Day 11

Inspired in part by last night’s episode of Sherlock…

I know this. I know that my wife’s view of me is better than my view of myself. That’s a good thing, I think. It means that I have something to aspire to. I want to be the person that she see’s in me. I don’t want to let her down.

Years ago, when we were dating, we often broke up. I mean that in 10 years of dating we probably broke up 10 times. Sometimes more than once a year. After we’d moved in together, and were pretty serious, we still had some major break ups. After each one, I’d regroups and try to work on myself. Be better than I was before. But I’d always keep in mind the following: “Would K be proud of me for this? Would she respect me for it?” I use this as a barometer for action. Maybe that’s why we kept getting back together, we both want to be the person the other sees in us. I’m not sure.

I’m only writing because she thinks I’m good at it. To be honest, I don’t know what I do here. I don’t know if it’s good, and I don’t know what it means, but I know that she believes in me and likes it. I couldn’t tell you why. That said, I don’t need to, it’s enough that she likes it. Maybe one day I’ll like it. Maybe one day I’ll incorporate her view of me into my own. Not have my self-view be subsumed by hers, but to have it be enhanced. To feel like I’m as good as she thinks I am. Or that I can be as good as she thinks I can be.

Am I a writer? I dunno. I don’t think so, but she is, and she tells me that she loves my writing. What does that even mean? I have no idea. I write questions and thoughts and circular arguments. I sit and spin on a topic for a few sentences and then move on. I guess I don’t find inherent value in the things that I do. But other people, sometimes, tell me they’re good. How can I argue? Though I try. Or at least I try to lessen the praise.

It’s like I don’t do anything for praise, but whither without it. But when I get it I piss on it. What does that mean? Thoughts? I have none right now.

Off topic, but when we started dating, K would tell me that she likes looking at me. I told her that made me uncomfortable. That I didn’t view myself as someone people liked looking at. I didn’t know what to do with that. I’m funny, I’m cute, and smart, but I’m average looking. I was fine with that. But having someone look at me, the way she did, undressing me with her eyes. Looking at me like a sexual person and not just a cute dude who made her laugh, it made me feel foreign. I didn’t know how to be that person. The person who inspired those looks.

That made her sad. It makes me sad now, too.

We are cruel to ourselves. We hold ourselves to standards we don’t hold each other. Maybe that’s a good thing, but largely it sucks. This took a weir turn, so I’m going to stop for now.

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