If you read a lot of memoirs, it quickly becomes clear that we all share one thing: humanity. No matter how famous or how hidden a person may be, we all have trauma. We all struggle to find hope. We all have family issues. We all have moments that seem to affect us for years...and for some...their entire lives.
I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.
I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.
I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.
It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?
I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.
So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.
Love takes time.
Love is a process.
And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.
Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.
Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.
C.A. MacConnell
