Gest

gest\JEST\
DEFINITION
noun: adventure, exploit

I’ve always felt like I was designed for a grand adventure. I used to write in my journals about a life that I was destined to live. I was going to be a gypsy. I was going to wander around the country, changing my name and my looks with every new destination.

I was going to be able to cut all ties as I left a place. I’d have the appearance of a tree with strong and sturdy roots. Everyone would believe that I was really settling in, that my roots were going down very deep. But, even though my presence meant that my tree grew taller. It would never mean that I developed any true root system. I would be rootless.

And in the middle of the night I would steal away and begin again.

No one would ever hurt me. Because I would never be attached to anyone.

The truth? I lived my life that way in some regards. My grand adventure was this charade. I would get close to a circle of people. I would tell them enough to make them think that they had glimpsed into my vault of secrets. And, then, when it was becoming too dangerous for me to stay any longer–I would move on.

I would run to the next group of people and begin the same cyclic routine. I’d flit around. I thought I was creating my own gest.

Really, I was creating a gigantic mess. I never paid any attention to the possibility that other people might have feelings. When I was young I was terribly naive. I was wounded by someone that I trusted, and it deeply impacted many years of my life. I chose to be wary of new people, rather than try to get to know them. I chose to be suspect, rather than to ever attempt to trust anyone.

Then there were always going to be people that glimpsed something beneath my facade. And they would try, hours spent pouring into me, to crack the code. Then they would be the ones that would leave me instead.

It would upset everything that I was systematically working toward. Living my life as a nomad in social circles, was my attempt to circumvent anyone every leaving me. And instead, people were leaving me because I was a nomad that they couldn’t decipher.

This is where I interject the happy ending about how I learned to reconcile my hellbent desire for wanderlust and the reality of the world and the emotions of others. But, as my childhood daydreams proved to me, there aren’t always happy endings. I couldn’t be a little fool to the concept that I was hurting people, and people were hurting me. And that no matter how I tried to prevent that, it was just a fact of life. 

I wish I could erase that last line and lie to you. But, I can’t. It wouldn’t be authentic, and it wouldn’t be true.

I still get hurt by people. I have learned to trust people. But people still choose to leave. And some people have a long parting speech that rips me to shreds. Some of them leave without saying a word to the fact. But, people leave. And I still walk away from people when I shouldn’t. I let the monstrous summation of my insecurities influence how I interact with other people, and sometimes I throw in the towel too quickly.

I’m learning to decipher that there is grand adventure in my every day routine. There is something magical and mystical beneath the mundane. There is something about my heart that will always be gypsy-like. But, my roots aren’t fake. They are a root system that has taken a lot of faith, tears, and trust to develop. But I know that, in the end, even if there is pain. It will be worth it.