Confusing Words

lundi, le 28 septembre 2009

Conventional has never really appealed to me. Particularly not the full catastrophe of conventional with the picket fence, the luxury family sedan in the drive-way, the husband with a successful career in finance and a wardrobe full of various colours of pin-striped suits and matching comfortable, slip-on shoes. The routine of bed at ten, breakfast at seven, fish on Fridays, roast chicken on Sundays and sex under the covers with the lights out, probably on Tuesdays.

To my mind conventional means rigid, inflexible, routined, disciplined, predictable and mostly, boring. I just cannot be most of these things, it just is not me.

I grew up in a household that would probably best be described as off-conventional as opposed to unconventional. There were few rules and lots of freedom. For this I will be eternally grateful.

What attracted me to L’homme was that nothing about him was conventional. He could easily be persuaded to do things spontaneously, impulsively. When we were together, we mostly lived an unconventional life. I was happy to be the financial provider, the home maker, the gracious hostess, the holiday planner. When we lived apart we lived our unconventional lives separately, yet very close together.

I never expected an unconventional life to be easy. At least not for those who live it. I am fine with that, for I have sacrificed a lot and suffered for long and there are many levels on which I will never give in to the expected norm. None of this being easy, but being essential to the person I am.

But as the years dragged on, I realised that L’homme held up an image of being unconventional to cover up his dysfunctionality. His easy come, easy go lifestyle was not based on a fundamental understanding of himself, an essential comfort in his own skin. For many years he has been using copious amounts of booze to pretend who he is and who he is not and somehow the real L’homme fell through the cracks.

I was not hallucinating when I was led to believe that L’homme wanted to be with me, wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, and when he said these things, he knew me well. A possible part of L’homme’s dysfunction is his inability to discriminate between the person and what the person offers.

L’homme was happy with everything I offered. The money, the comfortable home, the extravagant holidays, the lavish meals, the wardrobe, the indulgence of him. I now realise that when he said he wanted to be with me, he probably meant he wanted to be with what I offered. This should hold true, because when the offerings became slim, I was no longer Rispa to him, but Nora and Timid Trudy. Funny that, as I am still me.

On the last night L’homme spoke to me before he left, in a belligerent drunken state he accused me of being insane. In fact, he hissed it at me through clenched teeth. I now very strongly suspect that the insanity he bestowed upon me then and since, is merely a projection of his own madness. Certifiable madness runs in his family. Is it in his genes too?

Oh my love, I feel so very, very sorry for you!

But at least you taught me that there is a marked difference between unconventional and dysfunctional. In my usual functional way, I will embrace an unconventional life. This may be the biggest risk I take, but this is what I have to do. I truly wish for you to step off other’s feet and to find your own.

(This is typical of how I confuse things and go against convention. The most popular Arum Lilies are the white, yellow or pink ones, gorgeously shaped like a funnel, wrapping around a yellow spadix. My favourite Arum Lilies are the black ones, with a purple spadix. Beautifully functional as flowers, yet very unconventional. When I saw these at the florist this morning, there was no way I could resist them, even though I nearly mortgaged My Mother just to have a few stems.)