The daily breakup: silence
Josh just left. We spent a week butchering pork and cooking and being in each others' presence. We didn't talk a ton about big topics. We didn't have sex, because I couldn't stop crying. Still he held me like he really cared, he paid attention and did kind things for me, and he brought me little gifts of observation and excitement. The part of me that was so, so broken healed a little.
When he arrived I still had some hope for the thing with Tucker. We were one misunderstanding in and we'd had some good communication. Maybe it would be a de-escalation but sometimes it felt like it could be hopeful.
Now I'm alone in my house and I'm not very hopeful. Maybe I'm not very hopeful since Tucker moved up here years ago. My animals love me. Outside the geese are honking companionably, speaking excitedly of apples that fall from the tree, and the ducklings are squeaking as they run a little too far from their mother, get frightened, and call her over. The tall cedar arch of the cathedral ceiling is quieter for the hum and tiny high note of the fridge. It will be silent like that for minutes as I type and my house is full only of me; then I'll cry, loudly as if no one was here to discipline me for it, and my house is still full of me. My feeling of self so often extends beyond the boundaries of my skin. My home often feels like an extension of me. This is the way of my being in the world.
My sadness fills the house and spills into the autumning garden. The plants slow and begin to yellow under so many cool nights. The wind gets everywhere and the sun is bright but holds no warmth except at highest noon, when it manages to be both too hot and too cold at once.
Avallu rolls onto his back for snuggles every time he sees me. The cats guard me from unseen monsters. A lost baby duckling climbs into my hair as I take it back to its mother.
I've never been here this alone before. More alone than if none of it had happened because I need to harden myself. I need to build ramparts and keep someone out and that is not how I usually go. I need to guard my heart, to demand payment in reliability and good behaviour before someone crosses the walls and gets in. Boundaries indeed. This should be a natural process. I should stop bending over and picking up things that he sets down. If I stop carrying it all, stop asking over and over is his input ready yet? Does he want this thing and that thing he's been neglecting to make happen? then I suspect he'd disappear into the sunset.
I went out, rescued a duckling, came back in. They keep getting separated from mom because they follow the wrong duck for a couple dozen feet. They'd probably be fine without me but it's good to be around something I know I can help.
Demon curled up at my knees and is purring. The aspen leaves make a silver sound, like small raindrops on a still lake. There are crows cawing from time to time and the roof creaks with the biggest gusts of wind.
The inside of the house feels like silence.
What do I need from any and all continuous relationships? Proactive work in creating and maintaining the relationship. If not that, then quickly and energetically responsive to shifts and tips.
Joy in the relationship and interest.
Intimacy.
The ability to set and reset accurate expectations as necessary.
Peace.
When he arrived I still had some hope for the thing with Tucker. We were one misunderstanding in and we'd had some good communication. Maybe it would be a de-escalation but sometimes it felt like it could be hopeful.
Now I'm alone in my house and I'm not very hopeful. Maybe I'm not very hopeful since Tucker moved up here years ago. My animals love me. Outside the geese are honking companionably, speaking excitedly of apples that fall from the tree, and the ducklings are squeaking as they run a little too far from their mother, get frightened, and call her over. The tall cedar arch of the cathedral ceiling is quieter for the hum and tiny high note of the fridge. It will be silent like that for minutes as I type and my house is full only of me; then I'll cry, loudly as if no one was here to discipline me for it, and my house is still full of me. My feeling of self so often extends beyond the boundaries of my skin. My home often feels like an extension of me. This is the way of my being in the world.
My sadness fills the house and spills into the autumning garden. The plants slow and begin to yellow under so many cool nights. The wind gets everywhere and the sun is bright but holds no warmth except at highest noon, when it manages to be both too hot and too cold at once.
Avallu rolls onto his back for snuggles every time he sees me. The cats guard me from unseen monsters. A lost baby duckling climbs into my hair as I take it back to its mother.
I've never been here this alone before. More alone than if none of it had happened because I need to harden myself. I need to build ramparts and keep someone out and that is not how I usually go. I need to guard my heart, to demand payment in reliability and good behaviour before someone crosses the walls and gets in. Boundaries indeed. This should be a natural process. I should stop bending over and picking up things that he sets down. If I stop carrying it all, stop asking over and over is his input ready yet? Does he want this thing and that thing he's been neglecting to make happen? then I suspect he'd disappear into the sunset.
I went out, rescued a duckling, came back in. They keep getting separated from mom because they follow the wrong duck for a couple dozen feet. They'd probably be fine without me but it's good to be around something I know I can help.
Demon curled up at my knees and is purring. The aspen leaves make a silver sound, like small raindrops on a still lake. There are crows cawing from time to time and the roof creaks with the biggest gusts of wind.
The inside of the house feels like silence.
What do I need from any and all continuous relationships? Proactive work in creating and maintaining the relationship. If not that, then quickly and energetically responsive to shifts and tips.
Joy in the relationship and interest.
Intimacy.
The ability to set and reset accurate expectations as necessary.
Peace.