I don't know what this is: a collection of thoughts about pain and desire, and the process of becoming

I had rehearsal tonight for a play that I recently joined, and had fun as I continued to explore this character, Diana- comically and tragically in love with a husband who doesn't love her. In exploring her many quirks and finding buttons for comedic timing and bits, I started to consider what makes this character tick, and I drew some strong parallels to the other characters I've played throughout my career. Most of the characters I've played have one thing in common: unfulfilled want. Their comedy is driven by their manic need to be loved. Mrs. Gottlieb dotes on her son, whom she loves too much; Domina loves and lusts after Senex, who has eyes for younger women; Diana loves a new husband who already longs to be with another woman. These women are all left wanting, and they suffer for it in ways that, to them, are devastating. And why is it that these roles are always perfect for me? I'm a comedian, yes, so the comedic roles in any given play are what I go out for and what I unsurprisingly get, but beyond comedy, there is mourning at the heart of these women to which I relate just a little too well. Pain is the secret to what makes me funny, and probably what makes people laugh the most- because they can relate.

I walked home slowly tonight, letting the frigid wind hitting my eyes serve as the excuse for them to tear. I walked home slowly to allow more time to make amends with all of my pain, reminding myself that all suffering results from unfulfilled want. So, to not feel pain, I must learn not to want.

The year behind me has been a year of realizations, and ultimately, of anguish. I made many terrible decisions because I acted out of a place of unresolved hurt. After nearly a year, a man I loved left me, and in trying to be strong and move on, I pretended it didn't hurt me by becoming as busy as possible. I'd go out drinking most nights to network, to see shows, to do shows, to be around people and forget for just a little while that my heart was broken. I slept with two new men, one who turned out to be a true sociopath, and one who only wanted sex. Both of these encounters, despite my best efforts to be open and to trust, hurt me and offered no promise of love or intimacy. On some level, I might have even known that. One man wounded me by abandoning me, and so I found myself these past ten months in a pattern of perpetual self-punishment by getting involved with people who had no intention of loving me, or no capacity to do so. Wasn't this what I deserved? Wasn't this the extent to which I could be loved? Loved and left? I drank more this year than I ever have; not just because I like beer or the challenge of overcoming my social anxiety by connecting to people so much as because it dulled the pain. I never went wild. No true one night stands, no passing out, no throwing up; just the frequent monotony of masking what I was feeling.

So now, I feel more broken than ever. A friend was joking with me tonight about whether or not I, a formerly raised and fallen-away Catholic, harbor Catholic guilt. Catholic guilt, for me, was a feeling of need for constant remorse, as if all the things I thought and did were displeasing and worthy of flagellation. Even though my choices this year have been terrible and have caused me pain, do I have guilt for having sex, for drinking, for being extremely flawed, for having wants? No, because even in all the mess that I am, I believe there is still much to love. Yes, a man left me in the worst way, and it devastated me, but would it not have been more devastating to be with the wrong partner? To be with a partner who didn't know how to handle me in my intensity, my broken parts, let alone his own? Do not all of my broken pieces make one whole... thing? Whatever I am, I am completely that, and so, I am whole.

 Strangely, this year has also led to a lot of closure. I met up with my ex in July, a man about whom I was very serious in my early twenties, and we spent several hours catching up on life, reliving the good things of our time together, and seeing how we've changed. We wanted marriage and kids and a simple life, but what we wanted in our early and mid-twenties is very different from what we want now in our late-twenties and thirties. We are different people now, but the meeting reminded me that despite all of what didn't work, the love was real and the love was good. In so many ways, he will always be the one I look most fondly upon; I still love him. Later this summer, I reconnected with an ex from the year I was 26. It was a short-lived relationship, but infused with passion from the first moment. It ended as quickly as it began. We reconnected and chatted online about life, love, and living our dreams. Somewhere in the conversation, he stopped and apologized to me. "I don't remember everything from our time together, but I feel like I was a dick to you, and I'm sorry. You definitely deserved better." To that, I simply said "thank you". He told me what I already knew, and I never expected nor waited for it, but hearing it, especially after the sad beginning to my year, gave me a measure of comfort and made me feel I was cradled in compassion for the first time in a long time. And at the beginning of this month, a very unlikely ex texted me out of the blue. We had a good relationship and dated for about half a year, but broke up once we realized that our careers were taking us in different directions: me to New York, and him to wherever the final years of med school would be. We texted throughout the afternoon, and eventually that night, he called. We talked and reminisced. But what became clear is that, despite the many good things about our relationship, we weren't right for each other. He's a good man, and we'll likely meet up this January when I fly out of New York, but certainly, talking to him confirmed for me that we did the right thing by setting each other free.

I guess, as I reflect, let me be devastated. Let me experience whatever it is that continues to make me whole by way of breaking me. Can I stop wanting? I don't know, but if by wanting I become something new, I want to want. Perhaps I'm not the right partner for a friendly hookup nor a sociopathic manipulator, nor for a coward, nor for any of the men I've met, but I am the right partner for whoever is right for me. That man will see me, in all my broken, tattered splendor, and say "I want you".