My Exercise in Futility (Originally published August 27, 2008)

My Exercise in Futility

I'm realizing that it's okay to be a little broken as I find myself very worried about the state of such a  young one's mind - and may be more so, of the condition of his heart.  Last night he uttered the words "hate" in a description of one whom should be considered a young boy's "hero"...trying to make sense of it all, just as I am.  Some telling me to see it in another light, that some kids don't have anyone to talk to.  He has me, and oodles of people that love him and care for him - that with enough love, it will transform and that "every hurt becomes a muscle".  Still, the dust is kicked up whenever I hear another tale that somehow eluded me for these past few years - supposing it was my then, naivete.  The more time that passes, the less I even care to try and make sense of it.  The less I identify - even that word, Identity - it is encompassing of he, the catalyst for Patricia.  It seems, in my moments of confusion, that I"m torn between what my role may have been as "wife" and what I neglected to realize for my role as Independent.

I never saw myself, prior to materializing a "separation", as anything but a part of a marriage.  This necessary by definition and the need for two parts to complete a marriage, though if attempting to institute the morals of what makes a marriage (with two equal parts) than all efforts were futile.  And to think that's what I was offered as insight on the day that I wed - "In order for this to work, each of you must be willing to give 100% of yourselves to each other".
Confident that I gave my 100%, I effortlessly loved.  It was no more difficult than that, as I seemed to have been injected with a "love conquers all" inoculation at my early immunizations.  What he failed to say was that if only one side gives their 100%, with no emotional income from the opposing side, than "ye shall be rendered as void". 

All things become clear in time.

Return now to the mental state of a child with but 5 years of experience in this cyclical torment and you might understand my aggravation.  That muscle growing from a field of pain, in concept, may have been applied prematurely.  The heart's a muscle. 
Enter irony and find that indeed by tending to my heartache and his five-year-old heartache, we are in fact preparing for a bounty of love to be timely harvested before the growing season is over.