"Now you won't see all that I have to lose
And all I've lost in the fight to protect it
I won't let you in, I swore never again
I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected."
I love those first two lines. They're so beautifully, paradoxically parallel. How much can you have to lose if you've already lost so much?
Well, for an Eight, the answer is "a lot," because there is just a lot inside of us. There's a lot inside everyone, but Eights cultivate intensity, so when I say "a lot," I don't mean "many things," but "many things, each of which has the depth and intensity of a firework set off inside a lunchbox."
Since John, I have had my heart broken by people two more times. One was deep and simple; one was deep and you'd have to read five years of journals to understand it. Each time, it became harder to let someone in.
The first time I listened to those two lines of "Eight," I felt startled and exposed and teary. It put into words something I've felt for the past decade or so. I wish I could explain it.
What is it I feel that I have to lose? Innocence. My heart.
What is it I feel that I've lost in the fight to protect my innocence and my heart? A measure of my innocence; the tenderness of my heart; the veracity of my feelings. Everything I am, everything I feel is intense. It is exhausting to drag all of that to the surface and have someone set it on fire just because he is cold. After each heartbreak, I began to feel more cynical, more unfeeling, more disconnected from my heart.
As backwards as it sounds, for a long time, I sawed off pieces of my heart and buried them away—away from anyone who might try to access them, but also away from myself. Those are the pieces that I lost in my fight to protect them. As long as I never accessed, acknowledged, or exposed them I knew that they were safe. However, they were also useless. What's the point of saving the perfect little black dress for the perfect occasion if you never end up wearing it? You might as well not have it.
When Gabe came along, it was very difficult for both of us. I was a normal, fun, sarcastic college student—on the outside, based on the pieces of my heart I could still access.
What's interesting is that in the midst of all this, I never felt like one of those movie characters who's become hardened and cold and impervious to hurt. I never felt like the caricatured badass who has decided that she's given up on love. I actually think I would have enjoyed feeling that way, but instead, I thought I just felt like my regular self. I thought I was hard and cold—through and through—and always had been (?!). I thought that was my true and natural state of being. I did not think that warm-fuzzy love was a realistic expectation for me.
I genuinely did not realize that I wasn't letting Gabe in. Even now when I look back, I don't...I don't know what I was doing or not doing. It's kind of the exact opposite of having "the minute" when a switch was flipped.
Refusing to be rejected is a quicker, though trickier, line to examine. I don't know whether I struggle with being accepted/rejected now. I do not THINK that I care very much about being accepted/rejected, but then, am I just in denial? Do I actually care very deeply that you accept me, and I just haven't unearthed/accessed that piece of my heart yet?
I guess the jury's out, though in my conscious mind I can assure you that you are free to react to me however you want and I will not take it personally :)
~Stephanie
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