While watching a campy Van Damme flick the other evening, Dad continued with my range of motion exercises and became surprised that I immediately skipped the nudie scene.  He inquired about my moral stance and I explained how I used to care as a teenager, but that it just wasn’t my thing anymore.  I suppose my perspective on women changed a long time ago.

And it’s highly questionable, my sanity that is, how resentment hasn’t gotten the best of me.  I remember one guy with Duchenne asking me why, and despite all the rejection and changing of minds, I didn’t have the heart to hold grudges.  I couldn’t.

The other day, mother showed me a photo of herself when she was a young lady.  I never expected myself to become sad, observing her pretty face, but somehow, couldn’t stop thinking about the hopes and dreams she must have had before my diagnosis.  An entire world changed for one hopeful girl when the doctors seemingly spoke too soon.  I despise how this illness messes with the mind.  Guilt runs rampant as it keeps taking away without mercy.

Though she says that the stresses of caring for me are nothing, I always see a gleam of excitement in Mom’s eyes whenever she has the chance to leave the house for a few hours.  No one wants to deal with… this, and it occurred to me that I was alone all over again, watching on as the front door closed behind her.  I mean she deserves a break and I want her to have time to herself, but realization hits hard every time I notice more than I need to.  But then she tells me it’s because I’m her son.  We both got a bit teary-eyed following that moment.

She thinks I don’t know that my existence has destroyed many beautiful things, trying to protect me from the harshness of reality.  She doesn’t care much about herself, only my happiness.  That, to me, says I have infinite reasons to be extremely proud of the heroine she is.

So how could I ever be angry with women?  I’m trapped between the confines of wanting my great romance and a fear of becoming a burden to the one I love.  I understand the sacredness of choice when I never had the luxury of option in the first place.  I don’t blame anyone.

There are times when I look back at my misadventures in the romance department and ask myself, Was I ready for a relationship then?  My answer continued being the same: no.  I realize now that it’s just excuses.  I can’t even find a little comfort from external sources, especially the opposite gender as they’re too worried about giving me the wrong idea.  I get a pretty good chuckle, thinking of how oblivious they are with regards to some of the things I already know.

How do I deal with perpetual loneliness?  I live in a world where breasts and thighs are solely connected to fried chicken, a whimsical fairytale of smiles, laughter, and whispers beneath clouds.  I dream of diving into an ocean of naturally flowing hair that weaves the strands of fractures in my heart.  I envision the whitest silk curtains, dancing in a soft summer breeze as the sun rays glow in her radiance; moments, forevermore.

Picture 74

Many seem to believe that I have a better understanding of women, though I never claimed it to be so, but truth be told, I’m not of this place we call home.  Really.  I’m nothing more than a space cadet who thinks a little too much for his own good.  Darn it, however.  I hope I find a girl who loves holding hands and kissing foreheads.