough, not cool or interesting enough. But the more I considered that option, the less logical it became. There are plenty of unpleasant people who have many devoted friends and committed lovers. Hence, the flaw within me that keeps received love at bay remains a mystery. Perhaps people can sense the desperation on me—perhaps I reek so strongly of the desire to be loved, needed, and appreciated that people are driven away from my presence, the same way one would turn away from a condemned house for the unsettling fear its appearance induces.

                But still, no amount of logic or sensible reasoning about myself and my flaw can turn away the pain of rejection. It is the most painful, crippling, feeling I have ever known. To pour out your attention and affection on someone, friendly or romantic, and be turned away because you lack something feels as if an anvil has been placed on your chest. To watch those you love choose to love others because you are not good enough will never cease to be the worst pain; no matter how many times I face it, this feeling never becomes any easier.

                As I wondered like a child through drifts of pure, innocent snow, leaving deep tracks like dark holes, I thought of life. Do I ask too much? No, I don’t think it was what I said that made any difference to you. I think perhaps you recognized that I was right, I do not mean as much to you as I would hope. . .maybe you even felt guilty for my lack of importance, I do not know. It never ceases to puzzle me that the more I love a person, the more willing I am to sacrifice of myself, the less they care for me. In the end it is always my fault.

I looked out at the lake, frozen to an opaque gray, and thought of Joni Mitchell, her desire to skate away if she could but find a icy river upon which to do so. And that was simply all that I wished for, there in the dark and cold: escape. I did not wish for love, as I know that is impossible, I did not wish for happiness, for that is fleeting. I wished for escape—a place to run to, where the tears could fall freely without judgment, where I wouldn't be anyone's burden, where I could leave my pain and my life behind. I have no such escape, the snow simply covered all the world in a hazy white blanket.