The rebel call

I'll admit up front that I am badly over my head in this business of blogging about my emotions and my personal life. After all, I am a journalist by profession, not a novelist. It is only since January this year that I learned that it is entirely natural for my emotions to bounce all over the place.

Maybe the women in my life have been protecting me from these facts of life for a long time. If so, why? Did they think I was not capable of handling the truth? If so, this makes me wonder why women and men are ever able to make fundamental connections. If we don't help each other understand how different the genders truly are, are we truly generous in spirit? Or, as I suspect, are we all motivated by the capitalist myth of scarcity?

I'm aware that many options remain open to me, as a man of a certain age. There are those of my same age, who understand perfectly what our generation has been through. Our experiences may be so similar that explaining things becomes almost unnecessary. Then, there are women a bit younger, let's say 16 years or so, who due to the disparity between how men and women age emotionally, are roughly my age emotionally and therefore my equal.

Then, there are women much younger than me. Or women older than me. All of these groups represent potential partners, but only, of course, if the feelings are mutual.

For me, being in a relationship is so much about the opportunity of giving and care taking that I feel awkward whenever anyone asks me what I want in return. I know only this much: it is such a wonderful surprise when a woman starts taking care of me. For whatever reasons from my past, this is not what I expect. When she comes into my house, cooks for me, runs her hands through my hair, pats me as I fall asleep, and is attracted to my children -- that will be exciting to me.

But, of course, so far, in my history as a single dad, that is only an imaginary experience, not something I have actually known. The closest thing to it ended in sadness. I don't really think it has been fair for me to write about how she affected my kids, and me because she was always honest about her ambivalence. Truthfully, I feel like taking down any posts that might unfairly expose her, because she does not deserve that. She was always open and honest in all ways; if any reader has a different impression, I have failed as a writer in profiling her, and I realize now I really should stop.

You know, I stopped doing serious journalism years ago when I grew tired of writing about other people. It started to feel that I was stealing their stories. Now, in the name of telling my own story, I worry that I may have been distorting someone else's. A conversation earlier tonight with a writer friend helped crystallize this insight.

I just hope J knows I would never use any words to hurt her or misrepresent her; words are way too precious to me, and also the only tools I have left. My challenge going forward is to be honest about my feelings without compromising anyone else's privacy. Who knows whether I am even capable of that; after all, I am not a novelist.