Gomer

Gomer

            It is a moment of utter betrayal. Betrayal of the deepest kind, I think. We are all betrayed in various ways and by various people, by varying degrees of importance and impact. But this one cuts to the core of who we are.

            Our parents do not choose us, nor we them. And so while there is a sense of obligation there, a very real sense of responsibility and of inherent love despite the circumstances, still they were never given a choice. And perhaps given the choice many of us would choose another.

            But this person, this person in front of me, this person chose me. He picked me out from among the crowd and said, with words and with actions, that he had chosen me. Chosen me above all others. Chosen the me he knew and understood, the one he perceived from afar and the one he grew to intimately know.

            I think perhaps that the beauty of love is in being fully known and yet fully loved. In a very real and even tangible way that is what we are all seeking, whether or not we realize it. It is the silent motivator behind so many of our actions. Our lives are an endless struggle of trying to prove we are indeed worth it. We are worth choosing. Worth loving. That in this seemingly endless world full of skinny bodies and beautiful faces, we still rank. That to someone we may even be first.

            We don’t like to admit that. Our pride, our perceived confidence, even our American independence rebels against the concept that we may actually need another’s approval, another’s affirmation, in order to be whole. And so we tell ourselves that we don’t need anyone’s approval. But our actions belie our words. We crave affirmation like a drug.

            One taste is enough, enough to make us crave more. To lead us to base our lives off one more text. One more compliment. Hell, one more smiley face. To analyze every word spoken, every tone, real or imagined, and every glance. Every interaction becomes a contest, a competition, something to be ranked and scored. If by some chance we happen to outscore the people around us, we are accepted. If we do not, well, there’s always next time.

            It is a tiring thing, this way of living. If indeed it can be called living. I think something within us rebels against this form of existence. Something within us knows we were not meant to live this way. Well, of course it does. It is the same piece that craves to be fulfilled. It is what drives us to do these insane things. In fact, it would seem our actions are the very definition of insane as we try the same thing over, and over… and over. And nothing ever changes.

            But the problem is that we know no other form of existence. We do not understand how to live, and so we continue to simply get by. To cope. To make it through one more day.

            Until the day that we find the one thing that changes it all. The one thing that transforms our days and gives us a reason to wake up in the morning. And it would seem for a moment that life is indeed a fairy tale, a chick flick, a romance worthy of immortalizing for all to remember. For as much as we hold ourselves above them, and as much as we roll our eyes and poke self-righteous holes in the paper thin veneer of Hollywood love stories, deep down I think we all want that. Or at least a part of that. At least the sex. At least the comfort. At least the security. At least the friendship.

            Maybe that’s just a girl thing.

            But for us, when you wake up and realize there is someone out there who has chosen you, who sends you flowers, opens doors, gives compliments, takes you on dates, tells you you’re beautiful, and generally bends over backwards in order to prove to you that he is worth it, life seems a little brighter. And perhaps that is because in his quest to prove he’s worth your time and attention, you’ve learned that you’re worth his. You’re worth it. Worth the trouble and the money and the effort. Worth thinking about and investing in. Worth… it?

            Such a simple word. I haven’t the slightest clue what it is, but I sure as hell know we’re all basing our lives around that one ambiguous, unhelpful, agonizing, yet somehow all-important word. Maybe part of the problem is that we have no idea what we’re searching so desperately for. Just food for thought.

            So anyway. Whatever it is, when we think we’ve found it, life changes. And we feel great because someone else is making us feel great and the second they stop making us feel great life crashes down around us and we have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing or what we’re going to do next and life continues at its frantic pace and we simply don’t know what to do with ourselves.

            Yes, I did just type that in one breath. It was difficult.

            Basically, life falls apart.

            And yes, I am being incredibly snarky. But the truth is, that moment doesn’t feel funny. It doesn’t feel entertaining. It feels as if we’ve been punched in the stomach by Mike Tyson, like our insides just ran away to join the circus, like our heart got ripped out Indiana Jones-style and like our lungs decided to magically turn into cement. It doesn’t feel witty and entertaining, complete with pop-culture references from the 1980s. It just feels like our lifeblood drained from our days and we cannot go on.

            Because we’re not chosen anymore. It seems simplistic, but perhaps that’s why we have such a problem with rejection. We can’t stand to be rejected because it implies we’re not chosen. We’re not chosen above anyone else. We’re quite specifically chosen below someone else. And we’re not worth it anymore. To the person who mattered most, to the person we staked our identity in, we’re not worth it anymore.

            I must believe that on some level, no matter how small or seemingly significant, we have all felt that feeling. We have all experienced the pain of rejection, of being passed over, of being left behind in favor of someone newer, someone better. Someone better than we are. It is the iconic picture of the kid picked last for a team, of a young innocent face crestfallen because at that moment it is no longer about sport. It is about purpose, value, and self. And that moment screams into a young life that you are purposeless, valueless, and your self, frankly isn’t worth that much.

