War, Love, and Emotions

Many people have expressed surprise at my confession that at this late period in my life (I'm in my early 60's), I am still searching for, still working on an integration of my warring, conflicting selves. The implication at their surprise was that they have moved on, have matured while I am still hampered by an arrested growth. They could be right about themselves and about me. But they could be lying, too. I don't know for sure because they surely don't act in a way that convince me they have achieved peace and understanding of themselves. They still convey sophistry and plain dishonesty.

The impetus for today's meditation was something I read earlier about war's psychic toll on soldiers, which says, just like skill and physical endurance, emotions need cultivation and expression. That insight jumped at me, grabbed me, and refused to let me go. It held me down and forced to deal with it. It said everything about me. It gave me a frame of reference for my struggle to bridle and master my emotions which had its roots in my dealing with war experiences and the painful experiences of love. I have survived the war and sort of survived the pains of love, but I am not whole. Something is missing inside me, makes me feel incomplete, out of place, defiant, antisocial, and prone to anger and thoughts of violence. Don't get me wrong, I don't lack female company. I have always having women around me all throughout my life, saying that they like me and even love me and acting as if they care, but I am still afraid, I am still not convinced.

Growing up in a civil war was not easy for me. I shut it out of my mind and tried to live, but the absurdity of a war between brothers and its ferocity weighed me down. I learned to adapt to physical hardships and to accept the fact that death could come at any moment. Now, safe and sound in a democratic society, I still act as if I live in a war zone. I am combative. I am belligerent. I don't back down. And I toy with thoughts of violence. I am a fool.

The road to love has always been tortuous and fraught with frauds and fraudulence and flatulence, not to menten fatuousness. Women lied to me, stole my money, and played me for a fool. Now at my age, I see it for what it is, a game. Yet I talk about it constantly and hunger for tall tales of far-out romance and undying love. I am a Heathcliff looking for my Catherine. And now the book says I have to work on mastering my emotions, on cultivating a proper expression of them. I seriously wonder if all the assholes out there act like they have marital bliss, they are for real or just shameless liars. I look at their faces and I really wonder.
(cont.)