The Commitment Conundrum

I've wanted to blog about romantic relationships for a while, but I have this pesky issue with commitment... oh good, now I have an angle.  To start, this business about certain people having a "fear of commitment" is like saying that certain people have opposable thumbs.  This fear may manifest itself in different ways and degrees, but the closest synonym for "commitment" is "obligation," which implies a loss or lack of freedom, and that scares everyone.  In fact, nothing scares us more than losing our freedom - hopefully this isn't the only thing keeping us out of jail, but it is a contributing factor.  There are two kinds of obligations: externally imposed and self-imposed.  Externally imposed obligations are generally not associated with commitment phobia.  We don't avoid going to work because it directly affects our livelihood, and we (most of us, anyway) don't avoid paying taxes because doing so results in an even greater obligation.  Avoidance occurs when we have a choice and the consequences of this choice are unclear.  I am an individual and there is no law stating that I must find a mate or I'll end up in the big house.  If I choose to commit to a relationship with someone, that relationship is a self-imposed obligation.  Cue the fear music, maestro.

Before I delve more into amorous relationships, let's consider commitment phobias in friendships as a building block. We all have at least one friend who never wants to be tied down by a plan and who therefore never has one and rarely adheres to one.  In the context of a friendship, this tendency, while annoying, does not necessarily cause the foundation to crumble for a few reasons: 1. we probably have other, more Type A friends to hang out with; 2. having Type A friends necessitates having at least one Type B friend; and 3. thanks largely to facebook, friendship as a construct just ain't what she used to be.  When friendship can exist between two people who may or may not have met or will ever meet, the notion of obligation seems a bit ambitious. Our understanding of friendship as a context implies an understanding that commitment within this context does not require us to sacrifice much freedom.  Our commitment-phobic friends do not become our enemies because they do not threaten our freedom and because they allow us to be commitment-phobic as well.  And even if you are committed to noncommittal pals, you have the satisfaction of knowing that you are the bigger person.  Being the bigger person means nothing in romantic relationships.

Pretty much everything else does mean something, though, and that's what makes commitment to love so damn scary.  Romantic love is too big and mysterious and important to be a context; it is two people, two worlds, thrown haphazardly into a single orbit, and commitment is the only force that keeps them on the same track (notice I didn't say it keeps them from colliding or from wanting to occasionally knock the other out of orbit).  Choosing to be in a committed relationship with someone means choosing commitment, not a relationship; otherwise, to quote Yeats, "the center will not hold."  If we do not obligate ourselves to our partners, we cannot trust that they have obligated themselves to us, and without that trust there can be no relationship.  My partner may be fully committed to me, but until I trust that he is, I cannot be committed to him.  I have only recently begun to grasp the reality that we cannot love others until and unless we love ourselves; similarly, we cannot trust others until and unless we trust ourselves.  Our conundrum, then, is not getting over our fear of commitment, but rather getting over our commitment to fear.  Freedom can become loneliness, which we do not think we fear until we experience it.  If we stop fearing loss of freedom, we will be set free.  I'm working on it.

Writing is Ruining My Life...

... by saving me from it.  The great irony of this blog is that the impetus for it, the feelings that inspire it, should be driving me to do rather than write.  I find myself wishing something would happen, something life-changing, so that I will have something to write about; the event itself is reduced to fodder for this ruthless hunger in me to analyze, recreate and retell.  The truth is that my writing voice speaks more confidently and more wisely than my real voice, but what if my writing voice is my real voice?  Think about what you love to do more than anything else and what doing this thing does to your voice.  Does it become a little stronger, a little louder, a little less afraid?  Is it less or more real than your "normal" voice?  When I write I feel powerful, but I am aware that this power derives largely from my ability to represent myself differently, to embellish and omit.  My answer to the popular question "If you could have any superpower, what would you want it to be?" has always been invisibility, as I imagine it would be for most writers (except perhaps sci-fi/fantasy types, who are a little more imaginative); the ability to hide but still be heard and influence one's surroundings (authoritatively, as one cannot be caught when invisible) is a writer's dream.

A writer's other (and arguably less realistic) dream is to be published.  Being published means that this voice exists somewhere other than in your head (or on a blog that other people kindly choose to read - thank you), and more importantly, that someone else thinks this voice should be heard.  Everyone I have spoken to about the publishing process has told me to prepare for a forest worth of rejection letters, and even after that, an acceptance letter may never come.  I don't know about you, but I do my best to avoid rejection, especially when it is unaccompanied by the promise of acceptance.  Allow me to put on my cape of wisdom and analyze that statement: rejection without the promise of acceptance is also known as life, and life is what's up.  So maybe writing isn't ruining my life after all, just as your calling, your greatest gift and burden, isn't ruining yours.  Maybe our perception of life is ruining our lives because we expect it to be a promise for something greater when really it is only what we make it.  Even if your calling is something that makes you feel removed from life in some way, the very fact that you feel called to do it indicates that you want to live, that you want to fill the blank page.  I am making a decision, here and now, to accept writing as a major part of my life rather than as an escape from it.  Could we make a deal?  I would love more than anything to know what your calling is and how you are trying to answer that call when giving up is far more palatable, or what is preventing you from pursuing it, or anything you want to say about your life.  If you will do that for me, I will write about us (without names), about how a group of people I know and don't know changed my life by giving me a small glimpse into their lives.  I would submit it proudly, and I would cherish every last rejection letter.  I hope to hear from you.