            We don’t like to relive those moments, but for a moment let’s go back there. Let’s return to the darkest scenes of our lives, the moment when we heard the words that should never, ever be said. What do you mean there’s someone else? What do you fucking mean there’s been someone else?

            And for a moment you curl into a ball on the floor.

            You scream, you react, you lash out. You hide behind your anger.

            You are frozen. Unable to process.

            Something is wrong. Something is deeply, fundamentally wrong.

            This was never meant to happen.

            I know. It’s hard to go there. We live our lives trying to push down those feelings, trying to explain why it was there fault, trying to piece together our shattered self-esteem and convince ourselves that they never mattered anyway. But the truth is, they did matter. They mattered more than almost anyone else. That’s why it hurts so much.

            I read a story recently about a husband whose wife had cheated on him. And not just once, not just out of anger, not in any way that leaves room for compassion, for seeing her side. But the kind of story that rips your heart out for him, that makes you wonder how he’s going to survive. It is the kind of story that almost requires empathy, and at the least leaves no room for anything but the deepest of pity and sympathy.

            It’s heart-breaking to read, really. He just wants her back. He just wants her to come home, to love him again. He’s angry. Really angry. He said some terrible things, but really, you can understand. She abandoned him without a thought for anyone who would have her. It wasn’t even like she was unhappy and abused so she went and found someone who would treat her better. She couldn’t have been treated better. Everything she could ever possibly want or need he gave her. Lacking nothing, she would not acknowledge him. Quite simply, no matter what he did, he was never enough.

            So he writes this story, and he just pours out his heart. He says things like You don’t deserve to be my wife anymore. You’re a whore, you’re throwing yourself at these people, people who don’t love you, people who are so clearly only using you. You’re running around trying to find completion when all you need is to return to my arms. I gave you absolutely everything I had!

            And it’s like you can hear his heart breaking reading it. It’s as if you’re peering into the deepest most intimate moments between lovers, a bedroom argument. Yet she’s not even there. She’s still gone, still doesn’t care. And so he’s left there, fighting with himself, fighting with reality, with the truth. Reality is, she’s gone. She’s been unfaithful and she doesn’t deserve to be his wife anymore, quite simply. If we’re talking about fairness, about justice, about the reaction we all crave when something like this happens to us or to someone we love, she deserves to be treated the same way.

            Fairness. It’s only fair. You did this. So you get to experience it. We appeal to fairness a lot, don’t we. And while it may seem he’s being vindictive by wishing her to be exposed for what she is, while it may seem he is being cruel, truly he is only being fair. He didn’t deserve this. But she did it anyway.

            So he fights with himself. Pacing back and forth, hands in hair, gesticulating. Expressive hands. Hands that held hers. Hands that ran through her hair, gently caressed her back. He gazes at those hands now, as he sits on the edge of the bed that was once theirs. But then he is too weak and they fall between his knees as he slumps, no longer able to think about it all. She deserves to be thrown out, forgotten. After all, she was no good for him. All she did was hurt him.

            That’s the smart thing to do. The wise thing, even. That’s what all his friends would tell him to do. Get out. Move on. Do what’s right for you.

            But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do what’s right for him. Doesn’t do what’s right, fair, smart, wise. He has made his decision. Stands, a gentle resolve in his eyes.

            I will win her back. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.

            My love that never ceased. I will prove it to her once again.

            And I’m sitting here reading this and I’m thinking, Dude, what are you doing? Why the hell would you put yourself through that one more time? She’s not worth it!

           

            Wait. What? She’s not worth it? We spend our lives trying to prove that we are indeed worth it. But somehow we are qualified to say when someone else is worth it? To him she is worth it. And frankly, that’s all that matters. He doesn’t give a shit what you think. Because to him, she will always be worth it. No matter what. Regardless of what she does.

            Why? Because he’s the one who gave her worth. His love bestowed on her gives her new worth. Because he’s God, and the unfaithful wife is all of humanity, all of the creatures he poured life into out of the riches of his unending love. We are the outpouring of his love, the overflow of love that could not be contained. We were made to bask in the light of that love, forever, and ever, and ever. For all of time.

            And we didn’t choose that.

            One chose to step away, to step into darkness. And since then we have all chosen the same way. To live in darkness. To chase other lovers. To reject perfect love. To place all of our value in the lives of capricious individuals just like us who, at the drop of a hat will declare, “She’s not worth it.” To give God the feeling of having his heart ripped out, Indiana Jones-style. To, every moment of every day, a million times over, give him the phone call that says, “There’s someone else.”

            You’re just not enough for me.

            And so he paces up and down, gazing at his hands. He gives up, sighs, and rests his head against the wall for a moment, gathering himself. We don’t deserve his love. We’ve done nothing but run away, nothing but betray.

            But he sighs once more and says, “I will start over. I will begin again. I will prove to her my love.”

            She’s worth it to me.