The timing would make some suspect that it's the big milestone moment of turning fifty, now staring me right in the face and less than twenty months out. To be honest those milestones have always turned out to be underwhelming. Turning ten. Thirteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty, forty (and a date I really wanted to make special, forty two).
None of those seemed real to me, and in many ways I still don't get why they were supposed to be in the first place. Maybe I over think things (you think?!), but I'm too aware that the way we mark time is completely arbitrary, based on random events and happenstance.
No, I believe it's just realizing that I have a tendency to fight for people and relationships long after any sane human being would consider them "done". Somewhere I "decided", on whatever level these things are pondered, that love was always the right choice, and at if you fought long enough and hard enough, you could resolve anything, or at least know you did everytng you could to salvage the good and get past the bad.
Looking back at the wreckage of my past interactions (including two failed marriages) I have to ask myself if I'm doing more damage by not letting people go gently into the night of awkward conversation and deliberate distance. Maybe I'm holding them back from a better life. Or perhaps forcing them into a life that fits them poorly, the wrong cut that binds and chafes.
Alternately, I wonder if I've become that annoyingly hung ho, positive hopeful pain in the ass who is blithely unaware that no one shares his enthusiasm and faith.
I recently accused people I cared about of being hypocrites for not rising to my personal view of commitment and resolution in terms of personal relationships. After considerable reflection I now must conclude that I'm just being an asshole who expects too much -- just because I can take the hits to my ego that can come when a relationship of any kind goes south doesn't mean others can... Or should even if they could.
Such conclusions, as firmly reinforced as these have been, are depressing. Literally, they can send you into a tailspin that leads you to question everything and everyone, leaves you feeling unmoored and floating aimlessly. When you're pagan killing yourself is stupid -- a core tenet of my belief system is that I would just wind up having to start all over again, like the ultimate reality show challenge.
But the idea of chucking everything, walking in some random direction for the rest of life, unknown to all except as some freak wandering the earth (or walking the earth, like some Samuel Jackson "Pulp Fiction" wannabe) does have it's allure... Except that regrets thing rears it's ugly head. That, and the fact the idea of starting again THAT way is marginally worse, because I would still remember everything.
So, there's little I can do except go limp and let the universe with me what it will. Not faith... I think I've spent that currency dry on wasted efforts. More resignation to my fate.
Hey, I said I was depressed, didn't I?