rumination on a solitary life

Just passed, four days ago, what would have been my 27th wedding anniversary. Passed what would have been the 9th for my second marriage a few months back.

Will I get a third shot? Yes, if I take that risk. I believe, fervently, in the institution, as I joke that since the average US marriage only lasts 5 years, my 17 year and six year marriages are actually successful.

I've shied away from a few entanglements over the last few years...a combination of scar tissue and a sense that this time it has to be on my terms, not me just falling for someone who managed to slip into my bed to barter their affections for rescue from a problem. My Mother has been wrong about many things, but not this: I tend to take on, not girlfriends, but projects.

Maybe I, as an artist, need the drama. Maybe I, as an "heroic" personality type, need the element of rescue to validate my worthiness. Maybe I just attract the damaged.

I leave it to my future biographers to judge. In my memoirs I blend the three.

Yes, the intensity of a twisted life gets my adrenaline and protective instincts surging, invoking my testosterone.

Yes, having always held grave and determined doubts about my own value as a human being, I need the sense of worthiness. To ask someone to love me means I must have done something worthy of their affection. Rescuing a damsel from her own demons and dangers makes me feel adequate.

And finally, as so many have come for me, instead of the other way around, perhaps I just tend to attract individuals who are damaged, who are looking for a kind and passionate man who will treat them like a goddess and love them for whom they are, scars and all.

All in all, there is an argument o be made that I am, psychologically, a mess. But it is the putting of that bundle of hyperspeed madness to good purpose, as fire gives its power to the blacksmith, that makes me who and what I am and makes me capable of extraordinary things.

Even if I will live out my days alone.