The Truth Is There Is No Truth

Despite the fact that no one has actually posted a comment on the blog itself, I've received more feedback on the last blog post than on any other post I've written, both in terms of the number of responses and their intensity.  It's been an interesting experience of discovery for me, because I didn't anticipate that a post painting me in such a negative light would elicit sympathy, encouragement, and passion.

Many responses have been along the lines of telling me I'm being too hard on myself, everyone has their bad moments, etc.  And I get that, I really do.  As I said at the end of the post, I know that's not the whole story.  As one generous friend said, it's a simplistic narrative.  And it is.  This blog is.  The reality has far more nuance and complexity than my last post -- or any single post taken alone -- can capture. 

The point of my last blog post was not that the end of my marriage was entirely my fault, or even mostly my fault.  But before I started this blog, I thought long and hard about what I wanted it to be.  I could use this as a forum to exact some meaningless, unfulfilling revenge.  I could play the victim, rally you to my corner (although, admittedly, most of you are already there).  I could say the Professor was terrible with money, emotionally inaccessible, utterly lacking in empathy.  I could tell you stories about how the Professor failed me, disappointed me, broke me.  And I'm sure I will.

But I have no illusions about the fact that I can also tell you stories about how I failed, disappointed and broke the Professor.  I don't mean that I deserved to be left.  I don't mean to justify his leaving or anything else he has done since then.  I couldn't want to mean that even if I wanted to want it.  And I don't want it, because this is all still a story I don't want to read.

But here I am, writing it nonetheless.  And, whatever else I do or don't know, I know that no single blog post can completely portray the Professor, or me.  No retelling can tell the true story of our relationship.  More likely, there simply is no true story, no single, definitive history.  And, if there is, it probably cannot be told from my perspective, because my perspective is necessarily limited by the fact that it's mine.

Or maybe that's wrong.  Maybe the Professor is a static, uncomplicated and unredeemable character, and my reluctance to accept that reflects an unwillingness to believe that I was taken.  But I don't really believe that.  I can't, for numerous, complex reasons.  And I don't want you to, either.  I loved him.  I still do.  And I have to believe there is something to that, something important and life-altering, even if I don't understand it.  Perhaps because it's true.  Perhaps because I need it to be true.  Probably some of both.

I'd like to say that I have some sort of broad, noble goal for this blog, some profound motivation for the things I write.  But I don't.  This is just me, living this experience in the most honest and thoughtful way that I can.  I will be angry, and I will write fury.  I will be sad, and I will write sorrow.  I will be selfish, and I will write pity.  I will be sorry, and I will write guilt.  But, whatever I write, I will try to temper it with awareness of the limitations of my own retelling.  I hope you can read it that way, as well.