Stuck

Ever put too much pressure on yourself?

I’ve been doing that lately. I haven’t written much because I’ve been struggling for clever ideas that would measure up to some of the blogs I’ve been reading, including my own. How dippy is that?

That’s got me to thinking about the lack of progress on my novel. I haven’t written a word for weeks, and the shortcut to the folder where I keep it just sits there on my computer desktop, mocking me.

Having become aware of not having written anything on that front, I’ve cast my self-examining eye about and realized that my writing is not the only part of my life that’s jammed up.

At work, I’ve been given the green light to go ahead with a project I’ve been begging to do for years, and all I’ve done is stare at the pile of reference material on my desk and surreptitiously surf through my favorite blogs.

Freckles really deserves to be pursued. (Or, to be more accurate, I really deserve to pursue Freckles.) I’ve been hemming and hawing about that for more than a month, and why? I seem to have this thing about rejection.

Oh, I know, everyone hates to be rejected, and I should just get over myself. I wish it were that simple.

My former downstairs neighbor has gone back to her husband, and her live-in boyfriend now lives with his high school sweetheart, just around the corner from me. All of this occurred over the summer. Since early August, actually. How does that happen? Was there no depth at all to the way they felt about each other? Maybe they were just nesting, the way puppies and kittens do in the pet store window.

By contrast, I haven’t been in a real relationship in five years. I’ve been willing, but sent away…because the objects of my desire felt they didn’t deserve me. That leaves me wondering about my choices. What does it say about me that the women I am most attracted to consider themselves damaged in some way? Am I trying to remain solitary?

When I go back to the beginning of my paralysis, I find myself standing in the midst of a crumbling marriage, thoroughly clueless about the depth of the impact her infidelity would have on my self-image. By the time all of that was said and done, my ex-wife managed to reject everything about me: my friendship, my skills as a lover, my skills as a parent, my beliefs, my intellect, my humanity. The only things she did not reject were the content of my wallet and my ability to refill it. Twelve years later, I’m still stunned.

Anyone who considers saying, “just get over it” really isn’t being helpful. I know. How does one get over a life-changing event? By rebuilding one’s life, of course.

That’s just what I’m doing, only once in a while I reach a “stuck point”, which is where I am now. I’ve rebuilt nearly everything but my willingness to handle rejection.

Maybe the right answer is just to dive in. Sometimes, courage means doing what needs to be done in spite of the bullets slung your way.

I guess we’ll know on Tuesday morning, when Freckles gets back from her vacation.