Conduit

One day, three separate people said, in different ways, that I allow them to be themselves. I must have been radiating compassionate love and understanding across the universe that day. A while ago I read an article about friendship that seemed to suggest that we value friendships only because our friends are people who allow us to be ourselves. I took issue with it, because I would hope that more than that, friends are people who actively add to the sum of human happiness by being their own unique selves: I would be sad to think that my friends didn’t gain as much from my funny little ways and invaluable insights as I do from theirs.

But the three people who spontaneously burst out with gratefulness are more than friends, and that shifts everything slightly sideways. A lover once asked me if I was more myself with friends or lovers, and I eventually concluded that the answer was lovers, because the nature of clandestine relationships demands a certain amount of unfettered honesty to balance things out. The instigators of clandestine relationships, as well, maybe have more need than others to be seen as themselves, because of necessity they hide or feel they cannot express aspects of themselves, and it must come out somewhere.

It’s easy for me, anyway: all I want is my lovers to be themselves. I don’t need them to prove that they can hold down a job, or make a meal for the kids, or even tidy up after themselves: I just want them to take me somewhere I can’t get by myself. If there’s a danger in long-term relationships of falling into definable roles and being seen in terms of fitting into society, then with me the danger is more that the outside things that define people are the ones I undervalue: how much you earn and how successful you are, and what a sterling job you do as parent or partner are less relevant than how you respond to me and fulfill my needs, which are purely bed and emotion based. I’m not saying that long-term relationships inevitably get bogged down in domestic role-playing, but there is a reason (or a million reasons) that people stray, and it’s generally a need for something that isn’t available at home. It’s quite possible that the reason people stray in my direction is because I offer a lack of responsibility, and a chance to let their annoying, as well as their creative bits out to play.

If you did a quick rundown of the qualities common to my nearest and dearest, then in amongst intelligence and imagination and creativity and (mainly) shared political views, “difficult” would also feature, and I’d lump myself in there too. I have a high tolerance for people’s annoying bits because I’m aware of and expect tolerance for mine. I hate the idea of putting people up on pedestals, if only because when the exalted one inevitably falls off, the cry is always “but he/she is not perfect after all! I’m so disappointed!” rather than “I’m such an idiot for expecting another human being to fulfill all my expectations of perfection.” We’re all flawed – why should we expect other people to be flawless? Perfection is only when the balance tips more towards good than bad. Perhaps it’s because I’m aware of my own feet of clay that I’d rather everyone else has their own on show. Perhaps their feet of clay help to reinforce my belief that however much I love them, I couldn’t take on any of them full time.

In any case, it’s people’s complexities and contradictions that draw me to them: their annoying/baffling/inexplicable qualities and funny little ways keep me interested. But of course I don’t value most my tolerance: I value much more the appreciation of the freedom I offer, and I revel in the idea that I offer a safe berth for creativity. The truth is probably that I am a haven for (mutual) self-indulgence, and a soft landing for lack of responsibility. I can’t help noticing the re-emergence of boys I knew in my youth: there’s an appeal in reconnecting with someone who knew you long before you acquired the many roles and responsibilities of adulthood, and in a woman who doesn’t look to you to provide any of those. And there’s a headiness in the freedom of being returned to a state where the trappings are irrelevant, and all that matters is who, and not what, you are.

I can’t deny, though, that I get off on being the conduit for what would be otherwise unexpressed: it feeds my ego, however much I dress it up in altruism and the role of lover.